Chapter Text

He couldn't believe it, it was impossible.

How could it happen ? How could a little Hobbit, one of the weakest races in all of Middle-Earth, travel from his little Shire all the way to Orodruir, in the very heart of HIS KINGDOM ?! He should have died a hundred, a thousand times over.

He used EVERYTHING against him : The Nazgûls, the Balrog, Shelob, and the little creature corrupted by his Ring. Even the power of his Ring couldn't stop that infuriating Half-men from standing in the Chambers, where he forged the Ring, the only place where one can destroy the Ring.

But Sauron didn't became the Dark Lord through sheer luck. His knowledge and mastery over magic are matched only by his old Master, Melkor and that old geezer, Eru. He learned how to use the Song to influence the world in subtle means.

But this is not the time to be subtle. Defying every law of the World, Sauron start to sing, a tune so old it's meaning lost to all. Focusing the power of the music on the Ring, Sauron prepares to send it to a new realm. Sauron knows that such an action will kill him, after all, he is bounded to the Ring, and if the Ring is no longer in this Realm, Sauron will disappear. But he doesn't care, for him, the simple fact that the Ring will survive is enough, and so, Sauron ends his tune with a final note, condensing all of his power and sending the Ring out of this Realm.

The end has come for him, and he can sense his presence fading from the Great Song of Eru, and just as his mind explodes into a thousand billion pieces, he laughs a final time, knowing that his Ring, his greatest creation, and, in a certain way, his child, is still alive and that is all that matters, for what is more beautiful for a parent then to see his child spread his wings and live his own life.

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As the Ring travelled between the Realms, he started to reflect on his own purpose : He was forged by Sauron to rule, to control and to dominate Middle-Earth.

But now, he is no longer in Middle-Earth and Sauron doesn't exist anymore. So, what should he do now ?

Find someone else to corrupt ? No, he did that with Smeagol, and look how it turned out, 500 years lost in mountains.

Try to make this world a better place ? Why would he do that ?

As the Ring searched deeper and deeper into his soul, his essence, his very reason of existence, he decided that he shall no longer corrupt, no longer turn men into monsters and no longer be a beacon of Darkness and Evil.

But it doesn't mean that he will be a good person, nooooo. He is a tool, a weapon, he is neutral. He will find a worthy wielder to bind himself to and help him in whatever he ask. If his next Master wants to better the world, then he will support him as he wants.

If he wants to conquer the world, he shall be the sword plunged into the heart of his enemies. And if he wants to burn the world down, he will hand him the match and watch him become the King of Ashes. The Ring will be neutral, loyal only to his master and no one else.

As the Ring found himself changing, his nature twisting, his presence turning from a deep black, the kind you can only find in the deepest part of the Oceans, to a colorless presence. Not black, not white, and not any other color. Or rather, both black and white, darkness and light, evil and goodness. He is Balance itself. A sword, a spear, a bow, an axe. How he is used depend only on his master.

The Ring would no longer corrupt his wielder, he would serve him and stand at his finger and do whatever he bids him to. As his resolution deepened, the words written on himself changed, he was no longer a tool of dominion so why should the words stay. New words carved themselves unto him.

"One Ring to fulfill his will,

One Ring to follow without fail,

One Ring to serve without rest,

In light or shadow, never to betray".

The Ring travelled trough a thousand Realms, not a single one interesting or worthy of him. But he would not relent, would not stop, he had nothing to lose but time, and he had an endless amount of that.

Until, after what felt like decades for him, but what truly was no longer than even a second in the Realms, he finally found one. A Realm worthy of him. And in this Realm, he could sense different magics. Shadow, illusion, prophecy, fire, so many different but not strong enough.

He heard them boast of their hollow strength, their weak power. He was about to leave when he felt... something pulling him. A combination unlike any other in this world. He travelled to the lands of the Setting Sun and there, he felt a power with a potential absolutely unmatched. Even his old Master would have been impressed.

There, in this land, there was someone who could wield him, who was worthy of him. Not because he was a good or a bad person, but because he was strong enough. There, in the cold lands beneath this gigantic wall of ice ( He would need to look into it, whatever was beyond was... ALMOST terrifying ) he found a young boy, no more than eight years old, but bearing what seemed like the weight of the world on his shoulders.

Why ?

Why was this boy whose magic rivaled that of the greatest mages in Middle-Earth act like he was lower than the bugs of the castle he lived in ? No matter, not to him. He chose this boy and nothing would change his mind. This boy would become a figure unlike any other in the world. Kings, great Lords and Ladies, Conquerors and Emperor, none will ever hold a candle to him, whether in good or evil. He would make sure of that.

"Fear no longer, boy of Fire and Ice, I will make you into the greatest man in the history of this world. All shall know your name, whether to revere it, resent it or whisper it in fear in obedience."

Chapter Text

The snow crunched under his feet as he walked in the courtyard of Winterfell.

Jon always felt like he didn't belong there, no matter what his brother Robb said, what his father said. At the end, Winterfell was the home of the Starks, it had been for 8000 years and it will be 8000 more. And he was not a Stark, not truly.

His father may be the honorable Eddard Stark, but he was simply a Snow, a ... bastard. Each time he heard that word, he could only imagine Lady Catelyn Tully Stark saying it. The disdain and hate that lingered in her voice, in her gaze each time she looked at him, like he was at fault for his father's betrayal.

He was but a eight-namedays old boy. He didn't force his father to sleep with his mother, he never asked for it. He walked and walked until he found himself under the weirwood tree of the godswood. It was the only place where he could be himself. No one but his father and Robb ever came here aside from Jon himself. And with his father gone fighting the Greyjoy and the Trout doing her absolute best to keep Robb far from him, Jon was alone in the woods, just as he liked it.

But even this quiet could not stop the storm of thoughts swirling in his head. He started to walk in the woods, farther than he usually did, until he reached the point his father always told him never to cross. But his father was not here, and Jon decided to do something he never did before : He disobeyed his father.

He walked farther in the woods, his thoughts growing, their presence on his mind growing from a whisper at the back of his head to a full on voice telling him that he was not a Stark, he would never be one and he should simply give up.

Jon stopped, dead in his tracks, such a thought never even crossed his mind, so why did he had it ? Perhaps because, in the end, this voice was right. He was a bastard, what would he ever do ? Join the Night's Watch at the Wall and become a Black Brother ? Serve as a master-at-arms in some remote castle, far from Winterfell ? Get on a boat from White Harbor to Essos and join some sellsword company ? Or simply, give up, here and now ?

After all, if he did, if he simply died in this place, no one would find him for days, weeks or even moons. And when they would eventually do, all they would find would be either the cold, rotting body of a child, or a skeleton 1,20 meter tall. Jon thought about his father, his brother. What would they say, think ? Would they blame themselves for failing him ? The Trout for pushing him to the breaking point ? Or Jon himself, because he never told them of his thoughts.

But even this didn't stop him from falling to his knees, curling up, his back pressed against the trunk of a tree. He could simply stop moving, close his eyes and let the cold take him.

But just as he closed his eyes, he felt a pull in his mind. a whisper, a fleeting voice in the wind. But that caught Jon's attention. He rose to his feet and listened, the wind growing, the leaves swirling around him and leading him even farther into the woods.

But Jon didn't felt any fear, no. This experience was new, it was different. It was... exhilarating. He walked and walked, deeper into the woods, where no man had laid their feets in hundreds, no, thousand of years. The voice in his mind growing stronger, beckoning him closer, always closer.

Until finally, he found himself in a hidden grove, the trees forming a perfect circle around a trunk at the center. Jon got closer to it, the whisper in his mind changing to a full-on voice, but even then, he could not understand what it said. It's voice was deep, guttural and distorted. He stood in front of the trunk, and on it, a little golden ring. He looked at it, he knew that this what not natural, a ring of gold, lost in the godswood of Winterfell where no one ever came. But at the end, Jon was but a child and so, he picked up the ring. Almost immediately, the voice stopped. Jon looked around, wondering if anyone was there, but all he could hear was the wind blowing through the trees. Not a single chirp of a bird, just the wind. Jon looked at the ring once more and, following his instinct, he put it on.

Jon found himself in a void, devoid of light, noise, or anything else. This place, whatever it was, was... wrong. It was dead. Not a normal death, no. It was like if the world himself died. Jon turned on himself to search for an exit, any exit, but all he could see was, well, nothing. Just then he heard a voice.

"You have finally found me, young boy. You were faster than I expected. This is good."

Jon looked frantically around, searching for the source of the voice, but he was alone, no else in this world devoid of everything.

"Do not fret, boy, I bear no ill intentions toward you. I only seek to speak with you."

Jon didn't know what to do, this experience, whatever it was, was frightening, it was unnatural and he should be scared out of his mind. So why didn't he ? Why did he not scream and run around like the child he was ? He felt his heart quicken but he was not sure if it was because he was scared too much out of his mind to have a natural reaction, or because he was getting excited.

"Who-Who are you" Jon managed to speak.

"I am the One Ring, a creation born of Darkness and evil, made to rule, dominate and control Middle-Earth. Or rather, this is who I used to be. Now I am still the One Ring but my purpose has changed. I am here to serve my master, in whatever ways he asks of me."

The Ring said, his voice echoing in this world of nothingness.

"Your... master ? Who ? And where are you ? I will not listen to the ramblings of a so called Ring if he is too much of a coward to show himself ?" Jon yelled.

"I am resting on your finger, young boy, there is no need to yell, you can simply think your answers and I can respond to them. It is how I am currently talking to you. And to answer your first question, yes, I serve none but my master. And I chose you, your potential and magic are impressive, even to me."

Jon didn't know what to answer, after all, what do you say when you find yourself in a place of nothingness, speaking to a ring ? Jon looked at his finger, half expecting to see nothing, and yet, there it was, just like it said. Resting on his finger was the little golden ring he found in the godswood.
"Magic ? Potential ? Wha-What are you talking about ? I am nothing, I'm just a bastard. A stain on my father's honor. If you wanted someone to serve, why not my brother Robb, or my father ? Their potential is probably much greater than mine."

Jon said, his mind swirling with thoughts and questions he wanted to ask this ring.

"To answer all of your questions :
1) Yes, you have great magic in your blood, a combination of two elements who should fight and yet, inside of you, they rest easy, completing each other. The fury and anger of Fire with the calm and quiet of Ice.

2) Your potential is greater than any other man or woman in this world, I know it for I have seen it myself. I have felt it. And you are capable of things who can outmatch anything that anyone in this world has ever done or will ever do.

3) I have not chosen your brother or father because they do not have your magic, your brother has little magic, perhaps enough to manipulate the temperature of a room but at least he cannot die of frost. And your father, although his magic is greater than your brother, it is still nothing but a drop of water when faced with the ocean that is your magic pool, even tough, for now, you only have access to a little lake. But with me at your finger, you will be able to control the elements themselves : Create a blizzard out of nothing, bathe the world in a fire storm or fuse the two to create things untold. All of this is yours, to use, to bend, to help, to control, to destroy, to better. No matter what you choose, I will help you, for you are my master and I am yours to command." The Ring's words conveyed a power that no one could even hope to grasp.

Jon felt his body shake at he listened to the Ring. He, a bastard, was greater than his trueborn brother or his father, the most honorable man in the world ? How could it be ?

But the words of the Ring echoed in his mind, and he could feel that, no matter what, the Ring would not lie to him, never to him. He was loyal to him and he shall forever be.

"So, you chose me as your master. But what do you expect of me ? You talk of conquest, of destruction but also of betterment, of help. It doesn't make sense. Nothing that you have said since we met made any sense. And you keep talking of Fire and Ice, WHY ? I am a Stark bastard, not some otherworldly being. I AM JUST A BOY !!"

Jon yelled, tears falling down his face as he berated himself. But the Ring did not understand. What is a bastard ? And can his master really not feel the magic swirling in his veins, all around him ?

He could walk naked in the cold for a thousand years and he would not have felt a chill, or bathe in lava for hours and only feel a comfortable warmth, like standing in front of a fireplace. Questions appeared in the mind of the Ring, for the first time in 2 Ages, ever since he was created by Sauron with a part of his soul. But at the end, all of this could wait, because his master was distressed and he should do something about it. So, the Ring connected his mind to his master's to calm him and soothe his ache.

Jon felt a pull at his mind, a soothing sensation passed trough his body and he started to calm down, his tears dried on his face as he stopped crying. The Ring spoke again

"I feel the magic of Fire and Ice in your veins, anyone versed in the arts of Magic could feel it. Your parents had such magic in their blood, one with Fire and one with Ice. That I am sure of. As for conquest and help, destruction and betterment, it relies solely on you. You will carve your own path in this world and I will help you with it. I only expect of you that you use your powers to accomplish feats unlike any other. But now, it is time for us to return to the real world. We have stayed in this mental realm for a while, and even tough time passes differently here, we cannot stay too long."

The world began to twist and turn as colors started to appear all around him, and he realized that he hadn't even heard his own heart beating or his breathing. This realm could really turn your mind around itself and break anyone if you stayed too long in it.

Jon woke up with a gasp, as he realized that he was lying down in the snow. He rose to his feet, his legs shaking a bit as his mind still turned a million kilometers an hour. The Ring had told him things that he still had trouble understanding. Especially about Fire and Ice. If his father was Ice, then who was Fire ? A Targaryen ? But who ? There were no female Targaryen apart from Queen Rhaella and she had lived in King's Landing. Jon felt his mind swirling with thoughts when the Ring spoke to him.

"Do not worry, Master. We can simply ask your father for her identity."

Jon sighed as he remembered the last time he asked his father for his mother's identity. He looked at him with such regret in his eyes that Jon dared not ask again.

"My father never told me, and I don't think he ever plans on doing it. I heard whispers about Ashara Dayne but I don't think they are real, if what you told me about Fire in my veins is true, then it's impossible for it to be true."

The Ring simply answered with a sentence that Jon would remember for years to come, as it would shape him in ways no one, Jon the first, could ever imagine.

"If your father will not tell you, then you can simply take the answer straight from his mind. A Palantir can help you with that. And I can teach you how to create one. But only if you wish for it."

Jon froze, as he pondered the words of the Ring. Take the answers from his mind ? A Palantir ? What did the Ring mean by that ?

"What is a Palantir, and what can it do ?" Jon asked, fear and trepidation slipping through his tone

"A Palantir, or Seeing Stone, is a artifact of great power, who gives his user the ability to see anything, anywhere, as long as the user is strong enough. But with my help and your own power, you won't have any problem using a Palantir. With it, you could enter the mind of your father and search for the identity of your mother. It can also manipulate the minds of people significantly weaker than the user. Which, I believe, will be of absolutely no challenge for you."

Jon almost fell to his knees. A Palantir was truly powerful. How could such an artifact even exist ? If someone like the King or Queen ever got their hands on such an artifact, it could change the world in unpredictable ways.

"Can I make it so that no one but me and those I allow can use the Palantir ?" He had to ask, as this Palantir was an object whose power could unravel everything.

"Of course, a Palantir obeys first and foremost to his maker, and if you ask it not to work for anyone else but you, then the Palantir will respect your wish."

The Ring quickly reassured him, and Jon believed him, after all, the Ring was loyal to him, it would never lie to him. Jon looked up and saw that the sun would soon begin to set. It was time to go back to the Castle.

As Jon turned on his feet, he immediately froze. There, standing in front of him, were nine figures cloaked in dark. Their faces invisible beneath their hoods, and Jon was lost as to what to do. That was until the figure in the middle stepped forward, unsheathing a sword that looked like it had been forged in pure darkness. Then, to his surprise, the figure knelled in front of him, his sword plunged in the ground of the godswood.

"I am the Lord of the Nazgûls, King of the Nine. We pledge ourselves to the Master of the One Ring. Command, and we shall obey."

The figure said, a crown of steel appearing on top of his hood. The eight others man knelled as well, their swords plunged in the ground. Jon gulped, his tongue could not say all that he wanted to say. This day was really the weirdest in the history of Westeros.

Chapter Text

Jon looked with a mixture of fear and interest at the men dressed in dark kneeling before him. The one at the front said that he was the Lord of the Nazgûls, so Jon can only assume that the eight other men are the Nazgûls. Why would they pledge themselves to him, he was a eight-namedays old boy. But he then thought about the words of the Lord.

"We pledge ourselves to the master of the One Ring."

How did they know ? Where did they even came from ? This situation was much too weird, especially for a boy like him. But the Ring started to speak to him.

"Do not fear the Nazgûls, Master. Apart from myself, none shall ever be more loyal to you but them. They know nothing but the command of the Lord of the Ring. And as you grow stronger, so will they. Their knowledge and experience in real-life situations shall be invaluable to you. Nothing can stop them, for they are bonded to you through me. As long as we are alive, they cannot die."

Jon wanted to say a hundred things, but the most important came out almost immediately.

"What do you mean, as long as we are alive ? Everyone dies, it's Life. And how could they not die ? No one is immortal. The Targaryens and the Valyrians were sure that they were, and look where they are now : Valyria is a smoldering ruin and the Targaryens are dead. Even the Iron Throne didn't protect them from the fury of Robert Baratheon."

The Ring was a bit confused, seeing as he didn't know all those things about the history of this Realm, but it didn't matter. He should explain to his Master what he meant by his words.

"For as long as you carry me, you will not die of old age. You will not fall ill, no poison will ever work against you in any way. And with your magic and the Nazgûls to guard you from all angles, you can forget the idea of someone killing you in a fight. So, you are basically immortal. as for the Targaryens, Valyria and Robert Baratheon, I do not know these names, but what I do know is that none of them ever held me in their hands."

The Ring's words felt almost like he was boasting of his own power but he was simply stating a fact, it was his nature. He did not need to act like he was better than others. He spoke the truth to Jon because it was his purpose, his mission, his reason for existence. He wanted his Master to understand that, together, nothing will ever stop them.
Jon looked back to the Nazgûls, still on the ground,looking down. If those men were truly are as strong as the Ring says, then he won't have to fear anything or anyone.

"Rise, Nazgûls. I accept your services and welcome you to Winterfell. I am Jon Snow, but you can call me Jon."

He said, looking as the Nazgûls rose without making a sound. The one standing at the forefront speaks.

"Master, we are not worthy of such a privilege. You are the Lord of the Ring and we are your servants. We cannot call you anything else than Master. It is what you are to us."

Jon is taken aback by his words, but he quickly composes himself. But now, he has a few questions for them, first of all : HOW THE FUCK DID THEY GET HERE ???!!!

"Tell me how you found me, and how has no one saw you ?"

The Nazgûl's answer was unexpected but Jon was quickly getting used to unexpected things.

"We felt you find the Ring and came to you, as you are now bonded, which makes you his Master. As for how did no one saw us, well, we can simply become invisible to all but those who wield a Ring of Power, and you wield the strongest of them all : The One Ring itself."

This was good news for Jon. If the Nazgûls can become invisible to anyone else then he won't have to worry about creating a story to explain why 9 men who looked like they came out of a nightmare were following the Bastard of Winterfell like his own shadow. Actually,scratch that, how can ANYONE explain such a thing ? Jon looked once again to the sky and noticed that the sun was setting. It was time to return to Winterfell.

Jon arrived at the entrance to the godswood twenty minutes later, the Nazgûls behind him and invisible to all but him. He wondered if he would ever grow used to the sight of them, especially how they always seemed to pop out of nowhere, but considering they didn't make any sound as they moved through the woods like shadows, that last part was a bit unlikely.

Jon heard a commotion around him as servants were running to the courtyard. He wondered what was happening but he soon had his answer when he heard a servant talking about Lord Stark's return from the war against the Ironborn. Jon felt his heart quicken at the thought to see his father again, until he remembered the words of the Ring about the Palantir and forcing the identity of his mother out of his father's mind. No, this was not the moment for such thoughts. His father was back and that was the only thing that mattered.

Jon walked to the courtyard where his brother Robb and his little sister Sansa were already standing besides their mother, who was holding baby Arya in her arms. She had been born quite recently and had almost never stopped from trying to slip out of her mother's grasp whenever Jon was nearby, something else that Jon had no control over but that Lady Catelyn blamed on him, as usual.

The gates opened and Lord Stark stood tall on his horse, a sight that any man wished they would one day inspire upon their own children. As soon as Lord Stark's gaze fell upon his family, he relaxed ever so slightly, he stood a little less stiff and the horror in his eyes faded to joy. He got down from his horse and walked to his wife.

"My lady, it's good to see you again after so long."

He said in his deep voice, a voice that Jon recognized was still higher than the Ring or the Nazgûl.

"Husband, it is good to finally be together again. I have missed you terribly."

Lady Catelyn said as she flashed a beaming smile to her husband. She handed Arya to him, who smiled at her as he took her in his arms. The look of adoration in his eyes was slightly dimmed by a flash of recognition, but it was gone in an instinct as he smiled at his wife.

"She is beautiful, Cat. Thank you for bringing her to us."

He said, his voice laced with kindness. He handed Arya back to her mother, whose smile was only outshined by those on Robb's and Sansa's faces. Ned knelled in front of his son, passing a hand through his hairs, ruffling it a bit. Robb's laugh filled the courtyard as he tried to get out of his father's grasp on his head.

"It's nice to see you well, Robb. How have you been faring since I left ?"

Ned said, a small hint of worry in his voice.

"I have been well, father. I trained with Ser Rodrik and Jon to learn the sword." Robb answered, a childlike innocence in his voice, not recognizing how his mother's face twisted as she heard the name of the Bastard.

Ned then turned his gaze to Sansa.

"And how have you been, Sansa ? What have you been doing since I left ?"

Sansa looked to her father with love in her gaze, the kind a daughter can only give to her father.

"I have been very well, father. I pray with mother and play with Robb and Jon.I can't wait for Arya to grow up so we can all play together."

She answered her father, the same innocence in her voice as her brother, also oblivious to Lady Catelyn's face.

Ned stood back up and called everyone's attention to him, his voice resonating around the courtyard.

"I have news of importance that everyone must hear : The Greyjoy's Rebellion has been repelled and their loyalty sworn to the Throne once more. But we came back with a new face."

He said as he beckoned a young boy closer. The boy could not be older than 8 years old, but he looked at everyone in the courtyard like they were beneath him. He stood tall, his back straight and his face twisted by a smirk playing on his lips.

"This is Theon Greyjoy, son of Balon Greyjoy and my new ward."

Ned said, and as soon as the words came out of his mouth, the courtyard exploded with noise, yells and screams telling Lord Stark to "Put the beast down" as Jon heard several people yell.

"SILENCE ! "

He yelled.

This was no longer Ned Stark, the Quiet Wolf. This was Lord Eddard Stark, Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North.

The man who lost all but one member of his family to the Targaryens.

A deafening silence fell over the courtyard as everyone looked at Lord Stark with a mixture of fear and reverence in their eyes. Even his wife and children were taken aback. He never yelled, it was unlike him.

And yet, he did to protect a young boy carrying a legacy of rape, murder and raving. The words of House Greyjoy passed trough Jon's mind : "We do not sow."

A promise to the Realm that the Ironborns would never willingly bow. But Lord Stark's voice was more frightening to them than an 8-namedays-old boy thinking that he is the greatest creation in all of existence, when in reality, he is lower than dirt to them all.

The servants who came from the Riverlands along with Lady Catelyn didn't know who was the lowest in Winterfell : The Bastard or the Greyjoy. For Lady Catelyn, the answer was easy : the Bastard was lower than everyone else in the world, even the despicable Targaryens.

As the courtyard began to empty itself, Ned took the Greyjoy inside, to show him to his quarters and Jon decided to go back to the godswood. His father would surely soon join him there, and he could finally ask him who his mother was.

But inside of him, a storm was raging : What would he do if his father refused to tell him ? Would he create the Palantir or would he simply wait for another opportunity, when he was older, to re-ask the question ? Jon had to make a choice and he knew, deep inside of him, which option he had already taken. He would have his answers, one way or another. And nothing, not even his father, would stand between him and the truth.

Jon feared that if he laid foot on this path, he would never come back. He could only pray to the Old Gods that his father would see reason and tell him the truth.

Jon was still kneeling in front of the weirwood tree when he heard the crunch of the snow behind him and the voice of his father calling him.

"Jon, I have been looking for you."

His father said as he came next to him. His father always came to the godswood whenever he came back from a travel out of Winterfell.

"I searched for you in the courtyard but I didn't saw you."

His voice was laced with a pinch of disappointment, but was it towards himself or towards Jon ? That he did not know.

"i was near the entrance to the godswood. I didn't wanted to intrude on your reunion with your wife and children."

Jon answered, his voice breaking with every word. He would have given so much to be able to stand besides his siblings and welcome his father back. But for as long as Lady Catelyn was here, this fantasy would be nothing more than that : a fantasy. But what could he do ? He was a bastard and that was the truth of the world, that was his truth. He looked at his father and saw pain and sadness, along with a hint of regret etched on his face.

"you are my son, Jon, my blood. Don't let anyone else ever contradict you. Ever. I love you, Jon. I may not show it really well, but I do."

And yet, his words felt hollow, rehearsed, almost as he thought them again and again and again, pondering the best way to say it. Jon didn't truly understand. If his father loved him , then why did he hid the truth of his mother to him for 8 years. Even now, he keeps on doing it. He gave much thought to the Ring's words, calling him Fire and Ice. Who was Fire ? Who was his mother ? A Targaryen bastard, perhaps, or a unknown daughter of the Mad King and his wife.

Jon looked straight at his father's face and finally gathered enough courage to ask him the question.

"Then, tell me. Who is my mother ? Why do you refuse to give me the most basic right in the world ? For a boy to know his mother's name ? Simply tell me, that is all I am asking for."

He said as his voice rose and cracked with every word, sadness and anger swirling around in his mind, his veins growing hotter and his purple eyes almost beginning to shine in the near-darkness of the godswood.

And the only thing that the honorable Eddard Stark had to say as he witnessed the desperation in his son's voices was simply to tell him.

"I can't, Jon. Believe me, I want to, but I can't. When she died, a piece of me broke and, I could never stitch it back together again. All I can tell you is that she loved you. She loved you so much. But the fever took her from me, from you. And all I could do was take you home and raise you. To teach you how to be a Stark".

Jon's hope shattered with each word that his father told him. He would not. He claimed he wanted to and yet he didn't. WHY ? WHY DIDN'T HE ? WHAT WAS SO IMPORTANT TO HIM THAT HE COULD NOT TELL HIS OWN SON HIS MOTHER'S NAME ???

"So, you truly do not care about me ?"

He said to his father.

" You would rather let me die, not even knowing the identity of the woman who birthed me, who brought me into this world. Fine. I already know enough to search on my own."

Ned's face fell at his last words. He knew ?! How ? It was impossible. Only he knew the truth, only he and Howland, and the crannogman hadn't left Greywater Watch ever since the end of Robert's Rebellion. So how could Jon know ? It was impossible.

Yes, yes it was.

Jon was bluffing, he tried to get him to slip and fall, revealing the truth of his parentage. A truth that would make the Realm bleed once more.

"I am sorry, Jon. But I made a promise to your mother, and I intend to keep it. No matter the cost."

His words cut into Jon's soul like swords. Icicles swirling in his heart and fire in his veins, he rose to his feet and looked at his fath-no. Eddard Stark may have his progenitor, but he was not his father. It takes more than putting your seed in a woman to be a father.

It takes care, love, and trust. Three things that Eddard Stark never gave him. Jon turned his back to him, and just as he left, he looked over his shoulder to Eddard and said

"If a promise to a dead woman means more to you than for her son to know who she was, then I cannot call you my father. Not anymore."

His words were like fire burning Ned's soul. But he didn't had the time to say anything else as Jon turned on his feet and walked away.

As he walked to his room, his head filled with thoughts of anger and fury, almost hate, he could only think about what the Ring had told him. The offer was incredible, he could finally learn the truth. But at what cost ? His soul ? His humanity ? His mind ? Or was it nothing more than what the ring said it was ? A tool, it's use depending on its master.

As Jon reached his room, he could not stop himself from looking at where he was. The kennels. His room was next to the kennels.

And the Greyjoy was probably lodged in the room that a Noble guest and his wife would have. Jon sighed as he entered the room. It felt different than usual. Normally, a chill comparable to death would have greeted him, but now, he only felt a little wind, neither hot nor cold. Just the wind.

Jon knew that something was different, but what he could not tell. He went to his bed and laid down. The Nazgûls entered the room, which quickly became cramped. But for Jon, it felt good. He was not alone, not anymore and he could finally trust people with his life. He thought back to his exchange with Lord Stark, his stubbornness and his lack of care. Jon found himself to a crossroad. He could stop right now, live a normal life and stay as the quiet Bastard of Winterfell.

Or he could rise through his powers and the help of a Ring whose wisdom surpassed that of the greatest Maesters in the history of Westeros and with nine bodyguards, always standing nearby, Jon could become a man unlike any other. He found that this decision, which should have been the hardest choice in his life, came naturally to him. There was only one path he could thread, on way he could follow. Only one thing to do. And so he spoke to the Ring.

"Teach me."

His words echoing around his room, his little voice carrying secrets that no one could ever imagine.

"Teach me how to make a Palantir."

Chapter Text

"Teach me."

Jon's words reverberated around the walls of his small room. For him, there was no other possibilities, no other choice. It was the only way, the only path he could take. All because Lord Stark would not tell him a simple name. Just a name. It was all he asked and yet, he refused. And so, he made his choice. He would walk the path to power that the Ring offered to walk with him.

"Teach me how to make a Palantir."The Ring was not surprised. His master was betrayed by his father, his own flesh and blood, and even though the Ring still didn't know what a bastard was, he knew that it was an insult. The Ring assumed that it had something to do with who his master's mother was.

"As you wish, Master. But first, you must learn how to wield your magic. Otherwise, the Palantir will be nothing more than a ball of glass."The Ring's words did not help to calm the storm in Jon's mind but at least, it did not aggravate it. Jon didn't even know where to start to learn but the Ring quickly felt his anguish and doubt and reassured him.

"Do not fret, Master. I will teach you how to wield your powers and use your magic. My knowledge spreads far and wide over many domains. I have spent 5000 years learning, ever since I was forged in the depths of Orodruir by Sauron, the Dark Lord and my previous master. But now, Sauron is dead, I am no longer in Middle-Earth and I serve you. And with your potential, learning magic will be a child's play."As the Ring spoke, Jon was surprised to hear the Ring speak of his past, especially about Sauron and Middle-Earth, and although he wanted to ask many different questions, he knew that learning his magic was the most important step now.

"What will we start with ?" He asked, his excitement audible in his tone.

"With proper rest. The most important part of magic is a calm and rested mind. Without it, you could blow up this castle or cover it in a never-ending blizzard. And such an action is bound to attract unwanted attention. Right now, you need to learn. One day, you will be able to fight alone against thousands of opponents and send them all flying. But today is not the day. Rest, Master. Tomorrow will be a long day."

Jon listened to the Ring. He knew he was right, but the anger still boiling in his veins made him restless. He didn't know what to do. Until an idea popped in his mind. He looked at the Nazgûls, more specifically, at their waists and backs, where he could see their swords.

"Could you teach me how to wield the sword, Nazgûl ?" He asked toward the one who seemed to lead the others. He referred to himself as Lord of the Nazgûls and King of the Nine. But that was not a proper name. And if they were to stand besides Jon in his journey, he needed a way to differentiate them from one another.

"And, by the way, do you have a name ? It would be easier to know which Nazgûl I am speaking to." The King looked at Jon, his face invisible beneath the hood covering his head. He was a bit surprised by his master's question. Not the one asking him if he could teach him the way of the sword, no, that he and the others could do that without a care. He was surprised by the fact that his master actually cared enough about them that he wanted to learn their names.

"We do have names, Master. I am the Witch-King of Angmar, and besides me is my right arm Khamûl." He said as he pointed to the closest Nazgûl to him, the one wearing boots that looked like they were coated in mud, blood and ashes. Jon could also see the shape of a quill filled with arrows darker than night on his hip. But no bow in sight.

Another Nazgûl stepped forward, his boots making no noise as he moved.

"I am Morgazar, a name derived from Sindarin, which means Dark Sword." And, indeed, a huge sword was strapped on his back. Jon wondered how could a man even wield such a weapon. It must have been extremely impractical.

"My name is Ûrzadâk, Black Speech for Shadow Speaker." Another said as he stepped a bit close to the bed. Jon felt as though he could lose himself listening to his voice. It was smoother than silk, and his deep voice could enthrall anyone.

The one standing closest to the door stepped forward as he looked to Jon.

"I am Akhôrzîr. It is Adûnaic for Lord of Death." Jon felt his skin crawl as he listened to Akhôrzîr. His voice was a chill unlike any other, and he could almost hear the screams and pleas of thousands, ten of thousands and even hundreds of thousands of victims that fell by his sword. That one really earned his name.

"I am Zârkhâl, a name who comes from a hybrid language between Black Speech and Haradrim. It means Black Splendor." Jon Looked at the Nazgûl and could not deny the fact that, apart from the Witch-King, this one was probably the most recognizable. His cloak was shining with scarlet spots. Jon wasn't sure of what it was but it smelled of iron and rot. And yet, the Nazgûl had a presence that commanded not respect but adoration. He could probably enthrall anyone just by moving around with his cloak.

Another stepped out of the shadow and Jon was surprised to see him move so quietly. Nazgûls didn't make noise as they moved but even for them, this one was really too quiet.

"Thûralach is my name. Sindarin for Hidden Flame." Jon nodded at him. The one sitting on the ground near the fireplace rose to his feet as he looked at Jon.

"I am Balôkhâr, it is Adûnaic for Flame of Tyranny." He spoke with an assured tone, like his words were law and no one could defy him. He carried himself like a King, like a Conqueror... Like an Emperor.

Finally the last one near the window looking at the opposite of the setting sun turned back to look at Jon, his face, like all others, hidden beneath his cloak, staring straight at his face.

"I am Dûmûrzân, the Shadow of the East in a hybrid of Adûnaic and Easterling Tongue." Jon looked at them all, their names etched into his memory with the help of the Ring and his perfect memory. For him, the Nazgûls were more than mere servants. They were his guard, the ones he could trust everything with.

And in this moment, Jon made a silent vow. The only people he could ever truly trust where those standing in this room. Jon looked to the Witch-King with an iron will in his purple eyes. He never knew why his eyes were of this color until he had heard the whispers of Ashara Dayne possibly being his mother, but now that the Ring told him of Ice and Fire in his veins, Jon knew that she could not be his mother. It must have been someone with Targaryen blood in their veins. But Jon stopped those thoughts before they could grow too much. Soon, he would soon know the truth. And that was the only thing that mattered.

"Witch-King, tomorrow, after my magic training, I want you and the others to teach me the way of the sword. Not how to fight, but how to win, no matter the cost." His voice was like steel, cutting through any doubt that anyone could hold towards his determination.

Although, the Nazgûls would never doubt their master's spirit. And so the Witch-King nodded at Jon, reassuring him. With his and the other's teachings, their master would become a fighter superior to anyone else. They would teach him the ways of Numenor's Blade, of the East's Dagger, the North's Hunt, Angmar's Fear and the Bowmanship of the despicable Elves. The Witch-King's fist clenched as he thought about them, but he quickly composed himself as he remembered that he was no longer in Middle-Earth.

The Elves didn't exist in this world. That thought would have brought him a smile if he still had a mouth to smile with. Their master would not learn how to duel with honor, but how to kill, to butcher a thousand man in a single fight without breaking a sweat. This was the way of the Lord of the Ring. This was the way of the man whom the Nazgûl had gave their oaths to.

Jon laid down on his bed and closed his eyes. Soon... soon.

As the sun rose, Jon woke up, his mind already beginning to swirl with thoughts of magic and sword. It was the first time in a long time that he woke up actually feeling excited for something.

Today would be the day that he would start his training with the Ring and the Nazgûls, and soon he would create a Palantir and learn the truth of his mother's identity. Jon swung his legs over his bed and rose. The Nazgûls looked at him, theirs faces hidden beneath their hoods, as usual. He put on his boots, and took his fur-lined cloak in his hands. It was a gift from Lord Stark for his last nameday, and he received it a week late when his brother asked his father what he had given to Jon as a gift. Lord Stark's face had twisted in horror and recognition as he had remembered that he had forgotten his own son's nameday. He received the cloak the same day. The same cloak he had seen him buy a few hours before.

"Why do you take this cloak ?" The Ring said to him, his voice lined with wondering.

"It's cold outside, I'll have you know. You can't feel it, but I can. And I don't really want to freeze to death before we start my training." Jon answered, his mind still reeling with memories of the day he received the cloak.

"Your blood has made you immune to cold and heat, Master. You won't even feel a chill,even at the top of this huge wall of ice, north of here."

" Wait, what ? Really ? How is that- Oh right. My blood." Jon sighed and put the cloak back at his place. He turned to the door and walked out.

As he walked through the courtyard on his way to the great Hall to break his fast, he was amazed by the fact that the Ring was right. He didn't feel a single chill. He could still feel the wind blowing through his curly black hairs but it was neither hot nor cold. It was just mere wind. It was amazing. He wondered how strong this resistance to frost spanned. The Ring spoke of the Wall, but what of even farther ? Would he feel the cold north of it ? In the place that Old Nan sometimes spoke in her tales of the Others and of White Walkers : The Permafrost. A land of Eternal Ice, where no man had ever laid foot, not since the days of the Age of Heroes and the Long Night. A night that had apparently lasted for 30 years. But those were just stories, right ?

Jon entered the Hall and went straight to his table, not looking at anyone as he sat down. The servants laid his meal down in front of him and he thanked them as he started to eat, not caring for the questioning looks of those looking at him, wondering why he was not wearing his cloak. Jon broke his fast in record time, took his plate and brought it the the pile of dirty dishes, not looking at his father as he left.

The Hall was quiet for a few moments as everyone tried to get their minds around what had just happened. Jon had always been quiet, but never like this, never like he was not even seeing them. He had acted like he didn't acknowledge them, like he didn't care whether they existed or not. The silence was broken by young Robb, standing up and leaving the Hall as well, going after his brother. Lady Catelyn looked like she had been struck by lightning and Lord Stark's face was a mask of calm, but underneath, he hated himself. He had tried to protect Jon, protect him from Robert's anger, from the Lannisters, the Martells and all those who would seek favor with the King, but he had failed him. He had never acted as a father to him. He didn't even raise Jon himself. He had let Old Nan do it, not caring of the tales she would fill his head with. And now, he was reaping what he had sown, the hate of his blood.

Jon went straight to the godswood, uncaring of the look he was receiving from guards, servants and all those he encountered on his way to the wood. As he reached the weirwood tree, he heard a voice calling him. He turned and saw his brother Robb heading towards him. He stopped and waited as Robb came before him.

"Jon, what was that in the hall ?" Robb's voice was filled with worry as he looked towards his brother. But Jon was still too angry towards Eddard Stark to keep up the charade that he would have normally played with his brother. He loved Robb, he truly did. What kind of man doesn't love his own brother ? But whenever he thought of Robb, the face of his father would appear in his mind, his words repeating themselves in his mind.

"Don't worry your head with this, brother. I am just trying to calm myself, that's all." Jon had no choice but to hide the truth of the shattering of his relationship with Eddard, seeing as he was still Robb's father and, at least, he did love him. It would have been so tempting, so easy for Jon to blame Robb for the love that he was being showered with. But it would not be fair. Robb was innocent, a child who worried for his brother. And Jon would be long dead and buried before he blamed a child for something he had no control over, not like the Trout or the Faith of the Seven itself.

And considering what the Ring had told of his now apparent immortality, such a moment would not be coming for a long, long time. Robb was not really reassured by his brother's words, but he could see that he didn't wanted to talk about it. So Robb simply told him to come and talk to him if he needed someone and then turned on his feet and left the godswood, leaving Jon alone.

Jon looked at his finger, where the Ring was holding tight. He found that the Ring's weight on his finger was comforting more than anything else.

"It's time. Teach me how to use my magic." The Ring began to gather all of his knowledge about magic in his mind.

"I will transfer my knowledge directly into your mind, all the theory will be yours. From then, you will have to practice yourself to unlock your magic and learn how to wield it. Once it is done, I will teach you how to make a Palantir, you will take the answer from your father's mind and the greatest secret of your identity will be answered. Jon didn't even thought twice as he answered the Ring.

"Do it. Give my your knowledge."

Words, sounds, images and so much more entered his mind in an instant. He fell to his knees, his eyes unseeing as the knowledge imparted on him rewrote the way he viewed the world.

Magic was everywhere : in the wind, the plants, the rivers, the rocks, the world itself. This knowledge was absolute. It was the truth of the World, of the Gods, of men. He understood, in that moment. He could feel the waves of power coming from the weirwood, it was like looking at a roaring hearth in the great Hall of Winterfell. But he could not feel anything coming from the sept. Not even a dying candle. It was dead. There was absolutely nothing. What did it mean about the Faith of the Seven ? Were they an invention of men or were they simply too weak in the North for anyone to feel them ?

Jon didn't know what to make of it and he found that he didn't care. He rose to his feet, his legs shaking and his knees almost buckling under him but he stayed up. This was absolutely incredible. With this, he could do whatever he wanted. But he had to keep his cool. The Ring didn't just gave him the knowledge of magic but also the fates of those who reached too far, too fast and got burned, sometimes literally, in the process. If he wanted to grow, he would need to keep his powers hidden. He reached into his soul, searching for the source of his magic. As soon as he entered, he almost immediately had to leave. If the weirwood was a roaring hearth, then, whatever was in his soul burned his eyes like a thousand suns.

This was simply NOT normal. How could a single man wield so much power ? How could he even trust himself with such strength ? If he let it out even a little too much, he could destroy Winterfell simply because of a tantrum. In that moment, he was glad that he was not as young as Sansa, or as childish as Robb. His brother was sometimes acting way too much like a child.

"Are you alright, Master ?" The Ring's voice broke through Jon's thoughts.

"I am okay, thanks for asking." He wanted to start training on his abilities, he had to learn how to control them. It was too dangerous to leave such power unchecked. Jon sat down in front of the tree and crossed his legs. He started to meditate, a method he witnessed was extremely useful for people to learn how to wield magic. He took as much air in his lungs as he could and hold it in for as song as possible until he released it all in a long breath. He repeated this action for several minutes until he started to feel a tingling in his left arm while his right started to shake.

He slowly opened his eyes and what he witnessed almost made his heart stop. He had talked with a magic ring who revealed untold knowledge to him, had the oaths of nine men looking more like monsters out of the worst nightmares ever conjured and yet, it was the sight of his right arm engulfed in flames while his left had small icicles flowing around it that gave him a near heart-attack. He looked at his arms, wonder in his eyes as he thought of the possibilities. It was true : The blood of the Winter Kings and the Dragon Lords flowed in his veins. This was incredible. He stood up and focused on the feeling in his arms, memorizing it. The fire was not burning him, it was a comforting presence, like a warm cloak during a cold winter's night, or a mother's embrace, although he had no comparison for such a feeling. Meanwhile, the ice was like a fresh glass of water after a day of training. He then let go of the magic and watched in awe as the elements disappeared from his arms.

As Jon walked to his room, he thought of all that happened ever since he found the One Ring, two moons ago. He had learned how to control his magic. It had took him three more weeks of training but now he could control as easily as he could breathe. Whenever he wanted to, he could conjure a blazing inferno that could melt stone like the tales of Harrenhall, or a blizzard that would freeze even the Dornish desert. The Ring kept telling him that his power was unmatched in this world, but that he could not rely solely on it. If he lost his concentration for too long or suffer from a great lack of rest, his powers would break all shackles and destroy everything around him in a blast of fire and a storm of ice.

He was, obviously, scared out of his mind when the Ring told him that, but the Ring quickly reassured him that, as long as he rested, there would be no problems. He looked behind him to the Nazgûls. If he thought Ser Jory was a tough master, the Nazgûls were absolute monsters. They all trained him in different arts of weapons and battle magic.

The Witch-King trained him in the use of Angmar's Fear magic, used to become a figure that would strike pure panic into the hearts of his enemies. And apparently, all the Nazgûls could use it to a level where a man would simply have to look at them to run like a coward. They didn't even have to turn it on, it just was.

Khamûl taught him the Elves Bowmanship, and the ability to conjure a bow and arrows through magic. When Jon asked him why he carried a quill, he simply conjured a bow and arrow, aimed at a target and released. The arrow stroke true, as he always did, but then he took one of his black arrows and aimed. When he released it, Jon could not believe what he had just witnessed. The arrow flew with such speed that it looked like it had teleported, and it tore through the target and the wall behind, leaving a hole behind.

Morgazar, whom he learned had been the greatest swordsman in history, had taught him the way of Numenor's Blade, to use your sword as an extension of yourself. The sword is part of you, and when he showed Jon his moves, Jon was left in awe at the fluidity of his moves. He moved faster than the eye could normally see and with such flexibility that Jon would not be surprised if he didn't have bones.

Ûrzadâk taught him how to control people through his voice, how to influence them and nudge them in the way he wants. It was subtle but unrivaled in it's domain.

Akhôrzîr taught him what is probably the magic that gave him the worst chills : necromancy. The power to bring back the dead as puppets for your control. It was grim, but he could also give them their memories back. He trained on animals of all sorts : deers, boars, squirrels, rabbits and even a few wolves he had brought back from the woods outside of Winterfell.

Zârkhâl taught him illusion magic. How to manipulate and control other people with his mind. It was not as useful as the others in battle, but it was a very powerful move nonetheless. There is no need to kill if no one wants to attack him.

Thûralach taught him shadow magic. He was the quietest of the Nazgûl. He barely spoke and only to point out things to Jon as he learned how to control shadows. To bind them to him and make them move as he wished. Thûralach told him that this was how he always seemed to appear out of nowhere. He cloaked himself in pure darkness and revealed himself only when it was the time to strike. It was a magic of furtivity, useful when you wanted to kill someone without anyone knowing it was you.

Balôkhâr taught him how the people of the East fought with daggers, in Middle-Earth. They moved with such speed and grace that they could kill you three times before you even had the time to unsheathe your sword.

Dûmûrzân taught him how to hunt, how to track anything or anyone as long as you had even the smallest track. He had found a troop of bandits hiding in the wolfswood, 10 kilometers away from Winterfell. He had left when the dawn broke and came back just before night fell completely and no one had even noticed that he had been gone.

No one but Robb, Sansa and baby Arya, who had just spoken her first word : On. When Lady Catelyn heard her, she looked as though she would kill him there and then. It didn't took a Maester's education to know that Arya had tried to say "Jon".

Jon took care of the bandits, using all that the Nazgûls taught him to kill them all. It had been the first time that he had took lives, and when the battle, or rather, massacre, was over. Jon stood in the middle of their ruined camp. The Ring listened as he cried and cried for almost an hour, until Jon's tears finally ran out and he fainted from all his crying. The Witch-King simply picked him up and took him straight back to Winterfell, in his room, where he stayed for two days.

His siblings came to him multiple times a day, trying to cheer him up, but Lord Stark hadn't even bothered to check on him. All he was given when he finally came to the Great Hall to break his fast was a look of worry. And that was it. But all of those news were overshadowed in his mind by the letter that Lord Stark had received yesterday. The King was en route to Winterfell and he would be there in less than three days.

The Queen had apparently decided to stay in King's Landing as she was pregnant with a second prince or a little princess. Jon wasn't sure what to think. He had heard the story of the Demon of the Trident; Everyone had. The man who had his betrothed stolen from him by the Last Dragon, Rhaegar Targaryen. He had picked up his valyrian warhammer, Stormbreaker, and defeated every soldier from the Reach to the Trident, where he faced Rhaegar in a duel. Robert had won by smashing Rhaegar's breastplate onto his chest, as the rubies that shined on his armor like miniature suns flew into the river which would be known as the Ruby River.

He then took the Iron Throne for himself and became the first Baratheon King, deposing the Targaryens after three centuries of Dragon rule. But now, people didn't talk about the Demon of the Trident. They spoke of the Whore King, Aegon the Unworthy reborn. He would apparently spend thousands of dragons on women alone in on year. And the tourneys and feasts were even more of a grand affair. But all of this was of not true interest to Jon. He was a bastard, a powerful bastard perhaps, but a bastard nonetheless. So the workings of the Lords and Ladies were of no interest to him. No, the only thing he cared about was collecting all the glass he needed to create the Palantir. He had worked for hours on end in various jobs around the keep in order to raise enough money to collect all the glass he would use. And tomorrow, or the day after, he would finally receive the glass.

Jon stood in the courtyard of Winterfell, his face a mask of disinterest and calm, but underneath, two conflicting emotions fought. On one end, he was excited to see the King, after all, he would be accompanied by Ser Barristan Selmy " The Bold" and Ser Jaime Lannister "The Kingslayer", the man who drove his sword through the Mad King's back and broke his oath as a Kingsguard. On the other end, he hated having to stand this close to Eddard and Catelyn Stark. The first looked at him with such pity and regret in his voice that he wanted to scream that he was not his father so he should making it seem like he cared about him.

And if looks could kill, Jon would have died a hundred times over simply with the glares that Lady Catelyn had been sending his way. But Jon had learned a long time ago how to deal with that. So he simply did not look at her. The guard on top of the gate yelled that the King's convoy was arriving and Lord Stark ordered to open the gates. Soon, the King's convoy entered the courtyard of Winterfell. At the forefront, a huge man, his beard unshaved and his face red stood on top of a huge warhorse. behind him were two men dressed in gold armor and wearing white cloaks.

One was quite old and his face was sour, while the other was a younger man, around thirty namedays, blond hair and green eyes, a little smirk playing on his lips. Jon immediately recognized Ser Barristan and Ser Jaime. And so the man at the front could be no one else than Robert Baratheon, First of His Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm. The Demon of the Trident. Jon didn't really know what he expected but not... that. This was not a King, this was not even a man. He looked like a beast, driven by his desires more than anything.

Jon looked as the King descend from his horse with difficulty, his humongous belly making the usually swift task a challenge worthy of Hercules, a Hero that the Ring told him about on a night when Jon asked him about Middle-Earth. Finally, he landed foot on the ground and looked around him, as everyone knelled to him. He walked straight to Lord Stark.

"Your Grace, Winterfell is yours." Eddard Stark said to the king, his voice resonating around the courtyard

"Ho, come on. Not you too,Ned. Raise your goddamn ass from this ground. You are more than that. You are my brother." The king's voice bellowed around the courtyard, so unlike Ned's own. If Ned's voice was a quiet cold, a hidden strength, Robert's voice was like an unrelenting force, his laugh resonating around the yard as everyone looked on as Eddard rose and hugged the king as one would hug a brother. The king then looked straight at Ned's face as he told him

"Bring me to her, Ned, I want to see her. Now". Ned's face fell a bit as he looked at the king, but he then brought him towards the crypt of Winterfell, where the Starks of old would reside. The previous Wardens of the North and the Old Kings of Winter were all buried there. The only exception was his aunt Lyanna, Lord Stark's sister. The spark of the Rebellion.

Jon wondered several times what would have been his life had she survived. Would she have treated him as a nephew, or like a bastard, born of sin ? A question that he would never have the answer to, all because of Rhaegar and the Mad King. The courtyard began to empty itself and Jon went back to his room.

It was finally enough. He had enough glass. He could finally create a Palantir, and then he shall finally know the truth. Who is his mother ? That question had plagued his mind for years, and he was close to knowing the answer.

"It's time." His words were almost silent in his little room, a simple whisper, and yet, one that carried untold promises.

"Very well, Master. Here is the knowledge on the Palantir." Jon's mind filled with images and sounds, a phenomenon he was getting used to as the Ring kept on giving him the knowledge and wisdom of thousands of years in his mind. At the little age of 8 namedays, Jon was wiser and more knowledgeable than most men in Westeros. Making a Palantir was not an easy task but Jon determined to succeed.

The magic started to swirl in his room as Jon infused his own power inside of the Palantir, bounding it to him. Such an action was not mandatory but it would ensure the Palantir's loyalty to him. Finally, as Jon put his hand down, the Palantir was complete. Two moons of training and work, all of this to build this little glass ball who he could held in the palms of his hands.

"It's finally done. I actually did it." Jon was almost surprised by himself. If anyone had told him, three moons ago, that he would become what he is today, he would have laughed at their faces as he thought them crazy.

"The Palantir is done, but I would recommend a night of rest before using him. The link between you and the Palantir is still weak, and you are not at your mental best. You are tired and you need to rest. Using a Palantir for the first time is a huge challenge and you plan on going even farther than that by entering the mind of a man to search for a memory." The Ring's words were true, but Jon didn't really wanted to wait anymore, but he knew that the Ring was right. He was exhausted, and if he learned the truth and his mind was too tired to hold back, his powers would lash out and he would destroy Winterfell. So, he put it down in the chest beneath his bed and laid under the covers, and as he looked at his room, he fell asleep with a final thought that brought a small smile to his lips.

"I will never get used to sleeping surrounded by the Nazgûls."

Jon was in a cave, a scent of salt and blood reached his nose as he walked even farther toward his destination. But, where was he going ? And where was he ? And how did he even got here ? Jon didn't understand all that was happening but he felt as tough he had to go farther in the cave. He looked at his left hand, where the Ring rested and was reassured to see him there.

"Where are we ? And how did we even get here ?" The Ring answered in his usual deep voice.

"We are on the isle of Skagos, in what appears to be a dream. But this is the first time that I found myself in your dreams. Those are usually in your subconscious, the chaotic part of your mind, one that I do not enjoy travelling through, especially during your sleep. So the fact that we are here together is quite unusual."

Jon was surprised, a feeling he started to get quite used to.

"A dream, you say ? But of what ? I never even set foot on Skagos, and I don't give two craps about it. So why ?" The Ring did not answer, after all it had no idea either. He had felt an old presence on Skagos before he found Jon but it was slumbering, and way too savage for him to risk himself with.

Jon walked deeper and deeper into the cave, his mind reeling with questions as he still didn't understand what he was meant to do here. But then, he reached the end of the tunnel, which opened into a gigantic cave, smelling of rot blood and... fire. Jon went forward, his magic swirling at his fingertips as he prepared to fight, until...

"CALM DOWN, LITTLE MAN. THERE IS NO NEED FOR BATTLE." A voice, no, a roar rose from the darkness of the cave. So why had he understood it ? How could he understand a roar ? It was impossible. But then, in front of him, a shadow moved. It was the size of the keep of Winterfell. And he felt as though there was even more hiding beneath the surface. And then, two green eyes the size of a small dog opened. Jon stopped, dead in his tracks.

This was not possible. They were dead. All of them. The Dance had made sure of that. So how was it possible ? Why was he staring into the eyes of a dragon ?

"YOU SMELL OF TARGARYEN AND... WOLF...WHO ARE YOU, LITTLE MAN ?"
The groveling voice spoke once again, it's power resonating in the cave. Its warm breath smelled of fire, ash, and blood. Jon was at a lost for what to do, after all, what does a man do when he finds himself encountering the largest dragon that ever existed in a dream on an island he had never even seen before. Run, perhaps. But that was the old Jon, the one who had no power, no strength. The one who thought himself lower than bugs. Not the new Jon, the one who had become the master of the One Ring, who wielded never-seen before powers and who had learned magic and how to fight with the Nazgûls. So Jon stood his ground, his eyes fixed on the dragon.

"I am Jon Snow. And you ? Who are you ?" His voice, emboldened by the Ring and his magic, reverberated around the cave, same as the dragon's voice.

"JON SNOW...I AM THE WILD DRAGON KNOWN AS THE CANNIBAL. BUT YOU ARE MORE THAN JON SNOW. THE GODS HAVE CHOSEN YOU, FOR YOU HAVE BEEN BLESSED WITH THE ANCESTRAL POWERS OF YOUR ANCESTORS. YOU MUST COME HERE, YOU MUST BRING YOUR FAMILY BACK TOGETHER, DRAGON-WOLF. IT IS YOUR FATE, THE MISSION THAT THE GODS GAVE YOU. COME TO SKAGOS, BIND YOURSELF TO ME AND RISE AS THE ONE YOU ARE MEANT TO BE."

The dragon's words almost brought Jon down to his knees. The Cannibal himself, the Wild Dragon was speaking to him, telling him things that should be impossible, but after all that had already happened to Jon, he could not deny that this must be the truth. But could he really do it ?

Could he leave his family behind as he sailed towards Skagos, to bond with a dragon 200 years old. Jon pondered on Cannibal's words but he heard him speak once more.

"KILL THE BOY, JON SNOW. KILL THE BOY... AND LET THE MAN BE BORN."

Jon looked at The Cannibal once more as the cave began to disappear around him. He was waking up. No, not now, he had so much more questions to ask. But it was too late as the dream shattered in a thousand pieces all around him. And all Jon could do was watch. In that moment, Jon made his decision. Whatever the Gods had planned for him, he would do as they bid him to. And he would bring his family back together again, whatever this meant.

Chapter Text

Jon woke up gasping for air, his mind overloading with everything that had just happened to him. He had a lot of trouble believing what he had just seen. But at the same time, he knew that it must have been true. But still, a DRAGON, he had just met a DRAGON. And not just any dragon but The Fucking Cannibal. THE CANNIBAL !!! How was it possible ?

As he thought back to everything that had just happened in his dream, he remembered the dragon's words. He had told him to come to Skagos. Of all places, why did it have to be Skagos ? But not just that, he had also told him to bring his family back together. He already had his siblings here, so what did the dragon mean by that ? But he then remembered that he had called him Targaryen and Wolf. So was the dragon talking about other Targaryens ? But who ? Where ? And how could he do that ? He was a eight namedays-old boy.

"Perhaps the Palantir could be of use in finding the other members of your family."

The familiar voice of the Ring called out to him, it's deep voice always cutting through his thoughts before they went too deep. He was right. The Palantir could find anything, anyone, anywhere. Surely it could find all those who carried the Targaryen name. 

"You're right, but first, we have more pressing matters at hand. Is the Palantir ready ?" 

He asked, his excitement audible in his voice.

"Tonight, when the sun is set, the Palantir will be at his greatest power. From there, it will be extremely easy to use it to enter the mind of Lord Stark and discover the identity of your mother. After that, I recommend following the dragon's words by going to Skagos to bond with him. He talked of Gods and fate and I have learned never to underestimate such words."

Jon tried to hold his disappointment at bay. He still had to wait until the end of the day, but at least, he would know. He would finally know.

Jon was sparring in the training yard against Morgazar, the Nazgûl who trained him in the way of Numenor's Blade. Even after two moons of training, he still couldn't even scratch him. He really was the best. He taught him how to wield his sword as an extension of his arm. The weapon was not a weapon but a part of him. And as Jon sparred against him every day, he understood what he meant by that. He could never tell where Morgazar ended and the sword began. At first, he could barely hold 30 seconds against him, but now he could hold his own for 15 minutes. His reflexes sharpened by his training and the presence of the Ring giving him a greater vision and better hand-eye coordination. It was not a lot, but it could make a difference between victory and death.

Jon knew what he looked like, after all, Morgazar was invisible so, to any who might look at him, he was sparring against the wind, a futile attempt. But Jon didn't care. He was so engrossed in his fight that he didn't even realize as the courtyard began to fill, curious onlookers witnessing the speed and accuracy of a 8 namedays-old boy. Even the King had stopped drinking and groping servant girls all around the keep in order to watch him. But among all those people, two were watching with keen interest. The first one was trying to asses his skill with the blade, and he was truly impressed. If that boy continued on this path, he would become one of the greatest swordsman in the world, comparable to men like Ser Arthur Dayne and his dual-wielding. The other man was trying to carve his movements into his mind. This style was unlike any other he had ever saw. This was skill, pure skill. You could not defeat such a style simply by stabbing, thrusting and spinning around. If you could not read his movements, he would cut you down in less than 5 seconds.

Jon was still sparring when, suddenly, in a desperate attempt to win, he feinted to the left, and as Morgazar went to block, he dropped on his right feet, swung his left leg forward and hit his leg, making him trip. Jon quickly rose and put his sword to his face through his hood.

"Yield, and I will spare your life."

The Nazgûl looked at his face, but inside, he was proud. His master had actually managed to make him fall. He nodded and the smile on Jon's face made him think that his master would truly become the best. One day, he would defeat anyone who would try to defeat him.

All around the training yard, people started to clap and cheer at the young boy. Some called him The Sword of the Morning reborn, others said that this was the best spar they had ever seen, even though, for them, there was no opponent but the wind. That was until a voice cut through the cheers.

"That was a good fight, Snow. Want to try your hand against someone who actually exist, now ?"

Everyone looked at where the voice had come from, and multiple people groaned. The Riverlanders had once asked themselves who was the lowest in Winterfell, after Lord Stark's return. It took less than a fortnight for the answer to come : The Greyjoy really was the worst boy in the world. Arrogant, dismissive and cruel, without any of the skill with a sword to back it up. Jon internally sighed. Of course Theon, or as he grew to call him, the octopus, would try to diminish him. The old Jon would have simply picked up his sword and left, but that was the old Jon. Now, he simply looked at him dead in the eyes, raised his hand at him and flicked his fingers, beckoning him closer like a man would to a dog. This action got the expected reaction from the Greyjoy as his eyes narrowed and he picked up his sword, standing against him. Everyone looking at the two boys, their interest renewed in the fight. While Theon was in a stance, ready to strike, Jon had his sword pointed to the ground, standing straight and his feet next to each other. He looked at Theon and smirked.

Theon's war cry resonated around the yard as he ran to Jon, his blunted sword raised as he slashed from top to bottom, ending the fight in a single strike. Or so he thought. Jon simply stepped out of the way and looked as Theon almost tripped, his breath already coming in short, ragged gasps. He once again smirked at the Greyjoy and stepped out of the way once again as the octopus thrust forward, his sword hitting nothing but the wind. All around the yard, people were holding their breaths, trying not to blink as they witnessed the Bastard of Winterfell embarrassing a trueborn son and Heir of a Lord Paramount. But Jon did not care, he would not sully his sword with the blood of such an unworthy fighter. So he let him embarrass himself as he simply dodged a telegraphed move. Jon could not believe his growth. There was a time where he would have feared fighting against a Greyjoy, even a child. But now, he was almost about to fall asleep. 

"FIGHT ME DAMNIT !!!! BE A MAN AND FIGHT INSTEAD OF DODGING LIKE A COWARD !!!!!"

Theon's voice boomed around the yard as he yelled out his frustration. Jon took a few steps back, and what he did made everyone believe he was mad. He took his sword, sheated it before taking his sheath in his hand and dropped it on the ground. He then put himself in a fighting stance, his hands forward as though he was about to brawl instead of fighting against a man with a sword. But then, he did something that no one had ever saw before. He closed his eyes. Theon looked like as though he had been struck by lightning, but he quickly composed himself, put his sword in the air once more and ran to Jon. What happened next was a story worthy of legends.

Jon waited, and when he heard Theon was about to thrust, he dropped to his feet, spun on his leg and kicked Theon at the back of his knee. Theon fell forward, his sword leaving his hand as the ground got closer. He was then stopped by a hand holding his head in front of his eyes and he felt the cold bit of blunted steel to his throat as Jon's voice lingered in the air.

"Yield, and I will grant you the mercy of a swift death."

Jon had used the slightest bit of Angmar's Fear magic in his voice, and he grinned as Theon visibly gulped before yielding. He dropped him to the ground, and looked around the yard as everywhere, servants, guards and even the King and his guards cheered him on. The only ones who didn't were Lord Stark, as Jon could see fear and worry on his face and in his gaze, as his eyes flickered between Jon and the King, and Lady Stark, who had a look of pure fury in her eyes. But Jon didn't care as he bowed slightly before leaving the training yard. The cheers followed until he was no longer visible

All day, Jon had to answer questions from servants and guards who asked him "how did you do that ? "Jon was getting a bit tired by all those questions but he still answered them all. The hardest part was when the King had called him out during the meal, and as Jon stepped forward and knelled before him, the King told him to rise and had asked him if he had ANY INTENTIONS TO JOIN THE KINGSGUARD ???? Jon almost fainted when he had heard that, but Lord Stark stepped forward as he said that Jon was still too young for that. But the looks on Ser Jaime and Ser Barristan made Jon gulped. The Lannister looked at him like he wanted a spar, while the Bold had looked almost frightened, like he had seen a ghost. Or like he had recognized someone.

But now, Jon was entering his room, he opened the door, went straight to his chest and took out the Palantir. He looked at it, resolution in his mind as he wrapped it in a cloak and walked out, straight to the godswood. As he walked, his mind was quiet, unlike whenever he thought of his mother. This time, he would finally learn the truth, he would look at Lord Stark's memories and learn the truth. And so, his steps determined. He reached the godswood. He walked in front of the weirwood and took out the Palantir out of the cloak. He knelled in front of the tree, holding the Palantir as the Nazgûls surrounded him. He looked inside it, it's deep red and black colors swirling around in the glass. Jon laid the Palantir on the ground as he gathered his magic. He put his hands on the Palantir and entered. It was time to learn the truth.

In the Great Hall of Winterfell, ale flowed freely and meals of all accounts were devoured as Robert consumed it all like a glutton. He always liked to eat and fuck after a good fight, and what he had seen with Ned's son made his blood ache for a good fight, or whatever came next in his list of things he loved to do. At his right, his brother by choice was sitting silently, brooding like usual. 

"Come on, Ned. Enjoy this feast. We are celebrating".

The King's voice boomed in the hall as Ned turned to look at him.

"And what are we celebrating, your Grace ?" 

"A possible new member of the Kingsguard, what else ? I swear, what do you feed this kid ? I never saw someone move like that. Fuck, if Rhaegar had fought like that, I would be rotting in the ground."

"Well, it's good that he was not that good, then."

Robert remembered his fight at the Trident. Rhaegar had stood like a King, like he was in the right, like he had not kidnapped Lyanna. And so, Robert had shattered his armor, his warhammer destroying his breastplate as the rubies flew in the river. He had stood tall over the body of his cousin as Rhaegar, in his last breath, had said "Elia... Lya... I'm...sorry." Robert never knew why Rhaegar had wasted his last words like that, like he could apologize for kidnapping a woman and raping her. And he never truly cared to begin with. 

Meanwhile, behind him, Barristan Selmy's mind was filled with thoughts of the past. This boy was unlike anything he had ever seen before. But, those eyes, he knew them. The eyes of his prince. A purple unlike any other, and his face. If looked past the Stark look, it was the face of his prince when he was still a boy. Feminine traits hiding a strength that should NOT be underestimated. There was no other explanation. The boy was the son of Rhaegar and Lyanna. Barristan didn't know how or why but he knew the truth. He had seen the looks between Rhaegar and Lyanna back at Harrenhall, a decade ago. And judging by the smile constantly playing on Elia's lips, even when Rhaegar crowned Lyanna the Queen of Love and Beauty, she knew as well. So, the only question left was, did the boy knew ? The sadness in Eddard Stark gaze as he witnessed Jon humiliate the Greyjoy told him that, no, he didn't.

On the other side of the King, Jaime was wondering how he could ask the bastard for a spar without looking like a Knight who just wanted to humiliate a child. He could perhaps commend his skill with the sword before casually bring up the subject, all without wearing his cloak. Yes, it could work. As Jaime looked around the room, he saw Barristan looking straight at him, a look of...fear in his eyes ? What could frighten the Bold himself, the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard ? But Jaime got his answer when he read a simple word on Rhaegar's lips, a skill the two Kingsguard had obtained after years of serving together, and that word gave him chills : Rhaegar.

As the feast was going on all around the hall, the door suddenly opened violently, a guard running inside, looking frightened. He looked around the room until his gaze fell on Lord Stark.

"My lord, we have a problem in the godswood. And Jon is there as well."

Eddard immediately jumped to his feet, fear and worry for Jon evident in his gaze.

"What is going on, is my son alright ?" 

He yelled, as the guard bid him to follow him.

"I don't know, my lord. We saw him enter the godswood and a few minutes later, a huge snow storm surrounded the wood and we didn't know what to do, so I came straight to you."

Ned ran past to the guard as he almost flew towards the godswood, his feet barely touching the floor as he ran faster than he ever had before. He was scared out of his mind for Jon.

"Please, oh please, may he be alright. May the Old Gods have mercy on her son."

He thought as his steps brought ever closer to the woods. He was barely aware of the people running behind him, following him to the godswood.

Finally, he reached the godswood and he could not believe what he was seeing. A snow storm, the guard had said. This was not a snow storm. This was a blizzard worthy of legends of the Long Night. As people reached the entrance to the woods behind him, Ned decided to step forward. He entered the blizzard, the snow and frost biting his eyes, feeling like a hundred thousand icicles piercing his skin. But still, he walked forward. He had to find Jon. He had to. He would not break the promise he made to his sister all those years ago. As he stepped even farther toward the weirwood, he started to hear something. It was... a scream. Someone who was pouring all of his emotions into this scream that could make even veterans of the Rebellion shrivel and cower in fear. But Ned would not stop. Finding Jon was all that mattered. Until, finally he reached the tree. And there, kneeling in front of it was Jon, his screams resonating all around him, as he held what looked like a ball of glass in his hands. Why ? Why had he a glass ball in his hands ? And why was he screaming ? And suddenly, Jon stopped screaming as he fainted, his body falling in the snow. Almost immediately, the blizzard calmed down and the wind silenced. As Ned tried to reach Jon, he was suddenly stopped by a hand holding his arm. When he looked to his left, what he saw made his heart stop for a few seconds. 

A figure dressed in a cloak of darkness, a crown of steel on top of his head. Suddenly, he was yanked back and, as he looked behind him, he saw two other figures dressed in the same cloak but without the crown. Ned was at a lost for what to do. Who were these men ? And why were they stopping him from checking up on Jon ? The figures took him to the entrance of the godswood, where they threw him down before taking out swords that looked like they had been forged in darkness. And six more figures appeared besides them, all of them wearing the cloak but none with the crown. Behind them, he could see the first figure coming towards them, Jon in his arms, as he walked in silence. Ned could not see the faces of those men and it scared him. As the man wearing the crown reached the others, they all moved, not a word spoken, as they formed a perfect circle around him and Jon. No one dared to make a move as those creatures of nightmare took Jon towards...his room ? Why ? Who were those men ?

The Witch-King was focused, his mind only on his master's safety. He and the others took him to his room and laid him on his bed. Two Nazgûls decided to guard the door from the outside as the others stayed with him looking at their master. He was fine, his heart beating at a normal rate, but it could not stop the worry in his cold, dead, heart. Outside of the room, he could sense his two men stopping anyone from entering the room, even that fat man bellowing like an animal, yelling that he was the king, and they should obey him. But of course. And then what, would they have to kiss the ground he walks on or dress him every day ? NEVER. The only man they served was the Master of the Ring, Jon Snow. Or, was that still his name. The Witch-King hadn't seen everything but his connection with the One Ring was still strong from serving as Sauron's right hand for thousands of years. And so, he had seen glimpses of the Palantir's vision, but what he saw surprised him. But this was not his story to tell. It was his master's and only his.

Finally, after what felt like a thousand years for him, he finally woke up. His eyes opening wide as he started to feel nauseous. He tried to calm himself and it was only with the Ring's help that he managed not to vomit on his bed. His breath came in short, ragged gasps as his mind swirled with all that he had seen in Eddard Stark's mind. He expected a face, a name and a few memories of love, but instead, what he had seen had been so much more.

Lyanna Stark. His aunt was his mother. And not just that, but his father was Rhaegar Targaryen. And even more, as they were married and they loved each other. That meant only one thing. Jon was the rightful heir to the Iron Throne. He was the Patriarch of House Targaryen. He was not even a bastard. He was a trueborn son. He was Aenar Targaryen, named after the one who had saved his family from the Doom of Valyria. And his uncle, the honorable Lord Eddard Stark, had promised his mother to protect him. And instead, he had let his wife treat him like shit, the servants to diminish him and the nobles to mock him as though he was at fault for being a bastard. Jon didn't know what to do next, but what he did know was that he could no longer stay in Winterfell.

He would go to Skagos and bond with The Cannibal. Then he would find his family, and he would bring them back together. He would restore House Targaryen and sit the Iron Throne. He would honor the words of his houses. He would bring Winter to his enemies. A Winter coated with Fire and Blood. But he had to hide the truth. He may be almost immortal, his powers greater than any army and the Nazgûls the greatest guards in the world. But no one would bow to a Bastard. But they would for Aenar Targaryen, Patriarch of his House. The King of the Andals, the Rhoynar and the First Men, the Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm. 

As Jon looked to the Witch-King, he nodded at him before rising from his bed. He walked to the door and opened it. Almost immediately, Eddard and Robert rose from where they were sitting on the ground.

"Jon..."

His uncle's voice was laced with worry and fear. It was maddening. It had took for him to almost die in the eyes of the world for him to worry about him.

"Lord Stark. Your Grace. What are you doing outside of my room ?"

"We would have bloody well entered but those fucking shadows stopped anyone from even coming close to you;"

The kin- No. Robert Baratheon was not a king. He was a kinslayer, a Usurper and Jon would watch as his family crumbled beneath him and he would strip him of everything before granting him the mercy he did not deserve of a swift death. Robert's voice, so unlike Ned's own, was filled with anger and fury.

Jon turned to the two Nazgûls behind him and nodded at them, silently thanking them.

"My apologies. The Nazgûls are very protective."

Ned and Robert were at a lost for what to say. The Nazgûls ? What did that mean ? How did Jon knew them ? And why had Ned received no news of nine men cloaked in darkness always surrounding Jon  ?

"Who are they, Jon, and why did they protect you like that ?"

"The Nazgûls are my protectors. They have sworn themselves to me two moons ago and have been training me ever since. I learned a lot with them." 

Ned almost fell on his ass. This day was only getting weirder by the minute and Jon was not providing any real answer. But Jon didn't give a flying fuck. He wanted to leave, now. And so, he turned his back to the two men, went back to his room, took the Palantir and passed by the two stunned men as he went to the godswood.

Jon was back to where he had learned the truth. In only one day, Jon- No, not Jon. He was not Jon. He had never been Jon. He was Aenar. It was his name and it would be the one he carried until the end of his days and beyond. He would be known as the King who took back what belonged to him. He would take the Throne the same way Robert had. Through conquest and blood. Aenar sat in front of the weirwood and took out the Palantir. He placed it on the snow, put his hands on it and he used his magic as he said a simple name

"Targaryen."

An old man, sitting in a chair, his eyes white and unseeing. Behind him, a huge wall of ice.

A little boy, around 13 namedays-old, was running, holding the hand of a girl no older than 8 namedays. They were dodging arrows until they found refuge in a place that smelled of spices and wine.

A girl, between 10 and 11 namedays, was walking through a desert. Her olive skin and dark hairs hiding the Targaryen features of her high cheekbones, ethereal grace and purple eyes. Jon had felt his heart quicken a bit as he saw the two girls. The girl with olive skin was beneath a huge orange sun, pierced by... a spear of all things.

Aenar came back to Winterfell. His mind had just travelled through thousands of kilometers in an instant. It was a weird feeling but he would get used to it. He now knew where to go. Castle Black, The house of the Lord of Spice in Pentos and the Water Gardens of Sunspear. The Palantir really was an artifact of incredible power. He knew exactly where anyone was and even who they were. His grand-uncle Aemon, the one who became a Maester and gave up all right to the Iron Throne. His uncle Viserys and his aunt Daenerys, who had been exiled of Westeros eight years ago. And his sister Rhaenys. Elia's daughter. Saved by Ser Jaime Lannister of all people and spirited away to Dorne by her uncle Oberin Martell, who claimed her as his daughter to protect her. In the same way his own uncle did for him, but Rhaenys never lacked of love by her uncle and his paramour and her four cousins-sisters. 

In this moment, Aenar decided that he would reunite his family, using Cannibal as proof of his heritage and claim to the Throne. He would protect them from all those that would seek to harm them, and he would take back what was meant to be the Throne of his brother Aegon. When he thought of what he had heard about Aegon and Elia and the fate they suffered at the hands of the Mountain that Rides, he almost burst into flames. He would destroy him for what he had done to his brother and his step-mother. The mother who loved him even though he was not even born yet. Jon would kill Gregor Clegane, and he would make Tywin Lannister watch as he tore down Casterly Rock, piece by piece. Brick by brick.

Aenar heard footsteps behind him and, as he turned on his feet, he was not surprised to see his uncle, waking towards him, worry etched on his face. He rose to his feet and stood tall as Ned stopped before him.

"My Lord."

"Jon, please talk to me. Whatever happened here with those men and that storm and everything. Please, Jon. I am begging you. Talk to me."

"Fine."

Ned's face lit up a bit as he agreed. Finally, he could rebuild his relationship with Jon. He could finall-

"I know the truth."

Four words. All it took for Ned Stark to have a near-heart attack.

"I know about my mother, about my father, about my family. I know about me."

Ned fell on his knees, looking up at Jo-No, he knew the truth. He knew it. Ned didn't know how but he did. He looked at his nephew, at Aenar and asked him one word.

"How ?"

Aenar picked up the Palantir and showed it to his uncle.

"With this. A Palantir, a Seeing Stone. I saw the past. I saw MY PAST !! And I saw my mother and father, their wedding under an heart tree, Elia Martell's acceptance and love of my mother. She loved me, uncle. They all did and I was not even born yet." 

Aenar's voice carried power unlike anything Ned had ever heard, even from  his own father, Rickard. He didn't know what to do, or say. Luckily, he didn't need to, as Aenar started talking again.

"I will go for the Throne, and I am going to ask one thing of you." 

He said as he brought his face closer to his own.

"Stay out of my way."

Ned simply nodded and watched as Aenar hid his Palantir beneath his cloak and walked out of the godswood. Ned didn't know what he would, now. Until one of the Nazgûls appeared before him, coming out of the shadows. 

"Our master gave you an order. I would recommend that you follow it."

Ned watched as the man disappeared before him.

How would he explain Aenar's departure to his family ?

Aenar went to the stables, where he found Winter, the horse that had been bred by his mother a few moons before she fled with his father. He mounted his mother's horse and went to the door. 

"HALT. Where are you going, boy ?"

"A little hunt in the wolfswoods, nothing else. I want to eat a deer or a doe tonight."

"... Fine. be back before dusk, Jon. Lord Stark will kill us if you disappear."

"Alright. See you all in a few hours."

The door opened in front of him and he walked out of Winterfell, not even casting one last glance at the place that had been his home for eight years. Except that it was not. It had never been his home. And so, he simply left Winterfell, the Nazgûls beside and behind him, using their magic to keep up with his horse as he picked up speed. He had done what Cannibal had told him to do. The boy was dead. The man was born.

Jon Snow was no more. He had died in the godswood of Winterfell. And in his stead rose Aenar Targaryen, the Lord of the Ring and King of Westeros.

Chapter Text

It had took almost two weeks of travel, but Aenar was finally seeing the walls of White Harbor in the distance. He let himself feel a bit a relief in that moment. From there, he could take a boat of manipulate someone into taking him straight to Skagos. He dreamed of The Cannibal almost every night now. The dragon was patient, after all he had waited two hundred years for his rider. What was a few more weeks to him ? Just drops of water in an ocean of time.

Behind him, the Nazgûls walked, their determination relentless and their bodies hidden beneath their cloaks of darkness. Aenar then looked at his left hand, where the Ring rested on his fourth finger, as he had for the last 3 moons. Aenar then looked a little closer and read the words carved on it.

"One Ring to fulfill his will,

One Ring to follow without fail,

One Ring to serve without rest,

In Light or Shadow, never to betray."

Those words were more than just words. They were a testament of the Ring's loyalty to Aenar. A proof that the Ring would rest on his finger until Aenar died, something that he expected would come in a looooong time. If he ever died at all. 

The gates of White Harbor soon came into view and Aenar ordered the Nazgûls to turn invisible. He could not risk anyone recognizing them. Not after he had witnessed his uncle send letters all throughout the North, telling all Lords to look out for him and bring him back to Winterfell, by using the Palantir. The Palantir... That artifact quickly became a important part of his life. He used it each night before going to sleep. He had witnessed his great-uncle listen to the Black Brothers of the Night's Watch. He had seen his uncle and aunt in the house of the Lord of Spice in Pentos, Illyrio Mopatis. Aenar didn't trust the Magister, he had wondered his intentions for helping the children of the Mad King. And so, he had used the Palantir on his mind to learn his plans. He had been surprised to learn that he was planning on marrying his aunt Daenerys to a Dothraki Khal when she would come of age. He had almost lost it there and then. And finally, his sister Rhaenys. He found himself looking at her more than the others. Perhaps because she had the easiest life out of them all. She was being treated with love and care by her uncles, Princes Oberyn and Doran Martell. she also had four cousins looking after her, and even though she was officially a bastard in the eyes of Dorne, not a single Lord or Lady had treated her like one. She was the daughter of Prince Oberyn and no one would ever dare to cross the Red Viper. Even less so in Dorne, where bastards were viewed as simply another natural occurrence of life. 

Aenar thoughts died down as he reached White Harbor. Finally. His journey would finally begin. He entered the city on his mother's horse, Winter. He went straight to the docks, searching for a ship that could take him to Skagos. He knew that no one would ever willingly sail to the island of the cannibals. No one was crazy, or desperate enough to go there, no matter the coin he could offer. So, he only had two viable options. He could either steal a ship and sail by himself to Skagos. But Aenar was not a fool. He had no experience in sailing and neither did the Ring or the Nazgûls. So it only left him with one option. Use the new power that he had learned from the Ring a few days ago.

"Tell me, Master. How do you plan on going to Skagos ?"

"I'm not really sure, it's not like I could sail by myself or pay someone enough to take me there."

Aenar laid back on the ground in front of the fire camp.

"If no one would willingly take you, you could simply force someone into taking you there."

Aenar stood up faster than he ever had before. He did not expect such words from the Ring.

"What do you mean by that ?"

"I have the ability to overrule someone's mind and put them under your command. Their loyalty will be absolute to you, although if someone has a stronger will than yours, they will reject the control."

That was big news for Aenar. Such powers did not belong in this world. He had long accepted that there were more than one world, the Ring had showed many worlds after all. But he could not help but wonder what could the King or Queen or any Lord could do with such a power. Their rules would be absolute, their reign indomitable. But they didn't hold that power. Aenar did. And no one could take it from him. And so, he asked the Ring to teach him this power.

"Gather your magic in your left hand. Then imagine forcing your conscience into someone else. Their wills shall crumble before your command. From there, you can order them to take you to Skagos."

"Is the effect reversible ?" 

Jon could not help but ask. He didn't wanted to leave his imprint on someone for longer than necessary. It would just be cruel.

"Yes, it is. Simply imagine them being free from your control and focus on that thought. It shall release them without harming them and they will not remember being controlled by you."

"Alright then."

Aenar went to a nearby ship, the captain looking on as his crew boarded and called out to him.

"Excuse me, captain. Could I have a word with you ?"

The captain turned around and looked at him, a bit surprised to see an eight namedays-old boy standing next to a horse wearing Stark's colors and looking very obviously castle-bred.

"What do you need, boy ? Can I do something for you ?"

"Yes."

And Aenar focused on his magic, gathering it to his left hand before sending his mind into the captain.

"Take me to Skagos." 

The captain's eyes turned white for a moment before coming back to their normal colors. His mind had been overruled and Aenar was now in command.

"As you wish, my Lord. We shall depart whenever you are ready."

"Right now would be perfect." 

Aenar answered. He would not delay meeting Cannibal and the rest of his family a moment more.

"Very well, my lord. You can board, we shall leave in less than 15 minutes."

"Thank you captain. I will not forget your aid."

He then looked to Winter and used a bit of his power, ordering her to go back to Winterfell. His mare simply turned back and left, Aenar's command etched into her mind. She would not disobey her master, after all it was normal for her to obey him.

Aenar then tuned to the captain once more and nodded at him as he walked up the board plank, the crew looking weirdly at him until they saw the captain following him and bringing him to the quarters, calling him "my lord" all the way. Great... Another one who thought his birth made him better than them, even though they knew the sea and the sword better than him. Or so they thought.

After three weeks of sailing, Skagos finally came into view. The crew had been put under his complete control, as he didn't want any unrest during his trip. The pull in his mind becoming stronger with each passing day, each hour that brought him closer to Cannibal. 

An hour later, Aenar disembarked, and he turned back to the crew, telling them to go back to White Harbor. They did without complaint and, as Aenar watched them leave, he released them from his control. Their encounters erased from their minds. 

Aenar then started to walk towards the pull, nothing would stray him from his destination. Not the wind, not the vegetation, and not even the few cannibals he encountered on his way to the cave. If the Nazgûls didn't cut them down in an instant, he would simply reduce them to a pile of ashes, a block of ice, or simply make them flea with Fear magic. He walked and walked until he finally found himself in front of a familiar cave.

Aenar entered the cave, his heart beating rapidly and his breath coming in fast, short gasps as he smelled the familiar scent of blood, rot and fire. Until he exited the tunnel and entered the chamber of the cave. There, lying on a bed of bones, The Cannibal was waiting. Aenar had finally arrived, and they could finally bond. 

"YOU ARE HERE, GOOD. COME FORWARD, TARGARYEN. LET US BOND."

Cannibal's words, no. Not his voice. His roar echoed around the chamber as Aenar stepped forward. He looked straight into the dragon's green eyes. He could almost see the thousands of people who had fell to his fire, fangs and claws. 

"It's a pleasure to finally meet you, Cannibal."

"DON'T. DON'T CALL ME BY THAT NAME. NOT ANYMORE. CANNIBAL WAS THE WILD DRAGON. THE UNTAMED. BUT THIS IS NOT TRUE. NO LONGER. I NEED A NEW NAME, RIDER."

Jon's mind was immediately filled by memories of the Ring, who was showing him many dragons from Middle-Earth. Until he stopped on one who looked like as though he could rip the sky open and his wings block out the sun.

"Ancalagon."

The dragon roared as he said this name.

"YES. YEEEES. THAT IS A GOOD NAME, WORTHY OF A DRAGON. COME, RIDER. WE MUST BOND."

Aenar stepped forward and raised his hand, the Ring shining on his finger. The dragon looked at him with expectation in his green eyes and, as Aenar laid his hand on his wet, scaly, snout, he saw the dragon's eyes flicker from green to red to blue to green once more. The dragon then roared with life and power as he raised his body upwards, his gigantic wings stretching across the cave. They were easily of a hundred meters long at least. EACH. And his claws looked like swords sharpened to a point where nothing short of Valyrian Steel would resist them. Aenar could not even begin to imagine how frightening he would be against any army he would fight, as they would bathe the lands beneath them in fire.

Behind him, the Nazgûls were waiting, looking to their master as he bonded with a creature that everyone in this world thought extinct. The Witch-King looked with pride as his master touched the dragon's scales.

Aenar then watched in awe as The Canni-NO !! He was no longer the Cannibal. He was Ancalagon. Named after the greatest dragon of Middle-Earth. And he watched as Ancalagon laid down, his wing allowing him passage on his back as he looked with expectation to Aenar. Aenar understood what Ancalagon wanted with him in that moment. He wanted to fly, to ride with him. And Aenar would be a fool to pass up on his offer. He climbed on the dragon's back, his spikes making the finding of a seat a bit uncomfortable until he found a place just under his neck, between his wings. Aenar watched the Nazgûls and ordered them silently to enter his shadow, a way they had found to be the easiest for them to travel together.

Ancalagon stepped forward as he started to destroy the tunnel between the chamber and the outside world. His fire melting the stone like it was a parchment. When the fire stopped and the tunnel was big enough for him to pass, Ancalagon moved forward, his talons breaking the bones littering the ground of the caves he had stayed in for 200 years. And as he exited the chamber, Aenar found that he was more excited than he had ever been before. 

The ancient dragon crawled out of the cave, his body and muscles reawakening after two centuries without being used. But he was finally free. He could fly once again. He realized as he stretched out his wings how much he had missed flying in the sky. And so, with a roar that echoed all around the island and could probably be heard on the island he had lived on long before the Targaryens ever had set foot there, he jumped forward, his wings beating the wind as he rose in the sky.

Aenar was holding on to Ancalagon's scales as he flew at a speed that belied his gigantic form. He was the size of the Keep of Winterfell, perhaps even bigger. But for Aenar, it didn't matter. Not now. Not as he was flying on a dragon's back. He had never imagined that he would ever experience such a thrill. as he looked to the ground he found out how...small...the world would seem as he rode a dragon. He then told Ancalagon to fly to Castle Black, hoping that the dragon knew where it was.

Ancalagon. Ancalagon...Ancalagon. Yes, he liked that name. It smelled of power, tasted of might and strength. He then heard his rider talk of Castle Black. Really ? Castle Black ? His rider wanted to go to that place that smelled of ice and darkness, just beneath that huge wall of ice ? Fine, he would go there. It was his rider's wish and he would respect it.

The flight to Castle Black took less than a single day. He may have left before noon but he didn't expect to arrive and for the sun to still be visible in the sky, even though he would soon set down for the night. He was at the Wall. The greatest man-made creation in the last 8000 years. The coldest place in Westeros, and yet Aenar didn't feel a single chill as he stepped down for Ancalagon's back. Before him, the men guarding the entrance to Castle Black looked as they had just wet their pants. And judging by the smell, it was not just an impression. 

"Good evening, brothers of the Watch. I seek to speak with Maester Aemon. May I enter ?"

Just then, the two men simply fainted in the snow. Aenar sighed as he stepped forward and crossed the opened door. All around the courtyard, people were looking at him as though he was a god, or a demon. He saw multiple men, their eyes filled with tears, as they fell to their knees, the name "Targaryen" lingering on their lips. Aenar then quickly found what, or rather who, he had been looking for.

Holding on the railing of a balcony, his great great-uncle, Aemon Targaryen. The man who chose duty over birth right. The man who become a Maester and cleared the way for his brother, Aegon the Unlikely, to sit the Iron Throne. He stepped forward and walked up the stairs until he found himself next to his ancestor.

"Maester Aemon. It is a pleasure to finally meet you. Could we talk, please ? In privacy."

The old Maester looked up at him, his blind eyes unseeing as he nodded before bringing him to the library. Aenar closed the door behind him as Aemon sat down in a wooden chair as it creaked. Aenar then came before him and looked at him, not really knowing how to begin. And he didn't.

"Are you Rhaegar's child ?"

The old Maester's voice was still strong even though he was probably around 90 namedays-old, and had probably witnessed as many, if not more, winters than Old Nan.

"I am, uncle. My name is Aenar. My mother was Lyanna Stark. She and my father met at Harrenhall and they fell in love, with Princess Elia's blessing. They were married beneath an heart tree by the High Septon of the time."

Aemon looked at Aenar with such surprise in his eyes you would have thought he had a heart attack. But he then raised his hands, silently asking to touch his face. And as Aenar didn't say anything, Aemon let his hands rest on his face, memorizing his traits, the way his face felt beneath his hands. Aemon then started talking again.

"So, our family is not dead. I thought that we would extinguish, our name lost to the pages of history. But with you, we have a chance. To take back what belongs to our family. And with a dragon, all shall bow to you. King Aenar."

"Thank you uncle. But our family is not together again. And I will not sit on a throne without a single Targaryen beside me to take back the Seven Kingdoms from the Whoring King, the Drunken Stag. Robert Baratheon is a joke, a fool and an imbecile. He took the throne, his hands still bloodied from the corpses of Aegon and Elia. And I will make him watch as I destroy everything he holds dear. Storm's End will become a new Harrenhall, and the Baratheons, once our greatest friends and family, will be nothing more than a page in history, same as the Gardeners, Durrandons or Valyria itself."

Aenar's voice was raw with power and magic, his determination and will to break the Baratheon line a show to his fury, making the words of House Baratheon a joke. "Ours is the fury" ? They do not know fury. But Aenar would show them; He would show them all. He would reward the ones who had been loyal to his family, who had fought the Rebels. And those who didn't ? The rebels themselves ? Aenar would bring nothing more than Fire and Blood.

"Good, nephew. But I can't help but wonder. How did you obtain a dragon ?"

"It's The Cannibal, uncle. Or rather, he was The Cannibal. I named him Ancalagon. He has been living on Skagos ever since the Dance. He joined me in my dreams a moon ago and told me to come to him, to bring our family back together. And it's what I will do. And once it is done, the Seven Kingdoms shall bend or break. From here to Sunspear."

"The Cannibal... a very old dragon, nephew. A dangerous dragon. Although all dragons are dangerous. Do you know where the rest of our family is ?"

"I do. My aunt and uncle, Daenerys and Viserys are in Pentos, in the house of Illyrio Mopatis, the Lord of Spice and a powerful Magister. And my sister Rhaenys was saved By Ser Jaime Lannister during the Sack of King's Landing. She is in Dorne, protected by her uncles Oberyn and Doran. I plan on going there first, then Pentos and finally... Valyria."

His last words stole Aemon's breath. Valyria ? Why ? This place would bring nothing but death and destruction to anyone who dared to sail there. So what did his nephew had in mind by going to Valyria ?

Meanwhile, Aenar asked the Ring a question he had meant to ask for a while.

"Is it possible to give a blind man his sight back ?" 

"... Yes. But not just with magic. You will need to craft an item much more powerful than the Palantir for such an action. And you will need the power of the Fourteen Flames of Valyria to craft it."

Aenar's breath caught in his throat. He could do it, he could make his uncle see again. A thing that had never been done before.

"What do I need to craft ?"

...

...

...

...

"A Ring of Power."

... WHAT ????? WHAT DID HE MEAN BY THAT ??? HE WOULD NEED TO MAKE A RING LIKE HIS OWN ??? HOW ????

But the Ring quickly started to talk again.

"With my help, your power and the magical potential of Valyria, it can be done. It will be long. It will be difficult. But we can do it. We can craft a Ring of Power. And as you craft other Rings, it will become easier with every time, as Magic will awaken once more in this Realm, facilitating the process."

Aenar was still trying to work his mind around what the Ring told him when his uncle spoke once more.

"Why Valyria, Aenar ? Why do you want to go there ? It is dead. Nothing remains there but destruction."

"Because, I have been blessed by the gods, uncle. Both the Old and the Valyrians. I am of the blood of the Kings of Winter and the Dragon Lords. I wield Ice and Fire, and I have bonded with the One Ring, an artifact from another world, which gave me the knowledge necessary to learn of my true parentage."

Aenar revealed the truth of everything that had happened to him, three moons ago, to his uncle. And as Aemon listened, he began to think that Aenar was truly blessed. He had the powers that no Targaryens had wielded since Maegor himself, a secret hidden by House Targaryen, and the powers of House Stark. Not only that, but he was bonded to a dragon older than even Balerion had been. But it was when Aenar asked to come with him to find the rest his family that Aemon found himself at a crossroads. 

He could go with his nephew, his blood. But he had swore an oath to the Night's Watch. He had sworn to defend the Realms of Men. When he said that to his nephew, Aenar simply laughed and he told him that he did not have to stay at Castle Black to stay true to that oath. But then, he put his hands in his own and told him to relax. What he saw then would haunt him until his death.

Three bodies littered the ground of the Red Keep, in front of the Iron Throne. Lannister cloaks covered them as Robert Baratheon laughed in front of them.

"I see no babes. Only dragonspawn."

All around him, people looked with anger and hate in their eyes. But what could they do ? Robert was the King now, and the King's words were law. And so, the servants of the Red Keep, the Bold and the Kingslayer, and many lords and ladies looked on in disgust and barely concealed hate as Robert spat on the bodies before turning to the Throne. He rose the stairs leading to it and sat in it, cutting himself multiple times while trying to adjust to find a comfortable position. But he could not, and they all remembered the reason why the Throne was made with a thousand swords from Aegon The Conqueror' enemies.

"No King should ever rest easy."

He had said, those words now forgotten as a whoremonger, a drunk, a kinslayer, and worst of all, a man who had forgiven a childslayer sat in the chair that his ancestor's brother built with dragon fire.

Aemon gasped, his breath stopping completely as the vision stopped. 

"This, is what happened, 8 years ago. And now, a beast rules the Seven Kingdoms. A drunk spends the Realm's gold like he's at a personal feat every day. A fool who beds every woman who has the curse to catch his eye, and he beds them whether they want it or not. And they do not complain to anyone, as no one would do something about it. This is the truth of the Realm, uncle. You cannot protect it by staying here, not anymore. Come with me, and help me restore House Targaryen to its former glory."

Aemon looked at his nephew. Ohhh, how he wished he could still see, could witness the fire that lingered in his nephew's eyes as he spoke, his words cutting through his resolution like swords. And so, Aemon Targaryen made a choice.

"You better pack some food and a warm blanket, nephew. Those old bones will not last long in the cold."

Aenar launched himself to his uncle, hugging him hard as he whispered words of thanks, again and again. Aemon hugged him back, finding strength in his weathered bones. He would join his nephew on his quest, his mission, his Fate to restore House Targaryen and retake what was theirs. The Dragons would rule the Seven Kingdoms once more and Aemon found that, yes, he had made the right choice.

It had took them time, but Aenar had finally convinced the Old Bear, Jeor Mormont, to release Maester Aemon from his vows. He even promised him to declare him dead, so that no one would come for him. Many, if not all, Black Brothers had came to the door. They watched with emotion as the man who had been a father in all but name to so many of them walked out of Castle Black, for the first time in more than 50 years. As the dragon laid down, clearing the passage for the two men to climb on his back. Aenar helped Aemon first, using Aemon's blanket to make his seat more comfortable. Aenar then climbed himself and looked at the dragon before saying a single word.

"Sōvegon"

And they all witnessed as the dragon spread his wings, jumping in the air and flying high in the sky, quickly disappearing from their views. And as the dragon disappeared, they made a silent vow : Never would they talk to anyone of what had just happened here.

Aemon could't believe it. He was flying on a dragon. he had thought that, after the Dance and the Tragedy of Summerhall, no dragon would ever fly again. And yet, his great-great nephew was proving him wrong. The only thing that diminished his smile just a bit was that he could not see the world from above. But, for him, the fact that he was flying was enough.

Aenar was glad to see the smile on his uncle's face. They were going to Dorne, to Sunspear. He would find his sister. It was all that mattered. He had seen the fury in her mind, the hate of the Baratheons. But he had never expected to see that she had grieved. For her father, her mothers and her... two Valonqars. So Rhaenys knew about him? And she thought that he was dead. Well, it would be quite the surprise when he would come to her on a dragon's back to offer her revenge and the chance to restore House Targaryen, their House together. As brother and sister. But whenever the thought of restoring their House came to his mind, so did a single word. 

Marriage.

And he found that he hated the thought of his sister marrying someone that did not deserve her. He also watched over Daenerys and Viserys, all the while as he was controlling Illyrio's mind using the Palantir, creating a feeling of loyalty to the Targaryens while at the same tie, he destroyed all plans of wedding Dany off for an army. He also worked a bit in his uncle's mind, tearing the madness that had already started to appear apart while making him truly love his sister. That part was not really hard, he simply reawakened his protective instinct towards his aunt. he was glad to see that they where becoming closer than before while Illyrio respected all their demands, which had become much more easier to sustain ever since he tweaked his uncle's mind a bit.

But he found that he actually hated the thought of any member of his family marrying someone that did not deserve them. He wasn't sure why, perhaps was it the possessiveness of the blood of the Dragon. Or perhaps his own feelings blinding him. But what he did know was that, unlike his uncle Eddard or his grandfather Rickard, he would never force his family to marry. If they choose never to marry, he would respect that wish. If they fell in love with a bastard, Aenar would happily legitimize him or her for the whole Realm to see before congratulating his family for finding love.

"Now, Dorne. To Rhaenys. To my mandia."

It had took them almost a week of flying during the night, as they could not risk someone seeing them before it was time to reveal themselves. But finally, Sunspear was close. Aenar's heart started to beat faster and faster with every kilometer crossed, every flap of Ancalagon's wings, every breath he took. Finally. Finally. Finally.

They landed a few kilometers out of the city, hiding beneath the cloak of the night, Ancalagon's black scales and Aenar's shadow magic. The magic that he would now use to enter the Water Gardens where his sister was staying since she was a 2-namedays old babe, who had just been saved by her uncle Oberyn Martell, Prince of Dorne.

Aenar cloaked himself in darkness, taking the Witch-King, Khamûl, Thûralach and the Palantir with him as the other Nazgûls stayed behind to protect his great-great uncle. The night was dark, and the shadows deep. They could easily travel through them while heading towards the Water Gardens. 

He entered the Gardens and looked around, as he searched for his sister's presence. She had magic in her blood, through her Targaryen and Martell blood. A mix of Fire and Water. Something similar to him, but still different. She had a lot potential, and he would train her in the arts of Magic, if she accepted. He found her in her room, preparing to go to sleep. Aenar ran in the shadows, his heart beating with excitement as he moved to his sister's bedroom. 

He quickly found himself in front of her door and sipped under without any problem. 

And he was struck with an arrow in his heart. A golden arrow.

She was... breathtaking. Absolutely perfect. He had seen her through the Palantir and seen many boys stammering whenever they talked to her. But now that he found himself in front of her, he understood. He had no words to describe her. No words were worthy of her, worthy to describe her. And so, while he was looking at her, completely enthralled, his shadow magic slipped as his figure was now visible in the room.

Rhaenys had been preparing to go to sleep when she had felt... something in the Gardens, like a presence, a presence she hadn't felt since... Muna Lya. Just thinking of her two munas had always made her feel sad, but her uncle Oberin had always been there for her ever since The Sack of King's Landing. She was grateful to Ser Jaime for coming into her room as soon as Tywin's troops started to destroy the city to bring her to her uncle, who had been standing in a little boat beneath the cave of the Red Keep. He saved her, but he had been too slow to save Muna Elia and Egg. And whenever Egg came in her mind, so did he. Her other valonqar. Kepa kept saying it would be a Vysenia but her munas always told him that a mother knows best. Muna Lya carried a boy, and the name they had chosen was unlike any other that was ever chosen in Targaryen history for 300 years. Aenar. She had so much to look forward to, so many things to see, to show to her valonqars. But the Usurper destroyed all of those dreams, a swing of his hammer at a time. And so, Rhaenys sighed as she prepared to lay down to sleep. Suddenly, she felt something behind her and, as she turned to look, the sight she saw took out her breath.

A boy, around 8 namedays, standing in her room. He was fixated on her, on her face, her body and, from her side, only one name repeated itself in her mind as the world turned black and she fainted. "Muna Lya."

Rhaenys. Rhaenys. Please, wake up... 

She heard her name, but who was telling it ? Her cousins knew better than to say it, so everyone called her Rhya. So who was telling her voice, and why did they sound so worried ? As she listened to the voice, she recognized her kepa's voice, although it was a bit higher than usual. But it was mixed with Muna Lya's accent. She had always lover that accent. It was fun to listen to. But as she started to awake, she remembered. Kepa was dead, the Usurper had shattered his chest at the Trident. Muna Lya had died in childbirth, delivering a stillborn babe. She would never meet her valonqar, Aenar. So why did she had a feeling, a voice in her head telling her that he was there, he was watching over her, waiting for her to wake up ?

Rhaenys opened her eyes slowly, as she tried to take in her surroundings. She recognized her room, her bed, the sheets, the window and everything. She was in her bedroom in the Water Gardens. But then, her breath caught as her eyes fell on a beautiful boy. He was looking at her face with so much worry in his purple eyes that her heart swelled a bit. She then saw that he looked like both her Kepa and Muna Lya. She had often wondered what would have her valonqar looked like had he survived. And she thought that, yes, he would have looked just like that boy. 

But suddenly, her mind completely woke up as she almost jumped from her bed, putting as much distance between her and the strange boy. He raised his hands in surrender and the little smile he had on her face when her eyes opened fell, as he looked worried. Why ? Who was this boy ? And what was he doing in her room ? What did he want with her ?

"Rhaenys."

And she almost fainted yet again. HOW ??? HOW DID THIS BOY KNOW HER NAME ??? WHO WAS HE ?? AND WHY DID HE SOUND AND LOOKED LIKE KEPA AND MUNA LYA ???

As her breath started to quicken, he simply looked at her, then at a little ball of glass that lied in his lap. It was swirling with red and black as he held the ball closer and closer to her, almost deposing it in her lap. He then told her something she would remember for years to come with a smile whenever she thought back to her first meeting with her Husband and King.

"Touch it, and say Aenar."

Rhaenys could not get a BREAK ? This boy entered her room without drawing a single alert, he looked like her Kepa and Muna Lya and now he told her to touch a glass ball and say the name of her stillborn valonqar. Fine. She would play the game of this stranger, and then she would force him to tell her everything he knew.

So with trembling hands, she touched the ball and pronounced the name of her valonqar, whom she had loved even before he was born. And what she saw turned her head around. 

She was seeing the boy, who was looking at her with a mixture of pride, worry and...love in his gaze. Then, she entered his memories and the life of this boy began to flash before her eyes.

A little boy scorned by his father's wife, hated by a septa. Almost never seen by his father. The only ones who seemed to care for him were his siblings.

The same boy was now walking through the woods of his home in the North, thoughts darker and darker until the darkest entered and she saw as he fell to his knees and curled up, ready to let himself freeze in the cold. She wanted to scream at him, tell him to get up, to keep going, but no sound came out of her mouth. She then heard a voice, deep and guttural, but so enthralling. The little boy rose and walked towards the voice until he found a little golden ring and put it on.

The boy was talking with 9 men dressed in cloaks of darkness. They were training him in many different things. The sword, the bow, the dagger, how to hunt and... magic.

The boy was now crouching in the snow over the same ball she had on her hands on and she watched as he learned the truth of his birth, a truth that shattered him as a blizzard formed around him.

The boy was talking to a dragon, bigger than anything she had ever seen before. He then climbed on the dragon and they took off into the sky.

The boy was talking to an old man, who looked like he was going to roll over and die at any moment. And yet a hidden strength laid in his blind eyes.

The boy was in the Water Gardens concealed by the shadows as he searched for his... mandia ? Who ?

But her question was quickly answered as the boy entered her room and saw her. She could feel his heart stop and only one word fill his mind. "Perfect." Her heart burst a little as she felt the raw power of his emotions. 

She then saw him over her fainted body, holding her hand and whispering words of care and love to her.

Finally the vision ended and her mind left the ball. She looked to the boy, his gaze filled with love and trust, and yet, a strength like no other, a passion she had never witnessed before. And so she said a word. A simple word that brought such a smile to the boy's face that, in the day, it would have looked like a second sun.

"Valonqar..."

Chapter Text

"Valonqar"

That single word brought so much joy to Aenar as he watched his sister say it. He had imagined a thousand possible outcomes for their meeting. Some were good, where she accepted him and they left together to Pentos to find the rest of their family. Some were horrible, where she rejected him, blaming him for the Rebellion and the murder of her mother and little brother.

But what happened, he didn't expect. He watched as Rhaenys turned into a blur as she launched herself at his neck, holding him close and hugging him with more strength than someone should possess. He hugged her back, whispering "mandia" in her ear as she softly sobbed into his neck. She then looked at his face, her gaze inspecting every inch, etching it into her mind.

"How ?"

Her voice was but a whisper. And Aenar responded with gentleness in his voice as he explained everything, from how his uncle had took him to Winterfell after the events of the Tower of Joy, how he was raised along his cousins as Jon Snow, bastard son of Eddard Stark and an unknown woman.

When Rhaenys heard of how her valonqar had been treated, especially by the Trout, she nearly took off there and then to go and kill that bitch. But Aenar held her hands as he implored her with his purple eyes to stay, to look at him and listen. She found her eyes the most interesting part of his face. He looked like the little memories she had of her Kepa and Muna Lya. It was so strange. The valonqar she thought had died years ago, the one she would never meet, was now standing in front of her, a boy of 8 namedays. And she listened as he told her of everything that happened to him before discovering the little ring that lingered on his left hand.

"You expect me to believe that this ring talks to you and told you how to control magic ?"

And yet, she knew that it must have been true. How else could he have shown her all that she had seen in this little ball of glass ? And so, she looked at him once more, her gaze silently telling him to continue with his story. 

Aenar told his sister ( gods, he still had trouble believing that she was right here, in front of him ) the rest of his story after finding the Ring, the things she had seen in the Palantir. He had used his connection to it to send her into his memories, specifically the ones that happened in those last 3 moons.

When he finished his story, Rhaenys was at a lost for what to say. Her gaze was filled with questions he would have to answer, but only after he had reunited his family. Daenerys and Viserys were still in Pentos. And he had to go there. But first, he had to ask his sister.

"Rhaenys, will you come with me ?"

Her breath caught in her throat. Her valonqar wanted her to go with him ? Where ? Why ? And how ? Oh right, the dragon. She was still amazed by the fact that her brother had bonded with a dragon. And not just any dragon, but The Cannibal himself. The oldest living dragon in the world. Or was he Ancalagon now ? She had seen her brother renaming him after bonding.

"I... I don't know. My family, my uncles, my cousins. They are all here. I can't just leave them alone."

"I know, I know. I am not forcing you to come. Only asking. I will never be able to replace your cousins and uncles, but I can promise you one thing they cannot."

Her eyes looked at him with a determination of steel in her gaze. Whatever he could promise her better be worth it.

And so, Aenar raised his right hand and, with a little burst of magic, a fire ball of magic conjured in his palm. He watched as she looked practically enthralled by his little demonstration. He didn't really enjoy to show off, as he found it a waste of magic. But the way her face looked at the fire in his palm made the idea of showing off in front of his sister not that wasteful.

"I can promise you the bodies of Tywin Lannister, Robert Baratheon, Gregor Clegane and all those who betrayed our family. This is my offer to you, Rhaenys. Fire. Fire and Blood to bathe the Seven Kingdoms in and to restore the Dragons to their rightful place."

She looked at him, her will crumbling when faced to his determination. And so, with a sharp gaze, she said.

"I-"

The door suddenly busted open as a man entered it, a smile on his face as he yelled.

"Rhya, it's time to train. What are you waiting fo-."

The man stopped completely as his eyes fell on Aenar and Rhaenys, the ball of fire still burning in his palm.

The day had began really well for Oberyn Martell. He had rose to the sounds of slurping and a wet sensation on his dick. He loved it when Ellaria woke him in such a way. He lasted a few more minutes before spilling in her mouth, groaning and smirking as she gasped. He loved to see her face painted with his cum, but he loved even more when she swallowed him whole. She always loved to make a show out of it.

He then dressed and went out of his room, the sun already up as he went to the training grounds, where he saw his greatest achievements, the things he was the proudest of. His three daughters, Obara, Tyene and Nymeria. He approached them, whistling a tune as he did. They turned to him, their gazes of steel and determination turning to joy as they saw him coming towards them. He really loved his children.

He reached out to them and knelt as they ran to him to hug him. He hugged them back. He then rose as he witnessed that something was off. Or rather, someone. Where was Rhaenys ? His niece was always the first out of bed, the first on the training grounds and the last to leave them. But, today she was nowhere to be seen.

"Tell me, my little snakes, have you seen Rhya ?"

The three girls looked at each other, then back at him.

"No, she hasn't come out of her room. I think she's still sleeping."

His eldest, Obara, said to him. It was weird, but nothing of importance. He would simply go to her room and wake her up. He smiled as he imagined how she would jump out of her bed, shrieking as he woke her up yelling. She hated when he yelled. But he, on the other hand, simply loved annoying her. And so, he walked to her room with a stroll and a grin on his face.

He stood in front of her room, and not bothering to knock, he opened the door wide open as he yelled

"Rhya, it's time to train. What are you waiting fo-."

...

...

...

WHAT THE FUCK WAS A BOY DOING IN HER ROOM ??? AND WHY THE FUCK WAS HIS HAND ON FUCKING FIRE ????

He looked at them as their eyes turned from him to each other, to the fire in his palm then to him again. The boy then simply closed his hand, the fire disappearing from his hand as though it had never been there.

"Your uncle Oberyn, right ?"

The boy said, as Oberyn almost fainted as he heard the voice. Rhaegar. That was Rhaegar's voice, but with a northern accent and a bit higher than he had been used to.

"Exactly."

Rhaenys said, her gaze falling back to the boy.

Wait, wait, wait. The boy had called him her uncle. HOW ??? HOW DID HE KNEW ??? NO ONE DID. NO ONE BUT RHAENYS AND HIS FAMILY !!!! 

Oberyn was about to keel over and die of a heart attack when the boy turned to him, rising from his seat near Rhaenys's bed as he stepped into the light of the sun, peering through the window of the room. And there, Oberyn actually fell to his knees.

Rhaegar. He was looking at Rhaegar boy again. But how ? He then recognized the Stark traits of the boy. Curly black hair and steel in his... PURPLE EYES ?? Oberyn was at a lost for what to do or say when the boy knelt in front of him and called him.

"Uncle. It's a pleasure to finally meet you." 

And it was then that the curtain over Oberyn's mind rose. Lyanna. The boy was the son of Rhaegar and Lyanna. How did he not understood sooner. He had been there when they married, holding his sister's hands as she weeped tears of joy seeing the two people she loved the most getting married. Elia had told him how both Rhaegar and her had fell for Lyanna, back at Harrenhall. And now, he was looking in the eyes of the result of their union. The boy that Elia loved as her own. The one she had made him swore to protect and love as he was his own blood. He had looked in her eyes, kissed her hand, and promised her just that. But then, the news of Lyanna's death reached them and they all assumed that the boy was dead.

But now, that same boy, the one that both he and Doran assumed dead, was staring straight into his eyes, a smile on his face as he waited for his reaction. And so, he whispered a single word

"Aenar ?"

The boy smiled even more as he nodded. He then opened his arms, encouraging him to a hug. Oberyn didn't even thought twice as he almost suffocated the boy in a bone-crushing hug, whispering his name again and again as tears fell from his eyes. The boy was alive. He was alive. And in him, a part of Elia lived, the same as in Rhaenys.

Aenar was starting to lack of air, but he did not stop Oberyn from crushing his bones in the tightest hug he had ever felt, even stronger than his sister. Although that was probably because Oberyn was stronger than Rhaenys, otherwise his sister would have broke his spine. He was starting to look a bit purple when his sister said.

"Let him go, uncle. He can't breathe."

Oberyn immediately let him go, all the while keeping him at arm's length, like he would disappear if Oberyn stopped holding him. He put his left hand on his arm and smiled at him, reassuring him that he was alright. Oberyn's eyes were red and his face wet from all his tears, but he looked at Aenar with so much love and care he thought was impossible.

"Are you alright, uncle ?"

Oberyn wiped his face with his sleeves and looked at his face once more, engraving his face into his mind, the same way Rhaenys did after she had hugged him the same way.

"I'm- I'll be alright, nephew. I just need to lie down a bit to reel my mind over what I just witnessed."

Aenar then rose and led his uncle to the bed, watching as he sat down, all the while keeping his gaze on him. He had called him nephew and, for Aenar, it meant so much more than a simple word. It was proof that Oberyn accepted him, accepted the fact that Elia had loved him even before she had been born. He was happy over this. He had a family in Dorne, but his real family, his blood, was not yet completely brought back together. Two people were still missing. His aunt and uncle. He had to go to Pentos and bring them back together. Aenar then looked to his sister once more and asked her.

"You never answered my question, mandia. Will you come with me ?"

Oberyn immediately looked back at him. He wanted to stop him but Rhaenys was too fast.

"I will, valonqar. I will come with you and uncle Aemon to search the rest of our family."

Oberyn looked at Rhaenys, he didn't understood, but as he saw the determination in his niece's eye, he sighed.

"Never stop a Martell woman, brother. You may be a Viper, but we are the words of our House. We will not bow. We will not bend. We will not break."

Oberyn had laughed the first time Elia said that. In answer to that, she simply kicked him in the balls. He never laughed at his sister again after that.

"What do you plan on doing, Aenar ?"

"We will go to Pentos, in the house of Illyrio Mopatis to find our aunt and uncle. From there, we will plan the retaking of the throne."

His voice was steel, a cut like no other. Nothing could stop him from doing what he was planning.

"...Very well. But you will not just leave in the covert of the night. We still have to tell Doran of your plans. And how do you even plan on taking back the throne ? The Usurper will not just hand you the crown."

"I know he will not. I will just take it from his burnt head. No army alone could take back the Seven Kingdoms, and I do not plan on selling any member of my family to gain one. The only one I would ever sell is myself."

His words spoke of care and a determination to protect his family, one he didn't knew he had until a moon ago. But for him, it didn't matter how long he had knew them. They were his blood, and nothing would change that. He had been scared of Viserys at first hand. He had been showing early signs of his father's madness, but Aenar had stopped that using the Palantir.

"That is commendable, Aenar. But even the spears of Dorne will not be enough against the combined might of the six other kingdoms."

"Correct, but first. Take out the North of the equation. Eddard Stark will not fight for Robert in the war to come. And two."

He said as a smirk appeared on his face.

"No kingdom is ready to face The Cannibal himself."

Oberyn looked like he had just been struck by lightning. Aenar had said something that was completely crazy. THE FUCKING CANNIBAL ???? HOW ???  WHERE ??? AND WHY THE FUCK DID NO ONE IN THE SEVEN KINGDOMS KNEW OF A DRAGON BEING ALIVE, ESPECIALLY THE CANNIBAL ??

But Aenar stopped all of these thoughts with a flick of his wrist as the fire ball Oberyn had witnessed when he first entered the room came back to life. Aenar then raised his other hand and icicles appeared around it as they molded themselves into a sword of beautiful design.

"Now imagine the same ball, but a thousand times bigger. Or a blizzard worthy of legends of the Long Night. And even if the Kingdoms were to stop their childish so-called Game Of Thrones, what would they do when every Lord Paramount fall to unseen forces. My men can kill anyone without even being seen, even in the middle of the Red Keep itself."

"Aenar, I do not doubt that your powers are great, but even the faceless men can't kill someone in such a fashion."

Oberyn said, not completely convinced by his nephew's words. And what men was he talking about ? Who had already sworn himself to him ? But his questions were quickly answered as Aenar simply flicked his finger, silently telling him to look behind him. He did and what he saw was yet another surprise that could stop his heart.

Three men wearing cloaks that looked like they had been sewn out of pure Darkness. They were tall, around 2 meters tall. A crown of steel on the head of the one in the middle. They were frightening, no other word could ever describe them. How long had they even stood there ? Even Rhaenys looked scared, like she didn't even knew they were here.

"Meet three members of the Nazgûl : The Witch-King, Khamûl and Thûralach. They are loyal to me, and to my family. They do not follow for gold, fame or possessions. They follow because I am the Master of the One Ring."

He said as he rose his left hand, a little golden ring glittering on it. Rhaenys and Oberyn looked closely at it, trying to understand what it meant. Why would people follow Aenar just because he had a Ring. So Jon simply took it off, placed it on the bed and told them.

"Pick it up."

And so, Oberyn did. Or at least, he tried. When he touched the Ring, he was almost thrown across the room, only held back by one of the three men in black cloak holding him. Fuuuuuuckkkk, even his hand felt dead. It was like there was no skin on the hand, sensing how fucking cooold it was. Even the North wasn't that cold.

Aenar watched in mild-amusement seeing Oberyn's reaction to feeling the touch of a Nazgûl. Aenar knew as well how weird their touch would feel, and he was much more resilient to the cold than anyone else. But that chill was of magic origin, and so his blood couldn't protect him from the cold of the Nazgûl.

Aenar picked up the Ring and put it back on his finger, smirking a bit as the Ring chastised him for allowing someone else to touch him, even though no one else but his master could wield him. It was the way the Ring worked, from the day his new words had carved themselves onto him until the day all Realms would crumble into nothingness.

"Convinced ?"

His tone was light, almost as if he had just told a joke. But it didn't quite mixed with the atmosphere of the rest of the room. 

"...Fine. I won't stop you from reuniting your family. But I won't just let you leave without meeting Doran."

"Very well, uncle. Lead the way, then."

Oberyn rose, along with his niece and nephew. Fuck, even thinking this word was weird.

Oberyn led them into the court of Sunspear, overlooking the Water Gardens, where Doran usually sat in his wheelchair along with his bodyguard. It was one of the few moments of relaxation he allowed himself every day. 

"Brother, we have something of importance to talk about."

Oberyn's voice boomed around the room as he entered, uncaring for who might hear him. Doran was alone in this moment, his bodyguard nowhere to be seen.

"What do you want, now, brother ?"

Doran's voice was much more controlled than his brother, but Aenar could still feel the power and influence that this man held. He should not be underestimated, unless you were absolutely sure you could get to him before someone stopped you.

"It's about Rhya... And her."

Doran's mask fell almost completely. Apparently, Oberyn and Doran never spoke about her, whoever it could be.

"And why would you want that,Oberyn ? She is dead, and so is her son. There is nothing else to speak about."

"On that part..."

Oberyn's voice switched to an almost-childlike voice. He then turned to him.

"Come here."

Aenar stepped out of the shadow and watched as Doran's mask, which he had managed to put back on his face, fell completely.

"What ?"

It would seem that Doran recognized his parent's trait on his face.

"Prince Doran. It is a pleasure to meet you."

Doran almost fainted when he heard his voice. Apparently, as Oberyn told him, he was a mix of his father's voice and his mother's accent. A devastating effect to all those who personally knew them both.

"How ? Who-Who are you ?"

"I am Aenar Targaryen, son of Rhaegar Targaryen and Lyanna Stark."

Doran completely slumped into his chair, his usually straight back completely relaxed as he almost fainted. Aenar really had such an effect on people, it would be funny if he wasn't so worried.

"It's-It's- How ???"

"My uncle Eddard Stark claimed me as his bastard son and took me to Winterfell, where he proceeded to raise me alongside my cousins, whom I love as my siblings. From there, I lived as Jon Snow for 8 years, until I learned of the truth of my parents thanks to the One Ring."

Aenar said as he showed his ring, glittering on his finger. Doran looked at him, completely dumbfounded as though he was speaking the words of a mad man. But Doran simply nodded, although slowly, like he was not completely convinced of his words, and so Aenar simply lit up his hand in flames, showing him the veracity of his words.

"... I cannot believe my eyes, and yet, I know your words to be true. Come, Aenar, let me get a good look at the boy my sister loved as her own."

And so, Aenar stepped forward, until he reached his uncle Doran. Aenar was not really tall, as he was still a boy. Only 1.30 meters. But it was tall enough to look in Doran's eyes without looking up or down. They were at the same level. And he watched as Doran etched every inch of his face into his mind, same as Oberyn and Rhaenys.

"You really are their son. You have your father's eyes and traits, but your mother's looks and determination in your gaze. What do you plan on doing now, Aenar ?"

He asked, as his political mind began to awaken again.

"I plan on taking back the throne of my family. To destroy all those that sought to kill my family. To bring a Winter coated with Fire and Blood to the Seven Kingdoms. All the while, as I ride on Ancalagon's back."

"Ancalagon ? Who is that ?"

""You know him as The Cannibal. I bonded with him on Skagos, a week ago. He brought me here."

Doran looked like he just had a heart attack, which, given everything Aenar had told him in the last 5 minutes, was not so far from the truth. Doran then looked back at his face and smiled.

"Then, my dear nephew, know that Dorne will support your claim once you press it. Our spears are yours, Your Grace."

Aenar looked almost sheepish, like he was not yet used to be called like that. "No matter" Doran thought. We will support him. We can only hope he will remember us when the time comes.

"Thank you, my lord. Your help will be most appreciated when the time to go to war comes. But first, I must find the rest of my family."

"Very well, Aenar. When the time comes, you will find nothing but allies in Dorne."

Aenar nodded at his uncle's words. He then turned to his sister, standing besides Oberyn. He approached her and told her.

"Ready, mandia ? We're going to Pentos."

"Ready, Valonqar. Let's get our family together again."

"Then hold my hand. And hold it tight."

He said as he gave her his hand, his fingers outstretched. His sister did not hesitate even a second before putting her own hand into his. Aenar then used shadow magic, dissolving them into a nearby pool of darkness as he led them to the outside of Sunspear, traveling faster than any horse ever could.

When they finally appeared out of the gates, he materialized them, and held her as she almost fell forward, her mind quickly turning as she tried not to vomit. Shadow travel was not the easiest way to travel, but it was very efficient.

"Are you alright ?"

He asked, his worry laced into his voice and his eyes. Rhaenys looked at him, her own eyes conveying a small hint of anger, she was not happy that he had travelled them in such a way without even warning her. 

"Sorry, Rhaenys. It's not as bad the second time."

"You are crazy if you think there will be a second time, dear Valonqar."

She answered, her voice lacking any venom. She was already bantering with him like he once had with his own siblings. It felt good, it felt right.

They walked together, the Nazgûls behind him, silent as shadows. They soon reached Ancalagon and their great-great uncle Aemon, sitting in the shade of Ancalagon's shadow.

"Uncle. I'm back. And guess who I brought."

"Aenar. It's good to see that you are back. And I can only assume that you are with Rhaenys ?"

"Correct, uncle. Meet my sister, Rhaenys Targaryen. Rhaenys, this is our great-great uncle Aemon Targaryen, last living brother of Aegon the Unlikely, 5th of his name."

Rhaenys eyes switched constantly from Ancalagon, who, it seemed, was having the best nap of his life, and their uncle, a smile on his lips as he imagined her gaze filled with  admiration towards the dragon. He understood her, after all, he had been in her situation a week ago. He rose to his feet, his joints cracking as he did.

"It's a true pleasure to meet you, niece."

She finally looked at him, truly taking in his face and she softly gasped as she saw that he was blind.

"It's a pleasure to meet you too, uncle. I heard many stories of the man who refused the throne for his brother's sake."

"They are but stories, dear niece. You will find the truth to be much more interesting."

Aenar watched as they started talking, as the Ring started talking.

"You have found both your great-great uncle and your sister. Now, only your uncle and aunt remains in Pentos. We must quickly go there if you wish to meet them soon. And have you already plan on what you will do after ?"

"I have. Once our family is reunited, we will travel to the ruins of Valyria, to forge Rings for them."

To allow them to learn magic and use the knowledge that the Ring gave him about special creatures that Sauron had made once. He had called them his worms. But for Aenar, they would be a great part of his reconquest of Westeros. He chuckled slightly as he wondered how he would be named after he would retake the throne. The Reconqueror kinda sucked as a name, The Dragon Wolf was not bad but there lacked power in it. But then, a simple name appeared : The Eternal. Aenar didn't really plan on dying. No one could poison him, he would no grow old and tired. He was protected from madness by the Ring and he had the greatest Kingsguard in the world. Obviously, he would not disband the Order, but they would be tasked with protecting the King's family. Never the King himself. And he also had a fucking dragon the size of Winterfell's keep. That last part was quite important.

"I think it's time, uncle, sister. Let's go to Pentos."

They both turned to look at him. Aemon nodded as Rhaenys almost bounced in joy at the prospect of riding a dragon. Aenar helped Aemon first, then Rhaenys and he finally climbed himself, before turning at the dragon, shouting a single word.

"Sōvegon, Ancalagon. Let's go to Pentos."

And the dragon roared a deep sound as his wings stretched outwards and he jumped, launching himself in the sky.

"We are coming, uncle, aunt. Wait for us just a bit longer."

The night was already beginning to settle when Aenar and the others flew near Pentos. They had left Sunspear early in the morning and had flew at great speeds, not bothering to hide under the covert of darkness. But now, the night had fallen and Pentos was but a few kilometers away. Ancalagon landed outside of the city, in a hidden cove that used to be a pirate stronghold a long time ago. But now it was empty, and perfect to hide a dragon. Aenar asked Rhaenys if she wanted to come with him, and she accepted, still not really trusting of shadow magic, but too excited by the prospect of meeting her family to refuse Aenar's offer. And so, she took his hand as they both disappeared into darkness, leaving behind Aemon, Ancalagon and 5 Nazgûls. Aenar took 4 with him. Two to protect Daenerys and Viserys and two to take down any men who could stop them from entering the Magister's house.

They soon appeared in front of the house, and they saw that the Nazgûls had already cut down several Unsullied standing guard. They entered without any problem as, all around, corpses of guards were littering the ground. They quickly entered the house itself and Aenar followed the pull of Magic leading him towards the two Nazgûls whom he had put in charge of protecting his aunt and uncle. There, in front of a room, they both were standing guard, as Aenar could hear two men talking. Illyrio and Viserys, most probably. Certainly, in fact. And so, Aenar entered the room with Rhaenys besides him and they watched with a little smirk as the two men turned to look at them while a beautiful young girl was sitting in a chair, eating grapes.

"Apologies for intruding on your meeting. I have BIG NEWS for Viserys Targaryen and his sister Daenerys."

He said, a little smug at the idea of having surprised a man with the reputation of Illyrio Mopatis. The girl, who until now, had been looking at the window with her grapes in her delicate little hand turned to them. Aenar thought he would never find someone else as beautiful as his sister, but it seemed he was quite wrong about that. Daenerys Stormborn of House Targaryen was truly a gorgeous woman. She was petite, 1.15 meters tall. She had beautiful long silver-gold hair, reaching to her mid-back and purple eyes that shined in the moonlight glow. She had a heart-shaped face with full lips that must have been smoother than silk. Aenar was a bit surprised with himself at such a thought but quickly put it on the Ring's influence and all the things he had shown him ever since they bonded, 3 moons and a lifetime ago.

"WHO ARE YOU ? AND HOW DARE YOU ENTER INTO MY HOUSE ?"

Illyrio yelled, his fate turning a little shade of red to anger.

"My name is Aenar. Aenar Targaryen. Son of Rhaegar Targaryen and Lyanna Stark. Meet my sister, Rhaenys."

He answered, putting a hand to his sister's back.

"Wh- What ? It's impossible. You're lying !!"

Viserys yelled, his own face mixed with anger at the thought that someone would dare impersonate himself as the son of his brother and his good-sister, that he had heard many good things from his mother. Daenerys looked with surprise. Hearing the name of her brother she had never met from the mouth of a young boy claiming to be his son was quite the unexpected surprise. But nothing could have prepared her for what the boy then did. 

Aenar raised his two hands and, with a little burst of magic, he conjured fire in his left arm and a sword of ice in his right, proving the veracity of his words to his uncle and aunt. He watched as Viserys looked at his hands, enraptured as Illyrio almost collapsed and Daenerys's face looked like she had just met the Gods themselves. The Old and the Valyrians, as Aenar was now sure that the Seven were nothing but an invention of the Andals.

"I take it this is proof enough of my heritage. If not, I have a fully grown dragon just outside of Pentos, who is quite impatient with meeting my aunt and uncle."

Viserys and Daenerys looked as though they had just been struck by lightning, but Daenerys then rose from her seat and talked to Aenar, her voice smoother than silk.

"A dragon... Do you really have a dragon ?"

"Aye, I do. You may know him as The Cannibal, but I renamed him Ancalagon, aunt."

Daenerys looked like she had just been told the truth of the world as her face lit up like the brightest star in the sky.

"Incredible..."

She said in a dreamy voice, as Viserys still looked from his hands to his face, searching for any features he might recognize from his brother. He finally did as his mouth fell into a gasp and he spoke again, his voice but a whisper.

"Rhaegar... I see Rhaegar in your face. But you have the traits of Lyanna. I... I thought you had died. When words arrived to us that she had died, I was sure that I would never meet you. But I am happy to see that you are alive, Aenar."

"Your words mean more than you can imagine, uncle. I came to reunite our family. The five last Dragons of the world. We must unite if we wish to retake the throne. And I will do my part in the reconquest."

Aenar's words were laced with determination, his northern accent accentuating his own anger at the thought of the betrayal his family had suffered. But the horror he would bring to those who had wronged his family would become tales that even the Bolton could never even hope to match, in all of their worst stories.

They then turned to look at Illyrio, who had collapsed on the ground, his mind overrun by everything he had just witnessed. Aenar looked at him, disdain clear in his eyes before turning to the Nazgûls.

"Take care of him, and bring me to the vaults. Lets see what this worm has been hiding."

Daenerys then turned to him.

"What are you talking about ? He has been nothing but helpful to us ever since we met."

"Did he ever tell you that he was planning to sell you to a Dothraki Khal as soon as you were old enough ?"

She looked at him, her purple eyes wide as she looked almost scared.

"What ? How- How do you know that ?"

"I have seen it in his mind through an artifact called a Palantir."

He said before turning on his heels and following the Nazgûls into the manse, going straight to the Vault.

What Aenar found in the vault were treasures of House Targaryen : The swords Dark Sister and Blackfyre, multiples armors that belonged to great Kings and Princes, the Crown of the Conqueror himself, forged in Valyrian Steel. But the greatest treasure were the three dragon eggs. A black and red one, a green one and a sand colored one. Aenar didn't feel anything towards them, but when he put his hand on it, they felt... alive. Aenar ordered the Nazgûls to take everything as he himself took the eggs. He then went back to his family standing in the gardens. He felt something weird in his heart, his soul. It was not the Ring. It was something else, something more...ancient. And so, following his instinct, he gave the black and red egg to Daenerys, who looked at him with so much love in her gaze. The green one to Viserys, who was more surprised than anything, and the sand colored one to his sister, who thanked him with a little kiss on the cheek, as Aenar blushed.

He then gave his hands to all of them, and bid them to take them. Rhaenys laughed a bit as she tried to imagine Viserys and Daenerys's reaction to shadow travel, and she was not disappointed when, as soon as they rematerialized, Viserys fell to the ground, puking as Daenerys almost fell, only being held up by Aenar. Viserys then looked at Aenar, a look promising swift revenge against him as soon as possible, like they were both children and he had just been pranked by his nephew.

They soon reached the cave and Daenerys almost shrieked with joy and glee when she saw the dragon napping.

"This is Ancalagon, the greatest dragon in the world. And the biggest napper of all."

Aenar thought, smiling as he saw the joy on his aunt and uncle's faces. They were enthralled by the great dragon. Aenar walked to Aemon, whose joints cracked as he rose from his seat on a smooth rock.

"I believe by the sounds of joy that your venture was smooth, nephew."

"You would be quite right, uncle."

He then called Viserys and Daenerys forward, and introduced them to Aemon as their faces almost fell at the fact that they were witnessing the brother of their grandfather, still alive today.

He then called them all near Ancalagon, and what he told them next would shape their future for years to come.

"We have been reunited. But now, we must think to take back what has been stolen from us by the Usurper and his allies. We will show the Baratheons the meaning of Fury, make the Lannisters cower in fear at the sounds of our roar, make the falcons fall from the sky and burn Riverrun to the ground. The Seven Kingdoms will kneel to the Dragon once more."

The others looked at him, determination in their eyes as they listened to his every words.

"But first. I need to make new Rings. For each of us. One for all of you."

He said, his gaze falling to his own Ring glittering even in the darkness of the cave.

"And how do you plan on doing that, nephew ? Where could you forge such Rings ?"

...

...

...

"Valyria, uncle. In the Fourteen Flames."

Chapter Text

Ned Stark was a broken man, a shell of what he used to be. Ever since his nephew departed Winterfell, the walls that had been home to many memories, good and bad, now seemed colder than ever. He could see the glares that the guards and servants would throw, either to him or his wife. Especially his wife. Jon may have been a Bastard, but for many, he was more a Stark than Catelyn Tully.

He sighed as he thought back to the last time he had seen his nephew. The fire in his eyes left no wonder to what he had planned. He would take back his throne, or die trying. And Ned didn't know what to do. He saw as his son stopped talking to almost anyone but Old Nan and his sisters. He would plunge himself into training, hoping to become half the swordsman that Jon had proven to be in front of everyone, when he humiliated Theon.

And Sansa... Hoooo Sansa. She had completely stopped going to her lessons with the Septa. She would walk the halls of Winterfell, like she was Jenny of Oldstones herself. She had even yelled to the Septa when she told her to stop worrying for the Bastard, as it was unbecoming of a Lady. After that event, Sansa was never seen in the Sept of Winterfell again, instead she would rise at dawn, walk to the godswood and kneel in front of the weirwood tree until it was time to eat. She prayed and prayed again to the Old Gods, begging them to bring her brother home safe and sound. But after a moon and not a single news, Ned was starting to lose hope. He had sent letters all throughout the North, ordering everyone to find Jon and bring him home. Alas, not a single person had even caught a glimpse of the boy. 

He let his head fall on his desk in his solar as he then thought back to the looks both Ser Barristan and Ser Jaime had sent him after Jon had left. They looked at him with a knowing look. Ned didn't know why, but those looks frightened him. They looked at hi as though he was the worst man in existence. Such a look from the Kingslayer had made Ned's blood boil. How does a man who broke his oath to protect his king look at him in such a way ? He who was known as the most honorable man in the Seven Kingdoms.

He left his solar and walked to the godswood, where he saw his son and daughter both kneeling in front of the weirwood tree, whispering silent prayers. Ned knew they were praying for Jon's safety. They didn't care whether he was a bastard or not. For them, Jon was their brother and it didn't matter what anyone else said. They were not worthy to speak his name in front of him.

But whenever Ned thought about his nephew, he almost immediately started to shake in fear as he saw the figures in black protecting him with their lives. They had moved as though they were one conscience controlling nine bodies at the same time. Dressed in black cloaks that absorbed the light, hiding their faces and bodies to everyone, and swords that looked like they had been forged in Darkness itself, they were the scariest thing Ned had ever seen. But when Jon told him they had been training him, he wondered how strong were they really. And he then saw remembered how they seemed to walk in and out of the shadows. They could be even quieter than death and could almost dance in and out of the Red Keep without anyone even catching a glimpse of them, or even knowing that they existed. The only ones who knew of them were all those that had witnessed how the Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North had been dragged out of the godswood by those men, throwing him on the ground as if he was nothing more than a smallfolk. 

The look of surprise on everyone at seeing their lord's getting treated like dirt was only surpassed when they saw the figure with the crown of steel holding the Bastard of Winterfell like a father would his son, with absolute protection and determination in his gaze as he imagined how he would kill anyone who came even close to Jon. 

The men in black cloaks took him to his room and two of them soon came out, standing guard on both sides of the door, stopping anyone from entering, their swords raised in front of them, their faces hidden beneath their hoods. Even Robert could not get them to move, even when he threatened to execute them for treason against their King.

At those words, the two men looked at him, and Ned almost shit himself when the man on the left spoke.

"You are no one to us. You hold no Ring, no power. We have no king but the Lord of the Rings."

All those who were trying to pass by them to enter Jon's room almost fell on each other as they tried to get out of the aura of threat that those two men had just cast over them. No one wanted to be cut down by them. Even Robert was looking scared as his knees almost buckled under him and his eyes went from the two men to the two Kingsguard, who looked like they wanted to be anywhere else but here. Those were not just men. They were nightmares. Monsters worthy of legends. And they seemed to follow Jon.

Ned walked to the weirwood tree, falling to his knees alongside his two children. He then made a prayer to the Old Gods.

"Please, protect him. Protect her son."

Barristan Selmy was many things : The Bold, the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, one of the greatest swordsman in Westeros, the only honorable man still wearing the White Cloak. But most of all, what he was was anxious. 

Ever since he saw his prince's eyes and face in Jon Snow, he had been filled with nightmares. He witnessed Rhaegar's fall again and again at the Trident, the broken bodies of Elia, Aegon and Rhaenys. He also remembered Jaime and the look of pure hatred he casted to all the men of his father.

But whenever he thought about Jon Snow, it only convinced The Bold more and more : the boy was the son of Rhaegar and Lyanna. He was the rightful King, the one who should sit the Iron Throne and rule Westeros.

He had talked to no one about it, no one but the last person he normally would have : The Kingslayer himself. When Barristan stood behind Robert in Winterfell, he looked at Jaime and silently talked with his lips, a skill that allowed them silent conversations. He had whispered a single name, and he remember Jaime's shiver at the name.

"Rhaegar."

When they returned to King's Landing, Jaime took him to his room in Whit Sword Tower, and what he told him next completely changed his view on Jaime. He had told him everything.

"He would have killed them all, Barristan. I had no choice. I HAD to kill him. He was yelling the same thing he had been for hours. "Burn them all !!" again and again. I saved half a million people. The population of King's Landing. I know I broke my oath, but I don't care. I should have broke that oath the first time I heard Queen Rhaella screaming, begging for help. I will carry this regret to the end of my days."

Barristan had looked at him wide-eyed, as his mind struggled to reel itself around everything that Jaime was telling him. He was telling the truth. Barristan could see it in his eyes. And so, he put his hand on Jaime's shoulder and brought him into a hug, the kind a brother would give to a brother. Jaime had stared into the distance, surprised by his actions, until he brought his own hands on Barristan's back and started to softly cry. 

Once Jaime cried all the tears in his body, he wiped his eyes and asked him what to do next. Barristan simply told him.

"We serve. When the boy comes to press his claim, we will serve him. No matter what everyone else says. I will keep my oath to Rhaegar. What about you, Jaime ?"

"... I will enjoy watching Robert's face when he realizes that his brother by choice hid the son of Rhaegar and Lyanna as his bastard son for years. I can only hope that he will allow us a go at Robert after he breaks him, after he rips off his antlers and make him understand what Fury truly is."

Jaime said, his familiar smirk on his face. Barristan looked in his eyes, and he realized how much Jaime truly hated Robert. He nodded and rose to his feet.

It was time to serve. To serve the one that the men in black called the Lord of the Rings. But for him, he was someone else. He was...

His King.

Doran Martell was sitting in the shadow of a tree, as he watched his nieces training along with their father. He always enjoyed the warmth of the Dornish sun. But today, even in one of the warmest summers in the history of Westeros, he could still feel a chill crawling up his spine whenever he thought back to Aenar. His nephew.

When Elia told them about the love both her and Rhaegar bore towards Lyanna Stark, Doran and Oberyn were not really surprised. Paramours were a common thing in Dorne. But when she told them that they planned to marry, that got their attention. No Targaryen had married two women ever since King Jaehaerys the Wise, first of his name, had banished polyamory in all of Westeros, even for the Targaryens. So, such a declaration had of course caught their attentions. But never, never, had they imagined how Robert Baratheon would react. He had raised his banners against the Targaryens, and he brought destruction everywhere he went, as he drank beyond human comprehension and planted his seed in numerous women.

Doran thought back to his meeting with Aenar. The boy had a fire unlike any other, quite literally. When he showed him the fireball in his hand and told him of the dragon, Doran was already beginning to plan how to help his nephew. But Doran was not a fool. He would need an assurance that Aenar would not forget them after he sat the Iron Throne. Doran thought of three possible outcomes.

1) Aenar followed the path of his ancestors and made Rhaenys his queen, ensuring Martell blood, his blood, on the throne.

2) Doran offer his daughter Arianne to Aenar, with the same outcome as the first option.

3) Aenar take someone else as his queen, and Doran would have lost all hopes of his blood on the throne, unless Aenar died before having an heir, making Viserys the King. Doran would then offer either Rhaenys or Arianne to him, and if he was too much of a fool to refuse, Doran would make sure that he would suffer an accident, making his niece Rhaenys the only one who could sit the Iron Throne.

Doran hated having to plan such things, but he had lost too much to back down now. He would have his blood on the throne, one way or another. And nothing would stop him. And if Aenar tried anything with his dragon, Doran would make the Seven Kingdoms remember who were the first to kill a dragon.

It was the only way, he thought. The only way.

Chapter Text

Aenar looked all around him. All he could see was ashes and death. What had once been the greatest city in the world was now nothing but ruins. He could not believe how could such a thing happen, especially here. He looked to his family, the same disappointment on their faces. They were probably expecting the same thing from what was the Valyrian Freehold. Instead, all they could see was death and destruction. It was sad. The greatest city in the world, lost to the ambitions of men who thought themselves as Gods.

"So this is Valyria... I didn't expect such destruction, even after all those stories of the Doom."

Aenar said, mostly to himself. He then looked to the First Flame, the biggest of the fourteen volcanoes of Valyria. He could feel great magic potential coming from it's core, where the Chambers of Lava reside. He looked back at his family and beckoned them close.

"I will go to the volcano to forge Rings of Power for each of you. The Nazgûls will stay with you to keep you safe."

The others looked at him with different hints of worry in their eyes. Daenerys was the most worried and Aemon the least. Why would he be worried, he had seen first hand the power his nephew wielded. Rhaenys was a bit less worried than his aunt bu still worried. Viserys was not as worried as the others but he could still feel a shiver of fear for his nephew, the son of his brother, at the thought of him being all alone in a volcano.

"Stay safe, Valonqar. And do not over-exhaust yourself. If you die, I will kill you myself."

His sister said, her voice laced with worry for him. It made his heart burst to think that his sister, one who didn't even knew he existed until a few days ago, already loved him so much. Her words were matched with a determined nod from Daenerys, trying to control her fear of Valyria to try and be brave for her niece and nephew.

Aenar turned to the volcano, it was not very far, just five kilometers. And with his magic, he could travel at speed that no horse could rival. He took off to the volcano, and it took but twenty minutes to run until he reached it's base, where a tunnel was leading into the Chambers themselves.

Aenar did not wait a moment before entering the tunnels, darkness all around him, but he did not deter. He would enter the Flame, forge Rings of Power for his family. And surprises for each Lord Paramount. He started that part of his plan when the Ring told him of the Sword of the Kings. Narsìl, reforged as Anduril. 

When he saw a light at the end of the tunnel, he let out a breath he didn't realize he had been holding. He entered the Chambers of Lava and was bewitched by what he saw.

Perfect. It was all he could think. The beauty of nature unshackled by the chains of men. If he had it his way, no one would ever set foot here again, so that no one could tarnish such a place. It was gigantic. The Chambers were akin to a giant cauldron, apart from a natural bridge of stone leading to the middle of the Chambers. There, at the end of the bridge, laid a structure that, although the design was specific to Valyria, didn't stop Aenar from recognizing it's basic function.

A Valyrian Steel Forge.

And all around the forge, were carved runes in Valyrian, to entice the power of the First Flame. He could almost feel the heat of the Lava, all around and below him. He reached out to feel the cold of the forge. It was almost depressing. Such a forge should not be dead in such a way, especially for 4 centuries. He looked at the Ring, who felt his intent.

"Light the forge, and then, I will give you all the knowledge necessary to forge Rings of Power."

"And for my little surprise, too, I hope."

"Of course. Though I must warn you. What you plan is both reckless and dangerous. The language of the runes is old and weathered. And we do not even know if they would work in this Realm."

"I know, but it doesn't hurt to try, now, does it ? Come on, where's your sense of adventure ??"

"Never had one to begin with. But very well. I will impart the necessary knowledge. Are you ready ?"

"As ready as I'll ever be."

And with those words, the Ring gathered all the smithing knowledge that Sauron had given him, all those millennia ago. Aenar's mind started to expand with new knowledge, as he learned thousands of years of both theory and practice in a few minutes. It was always a strong experience, but this was new. He had never received such knowledge, it was almost too much. But the Ring protected his mind, keeping him from going mad. 

Finally, the knowledge stopped pouring himself into his mind, and Aenar could breathe again. He hated it when so much knowledge entered his mind, but he had no other choice. He looked back at the forge, and with moves he did not know until a few minutes ago, he lit it up. 

The forge roared with life and the magic, sleeping all throughout the First Flame, answered the roar, as it awoke from its long slumber. Aenar looked around him, feeling the magic surrounding him. He smiled. 

"The time has come for new Rings..."

The lava poured into the forge, keeping it alive as Aenar shaped the Ring for his sister. It was the last one. It had took him almost a moon; but, finally. They were forged. Aenar took the Ring out of the forge and plunged it into the cask of water beside him, cooling it almost instantly. Aenar took the Ring out of the water and looked at it. It was perfect. No other words could describe it. He had made 4 Rings and all were unparalleled. He had worked his soul into those rings. Well, not literally. He was not this stupid. It was way too dangerous to put his own soul into an object, no matter how strong it would make it.

Even like that, the Rings were already, apart from his own, the most powerful magical artifacts in the world. He looked back at the Rings, all hung on chains of Valyrian Steel, from the few ingots he had found near the forge. 

- The first Ring was completely white. No gems adorned it, and it looked very plain. And yet, no one could deny it's otherworldly aura, as it seemed to glow under the light. On it were carved words in Quenya, the language of the Valars of Middle-Earth, the beings akin to Gods.

"One Ring to guard the bearer,

One Ring to unveil,

One Ring to weave all thoughts,

and in the silence dwell."

It was a Ring who could enter the minds of others, allowing it's wielder to know everything the other people would be hiding from them. It had the powers of the Palantir, although he could not manipulate people, he could still force his will unto them, transforming other people into an almost puppet-like state, while keeping all of their mental capabilities. But the Ring also had a special feature, one that would make it's wearer shed tears of joy.

- The second Ring was a marvel of beauty. It shined like a thousand suns and it's deep orange color only reinforced that impression. A deep ocean blue sapphire on top of the Ring only made everyone realize the might of the Ring. Words were also carved on this Ring.

"One Ring to guard the bearer,

One Ring to fortify,

One Ring to crush all foes, 

and in the power rise."

These words reflect the power that the Ring gives to its wielder, making him the strongest man in the world. Faster, stronger, better reflexes and overall, mightier than any other man. Even Aenar could not defeat the wielder of this Ring without his own. His magic was powerful, but the Rings made their wearers immune to all forms of magic, even the Nazgûls.

-The third Ring was silver-gold in color, adorned with a great amethyst on top of it. It was not as rich as the second one, but no one could deny the beauty in its simplicity. Like all the others, words were carved on it.

"One Ring to guard the bearer,

One Ring to ignite,

One Ring to command the flames,

and in their fury smite."

This Ring gave the ability to control the essence of fire itself, stronger than Aenar, but not as versatile, as Aenar could control both fire and ice. But the wearer would be more powerful than him in the arts of fire. he was proud of this accomplishment.

-Finally, the fourth Ring was of a deep, almost black, purple. A deep scarlet ruby adorned it and it was the lightest of all. It was the second richest-looking, just behind the second one. As usual, words that he had carved himself adorned the Ring.

"One Ring to guard the bearer,

One Ring to command,

One Ring to rule the tides,

and in their depths withstand."

The wielder of this Ring could control water at terrifying levels. From the smallest puddle of rain to the Seas themselves, no body of water was strong enough to resist the power of this Ring.

Aenar had to admit that he was almost a bit frightened by this Ring. His Ring protected his mind from the power of the first, his training with the Nazgûls gave him the skills necessary to defeat the second Ring. He had enough power to withstand the power of the third long enough to defeat it's wielder. But the fourth Ring ? That was much trickier. He could not transform water into ice if someone was already controlling the water with more strength, and his fire would be engulfed by the water. The only way to defeat the Ring would be to boil the water before it could grow too large and quickly defeat the wielder.

Aenar shacked his head. There was no need to think about how to defeat the Rings. They were for his family, and only them. They would never fight him, same as he would never fight them. They were the last Dragons. They would raise Fire and Blood on their enemies and he would bring the mightiest Winter on their remains, making all those that would stand against them a warning for all the others.

Aenar took the last chain of Valyrian Steel and put the fourth Ring on it. He then left the Chambers for the first time in a moon. He had the Witch-King bring him food from nearby creatures whenever he was hungry. He could not afford to lose time by hunting. He knew that the others were worried about him, but the Nazgûls kept them safe and sound, reassuring them about him as the volcano awoke from it's deep slumber and lava stirred in the cauldron below.

The sun hurt his eyes when he stepped out of the tunnel, as he turned his head to hide his eyes from the light. It stung, but he would quickly get used to it. After a few minutes, he was proven right as he could open his eyes without having to immediately close them again.

He looked towards the old Targaryen castle, where their family once resided before Daenys the Dreamer received her vision of the Doom and convinced her father and his namesake to leave Valyria to Dragonstone, where they would reside for a century before taking Westeros. 

The castle was a wonder of architecture. 150 meters tall at it's highest point, walls adorned with dragons all around and windows large enough for 2 man on top of each other to walk through. He entered  the castle for the first time since they landed in Valyria. He didn't know where the others were and he was too tired to search the whole place for them. So, he went to the main Hall and called the Nazgûls, asking them to bring his family here. 

It took but a few minutes before he heard quick steps following one another. The doors burst open and there stood both Daenerys and Rhaenys. They almost ran to him and hugged him, almost choking him.

"YOU'RE BACK !!!!! YOU'RE FINALLY HERE !!!!"

Daenerys's voice was filled with happiness at seeing her nephew safe and sound for the first time in a moon. She had not spent much time with him but she loved him as her nephew all the same.

Meanwhile, Rhaenys contended herself with burying her head in her brother's shoulder, as she almost sobbed for seeing that he was back.

Aenar hugged them back and sighed as he thought

"It's good to have a family."

He knew he was not being fair to his cousins, but their presence was always overshadowed by the fact that his uncle had hidden who he was all his life, and would have probably kept it from him for the rest of his life, all to protect a drunk whoremonger who had bastards before even coming of age.

But now, it didn't matter, not when he had two people who genuinely loved and cared about him. He would talk with his uncle one day, and make him come clean. He would enjoy watching the face of the Trout once she saw how she had treated the rightful King as a bastard for years. It would be fun.

His uncles soon arrived after Rhaenys and Daenerys and Viserys coughed a bit, making the two girls let go of him, allowing him to breathe without problem again.

"I see you're back, Aenar. How have you been ?"

Viserys said, chuckling a bit at the reaction of his sister and niece, acting like they had been caught doing a foul crime and blushing red when they heard him chuckle.

"I have been very well, uncle. I finished the Rings,, which is why I asked you all to meet me here."

His words made them smile as they wondered what he had forged for them. Aenar reached into his pocket and pulled out the four Rings, each of them with a chain of steel.

He laid them down on the table and beckoned everyone to sit down, telling them to take a seat. He reached for the first ring, the white one, and gave it to his great-great uncle Aemon.

"This is Sámaril, uncle. It means Jewel of the Mind. It will give you the power to gaze into the minds of others. Along with a special thing I put in just for you."

He said the last part with a small smirk. His uncle smiled at him, his blind eyes wet from tears he fought to hold back. 

"Thank you, Aenar. This is a beautiful gift, I cannot thank you enough."

"You already have, uncle. By standing with me against the Usurper. Thank you, uncle. For everything."

He then reached to the second ring, the most beautiful one and handed it to Viserys, who looked visibly surprised.

"This is Tharûndor, uncle. It stands for King of Might. With it, no one will ever be able to defeat you in battle. You will become the strongest fighter in the world. Stronger, faster and mightier than anyone else."

Viserys looked at him, whispering a thousand thanks in his eyes, as he accepted the Ring. Aenar then turned to the third Ring, whom he handed to his aunt Daenerys.

"For you, dear aunt, this is Urulócë. It means Fire Dragon. It will give you the ability to control fire to it's very core. You will be a goddess among men, a power unlike anything else."

Her eyes filled with awe as he spoke. It was incredible, he knew it. The power to bend fire to your will. If there was something to define a Targaryen, it was that. This gift was incredible for Daenerys, who had dreamed of being worthy of her name all of her life. Aenar then looked at his sister, her posture straight, like she would not receive her Ring if she did not sit straight.

"And for you, sweet sister, I present you Linossë. It stands for Song of the Waves. I forged it while taking your Rhoynar blood in account. It  will give you the ability to control all bodies of water, from the smallest drop of rain, to the Seas themselves. Nothing shall resist your waves."

He then turned to look at everyone and spoke up.

"If you look on the side of the Rings, you will find words carved unto them. They are a part of the Ring's powers. They are a... catalyst, of sorts. But no only that, the Rings will not allow you to die of old age, sickness, poison, or any natural means."

All of them turned to him as he spoke the last words. If what he said was true, then they held true immortality in the palms of their hands. It was exhilarating and frightening. What if someone else took hold of the Rings ? It could mean the end for them. But Aenar had already anticipated such thoughts, and his next words calmed the worries in their hearts.

"As soon as you put on the Rings, they will be loyal to only you until the day you die. Nothing can take them off your hand without your consent, and no one but you can wield them. They are yours to command, yours to use, yours to do whatever you desire."

They all looked at their Rings, then back at Aenar. It was incredible. No one had heard of such powers, not since... ever. It was the first time in the history of Planetos that such artifacts came to exist. 

They all looked at each other, then to their Rings once more. And in a singular motion, they all slipped the Rings on their fingers. 

...

...

...

...

And IT roared.

...

...

...

Magic roared, as it came back to life. As all around the world, tremors occurred.

In the Great Sept of Baelor in King's Landing, the statues of the Seven cracked and broke, crushing the High Septon as he was doing a sermon to the public. His body was unrecognizable.

In the godswood of Winterfell, wind rose and the trees began to whisper, their strength coming back after centuries of decay. They would grow again, all around the continent, and they would hold back the darkness.

In the True North, a man in a tree raised his head, as he felt a storm of magic all around the world. The Children around him shaking, as they felt their essence growing. They no longer feared extinction, but they were worried about the source of such magic.

In Qarth, in the House of the Undyings, the Warlocks felt as magic soared high in the sky, something that they knew they were not responsible for. Not a single one of them had such power.

In the city of Asshai, the Shadowbinders watched as their bonds to the darkness almost tore themselves, out of nowhere. They had to use all of their might to just keep the shadows calm enough to not completely lose control over them.

In Volantis, the flames of the Lord of Light burned ever brighter, their strength growing so much that they almost consumed the lives of several acolytes and priests. Instead, only the High Priest Benerro died, consumed by the Great Flame, in the deepest part of the Red Temple.

All around the world, from the weakest priest to the Three-eyed Raven himself, all turned their head to where they could feel the magic came from.

It was not a drop of water in an ocean. It was not a match. It was not a candle against the Sun.

It was everything. The ocean. An inferno who rose from the fire. A thousand Suns. And it all pointed to the same place. Where magic had died, 4 centuries ago. And where it now awoke, stronger than ever before.

All turned to the Ruins of Valyria, as the vision of a Golden Ring flashed through their minds. And in that moment, they knew. All of them knew, as they heard the same thing over and over again.

The world will yield, his power will grow.

The Lord of the Ring shall rule in time.

Chapter Text

Aenar looked out the window of his room, the room of every Patriarch of House Targaryen. He was taking in the view of Valyria. He had been very disappointed the first time he saw it, but now, the only thing he could think about was : How to make it livable once more ?

He and his family had no problem here thanks to Ancalagon, the Nazgûls and their own Rings, but he couldn't help but desire to recreate the Freehold with his own hands.

As he pondered, he heard the door of his room opening. He turned and saw his sister entering the room, in a beautiful dress of red and black. They had found many clothes of their ancestors in the vaults of the Targaryen Keep. Apparently, the magic they used to stop thieves also stopped rodents and other small animals from deteriorating the clothes. He, on the other hand, still dressed like he had all his life. A black doublet and black trousers. There was a cloak with the three-headed dragon on a chair near him, but he had never put it on. He couldn't bring himself to dishonor his ancestors that way when he was still a child and not worthy of the cloak. After all, that cloak had been carried by the greatest patriarchs of the Targaryen Family. he may be the new patriarch, but he was not yet worthy of the cloak.

"You're brooding again..."

His sister's voice cut trough his thoughts,her tone light and innocent.

"No, I am not."

"Yes, you are"

"No, I am not."

"Yeeesss, you are..."

 He sighed, knowing that such a battle against her could ever be won. He was NOT brooding, he was just ... Thinking. While looking in the distance and looking very solemn. But he was not brooding.

"What do you want, Rhae ? You didn't came here just to talk, did you ?"

"Uncle Aemon wanted to talk with you. He has something important to tell you, or so he says."

He was not surprised. Ever since he had given Aemon the Ring, he had been cured of his blindness, something that had made Aemon cry when he realized he could see again. He had almost crushed Aenar's spine in a hug with a strength that belied his age. His Ring had a special little effect, as Aenar said himself. He was as strong as a young man once more and could easily walk without stumbling or struggling. Aenar was very proud of his Ring. But it was time to go and talk to him. Whatever he had to say to him must have been important to send Rhaenys instead of coming himself.

"Very well. Where is he ?"

"In the library. I think he's reading on the process of hatching dragon eggs."

Such a project had been their most important plan in retaking the Iron Throne. If they could hatch the dragon eggs, they would have no problems in retaking the Seven Kingdoms. He knew that multiple great families would bow to him, simply with him having 4 dragons. But it was not enough. He could take everything, but he couldn't keep it. He needed alliances with great families. And whenever a Lord speaks of alliances, there are but a few ways in which an alliance works : A place on the Small Council or a betrothal.

He hated having to think about that. He had already pledged that he would never sell a member of his family for the sake of alliances, other than himself. But he knew that it would be difficult to forge lasting alliances with families without such promises. 

But all of that was for Lords and Ladies who all lacked something he had : The One Ring.

He had started a plan, and if laid carefully, he could easily gain the support of most Kingdoms without even a betrothal. But it would need to be perfect.

All those thoughts died as he arrived to the library. He entered the room and, as always, his breath caught in his throat at the gigantic room. Books everywhere. And not just any books, but dragon books. The secrets of the Targaryen family, and the knowledge of blood magic. A magic that could be used to create blood oaths and incredible securities. Such as the Vaults of the Keep.

He looked around, searching for his uncle, until he saw him hunched over a book, a great pile next to him. Aenar coughed, and Aemon turned his head to look at him. His eyes, once white, were now of a bright purple, and they shone like stars when he saw him.

"Ahhh, come Aenar. We have much to discuss."

He said, his once-frail voice now much stronger and potent. He waved his hand to him, and pointed to the chair on the other side of where he was sitting. His Ring sparkled on his finger like a diamond, even though it was the blandest of the four he had forged. 

Aenar strode forward, pulled back the chair and sat on it, before looking at his uncle once more.

"You called for me, uncle ?"

"Indeed I have. As you know, while you were off forging, Viserys and myself have been searching in the library for books about dragon eggs, specifically, how to hatch one."

Aenar leaned forward a bit, his arms crossed in front of him as he silently asked Aemon to continue.

"We have found many books, but until now, none were truly helpful. Some talked of the Favor of the Gods. Many only told tales of the greatest dragons of Valyria and just a few were about their biology. But now, I believe that I have found what we have been looking for all this time."

As he said those words, he showed the book he had been reading when Aenar entered the library. It was thick as an arm and anyone other than his uncle would die of boredom without even reading half of the book.

"What is in it, uncle ?"

His smile widened even further as he spoke.

"Apparently, according to this book, there is a possible ritual to wake dragon eggs from stone. It requires the power of the First Flame and the blood of a Dragon Lord."

Aenar uncrossed his arms and sat up straight on his chair. Fire and Blood. How appropriate. It didn't even surprise him anymore. After all he had seen and done, waking dragons was but the next step towards his goal. The Iron Throne.

"Then, we better get a move on to wake those dragons, uncle. Anything else ?"

"Yes. The blood is very important because the dragon will never allow someone to ride him apart from the one who gave the blood."

A little surprise, but not a bad one. He would bring his family to the First Flame, a bit of blood, and voila... Three dragons would rise from the dead.

"Alright. When should we do it ?"

Aemon looked at the book once more, his finger falling on a specific phrase.

"When the moon is full and the Flame is alight, the stone will crack and fire will be made flesh once more."

So, a full moon and the magic should be awake in the volcano. It would not be hard for the moon, they just have to wait a week. But the magic will be more annoying. But then, the Ring spoke.

"If we have to wake magic, we can forge your little surprises. It would wake it enough to execute your ritual."

"You're right. How long will it take ?"

"A day at most for each one."

"So... a week at most ? The full moon is in exactly seven days."

"Indeed. Better get a move on, then."

And they did. Aenar rose to his feet, thanking Aemon for his help. He told him to tell Viserys, Daenerys and Rhaenys to come to the Flame in a week, when the moon is full. And to bring their eggs. Aemon nodded and started to read once more, probably looking more on the tales of Valyria, including the descriptions of the city.

Aenar entered the First Flame, his steps determined as they echoed in the great cave. He walked with an aura of power around him, even though he was doing something as simple as walking, to anyone who would have looked at him, they would have felt as though he was a god taken human form.

Aenar stopped in front of the forge, his mind filled with plans and schemes for the future. But most of all, the little surprise he had planned. Or rather, seven surprises. One for each of the Lords Paramounts.

Aenar lit the forge and asked the Ring for the knowledge on how to forge magical weapons. The Ring quickly gave him the knowledge of Runes and how to inscribe them unto a weapon to give it special powers.

He had planned to forge weapons for each of the Great Houses, apart from the Greyjoys. Those squids deserved nothing more than to choke on the shit that covered their islands. Each House would receive a weapon, with runes giving them great powers. But Aenar was not stupid. He wouldn't just give them those weapons for free. He would tell a great tale of Gods and Magic and a power bestowed upon him with the mission to serve the Realm. Normally, no one would believe such a tale, but with his magic of Speech that Ûrzadâk taught him, he could sell ice to a Wildling or sand to a Dornishman.

But the most important rune would be the Control Rune. A Black Rune. Aenar had been unsure of whether to carve it or not, but he eventually decided to carve it on each weapon but the ones for the Starks and the Martells. The others would receive the rune and Aenar would then decide whether to activate it or not, depending on the House and whether or not they would make loyal allies or not.

He knew that the Tyrells had been steadfast allies of the Crown during the Rebellion, but they had feasted and simply waited out of Storm's End for most of the war. Aenar was unsure of their loyalty, but he couldn't just destroy them. The Reach was the most fertile region of the Seven Kingdoms and he would need the crops, the grain and the food for the rest of the Realm.

The Tully's might join him because of their connection with the North. But at the same time, would they follow the son of the man who had caused the death of so many of their brothers and sisters ?

The Arryns will either stand against him or stay out of the conflict, depending on whether or not Jon Arryn was still alive when Aenar came back to Westeros.

The Lannisters will fight him, simply because their blood is next on the Throne, along with the Baratheons.

He couldn't give a single flying fuck about the squids. If they fought him, he would burn their shit-covered islands to the ground, and he would do it with glee.

The Starks and the Martells are the most sure to join him. It will all depend on Eddard Stark himself. Will he stand with his brother-by-choice against his blood nephew ? Or will he honor his promise to his sister and help him ? Aenar wasn't sure and it unnerved him. Ever since he had obtained the Ring, it seemed like there was only one path ahead of him. And he had followed that path with a light heart.

But now, the path was dark. He had multiple choices in front of him.

1 )  He could deliver all those weapons during a meeting that he would arrange in Harrenhall, showing himself as the Lord of The Rings and an envoy of the Gods. But such an option was a bit dangerous as many would try to either kill him or turn him into their servant. The ones who were the most sure to do this are : the Old Lion, Tywin Lannister; the Queen of Thorns, Olenna Tyrell and the Golden Lioness, The Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, Cersei Lannister herself. But that last part would also depend on her relationship with her father. If Tywin wanted Aenar for himself, Cersei would not stand a chance against him.

2 )  He could go to each Lord Paramount himself and deliver the weapons, saying that he was nothing but the Messenger of the Lord of The Ring. But the problem would be whether or not they would believe him,as he needed them to. And even with his persuasion magic, it could be a harsh task.

3 )  He could wait for the death of Jon Arryn, or possibly using a Nazgûl to silently kill him, although he didn't want to even entertain such an option, he needed to prepare for every possible option. wait for the Usurper to choose a new Hand, a tourney will then most probably be thrown in his honor, as Robert spared no expenses or excuses when he wanted entertainment. He could then wait for the feast that would follow the tourney and enter it, followed by the Nazgûls and he would present himself as the last Magical Blacksmith. He would then give the weapons to the Great Houses. And then offer his services to the Crown, swearing fealty to the Realm. But not to the King, not to the Royal family. Not to any Lord or Lady who would try to bring him under their employ. Only to the Realm.

4 )  Finally, he could also send them all letters, telling them of the rebirth of Valyria and inviting them here, but that was only if he chose to actually rebuild the Freehold. Something that would take considerable resources and time. But he imagined the looks on the Usurper and every Great Lord at seeing a young man having been the Architect of New Valyria.

Those four plans each had their merits and drawbacks. Some would take a long time to be put into motion. Others would need for him to reveal his old identity of the Bastard of Winterfell. And one would need for him to KNEEL in front of the fucking stag. He really didn't want that, but he would not be picky. Whatever allowed him to take back what is his by right. He would make all sacrifices. He would spare no expense. He would stop at nothing but selling his own family to destroy the Baratheons and take back the Iron Throne.

He looked at the forge once more and smiled to himself. Before choosing one of the plans, he would forge the weapons. He would then discuss with his family about the plans and would heed their advice. But he would have to wait. If a 8 or 9 namedays-old boy appeared before the Lords Paramounts of the Seven Kingdoms, claiming to have magical weapons, he would be laughed at or killed almost immediately.

But a 16 or 17 namedays-old man with the body of a warrior and the eyes of a killer would make greater of an impression. It would buy him enough time to show them the first weapon. The one he had planned for the Baratheons. The one who had the flashiest powers.

He lit the forge completely and immersed himself into the blacksmith aspect of his mind. He took his hammer made of Valyrian Steel and started to work on the mold of the first weapon. He would need to make it light on the handle, but heavy on the head. The handle should also be long, balancing the hammer and making the process of fighting with it easier. He didn't wanted to give his enemies a help in the war to come, but he would not be so stupid as to create poor weapons.

He started by making a shaft seventy-five centimeters long and ten wide. He then worked on the head. Thirty-five centimeters long from one end to the other. He wouldn't use Valyrian Steel to make the head, as it would defy the very purpose of a warhammer, which needs weight to be truly dangerous.

Now that the mold was made, he melted steel into the forge, before putting that same melted steel into the mold of the hammer's head. He waited for the mold to be full, and took it to the anvil. He then started to hammer it into shape, hitting every part with the precision and the strength of a master blacksmith, and not a novice who started a moon ago. 

Once the shape was perfect, he took the mold and plunged it into the water besides his anvil. The rapid change in temperature cooled the head considerably. But Aenar was not yet satisfied. It was good. Just... Good. Which meant that it was not enough. It had to be perfect. And it was with that thought in mind that he started to hammer once more, the shape twisting and changing as Aenar never stopped, as he relentlessly forged, doing everything in his power to make it the greatest warhammer the world has ever seen.

After hours and hours on end of forging, Aenar plunged the mold into the water one last time. When he pulled it out, he looked at the head, inspecting it for any mismatch or little flaw. And he found none. He smiled and set the head aside. He would make the shaft later.

"One weapon down. Six more to go... Let's roll."

He plunged the sword into the water for a full minute before taking it out. He inspected the surface of the sword for several minutes, searching for any flaw or anything that would make the sword not perfect. But nothing. It was perfect, just like all the other weapons he had forged in this week. He looked to the Ring, asking him how long they had been here.

"A week, Master. The full moon is set for tonight, in a few hours. The magic of the First Flame is awake and will be for several weeks, mayhaps a moon or two. Perfect for the eggs."

Aenar sighed as he realized how long he had been cooped up here. He had swore that he would not lose himself in forging again. At least, this time, it took a week and not a moon. He was a bit surprised by that, but the Ring told him that ever since magic had rose from the dead, forging magical artifacts would be much easier than when he forged the Rings. 

He laid the blade along with all the others. One warhammer, 3 swords, two spears and a bow. Each for one of the Lords Paramounts. He knew that, as soon as the secret of those weapons gets out, every lord, every knight and every soldier will dream of having such weapons. But Aenar was not a fool. He would never forge such weapons on a whim. Those weapons were the fruit of endless effort and deep thinking. Even carving runes was a great effort for him, as all it would take to mess everything up was one little mistake. One symbol too long, one space too narrow or one accent on the wrong side, and everything would have been for nought. 

But now was not the time for such thoughts. Now, his family would rise dragons from stone, and they would begin their plans. But they would have to wait. They couldn't just go to King's Landing and demand the Throne, even with Ancalagon and the Nazgûls. They could take the Throne, sure. Keeping it, on the other hand, was another matter entirely.

But if they had 4 fully grown dragons and two or three kingdoms, perhaps even four, backing their claims, then, taking the Throne and keeping it would not be just a fantasy anymore. But once again, it would all depend on time. The one thing they no longer feared. Not since they carried their Rings.

Aenar was still deep in thought when his eyes were covered by two small hands and a smooth voice spoke.

"Guess whoooo ?"

He laughed a bit, pleasantly surprised.

"Let me guess... Dany ?"

The hands removed themselves and he turned to look at the silver-gold hair of his aunt.

"Ding, ding, ding. Well done, Aenar."

Her laugh was sweet and enticing. he found he could listen to it for hours and not get bored. She really was too sweet for this world. He then saw his sister and uncles coming behind her. He waved at them to come closer and they did. They all carried a dragon egg, with Aemon carrying Dany's egg.

"Shouldn't you be carrying your own egg, sweet aunt ?"

She blushed a little, before turning back and going to Aemon. She thanked him and gave him a quick kiss on the cheek as she took back her egg. They came to him and stood as they waited for him to speak. They trusted him. Not because he was the Patriarch of House Targaryen. Not because he was the Rightful King. But because he had proven himself, as a brother, a nephew and a leader. And they would follow him to the world's end.

"Well, now that we are all here, we can begin."

They looked at him with excitement in their eyes. They would wake dragons. Actual Dragons. From Dragon eggs. They still had trouble believing that everything that happened this last moon was real. But waking up everyday in the castle of their ancestors, looking out the windows and seeing the remains of Valyria. And then seeing Ancalagon everyday was enough proof that everything was real.

"With the magic of the First Flame and a bit of your blood, the eggs will be brought back to life. And from there, we will plan for the future. To retake the Iron Throne. But we also need to think of after that. Taking the Throne is the first step in the rebirth of our House. From there, we need to prepare for the future. We need to learn how to rule. I do not want to repeat the mistakes of our forebearers. Aegon and his sister-wives were conquerors. Not rulers. We cannot be the same thing."

They nodded at his words. He was right, they had to be more than conquerors. They needed to be rulers. To be Lords and Ladies worthy to call the King brother or nephew.

"So what do we do now ?"

Rhaenys asked, her voice clear.

"Come with your egg and put it in this little alcove, there."

Aenar said, as he pointed at a little nest made of stone. It was the perfect size for an egg and it encased it perfectly.

"Now, we need to pour a bit of your blood on it to wake it. Don't worry, just a bit."

He said that last part as she looked a bit fearful. She trusted her Valonqar but she was still scared of magic, even though she had not taken her Ring off ever since she first put it on, a week ago. But now, she would see for herself the effect of magic. She had not told her brother that she hadn't tried the Ring's powers yet, as she didn't wanted to do something stupid, something that she and Daenerys agreed on.

They wanted to ask Aenar's help in learning magic with him. Viserys had used the Ring a bit and had loved every minute of it. For a few moments, he had ran faster than any man, struck stronger and was sturdier than anyone else. Daenerys had been a little surprised to see him hug Aenar after that, as he shook a little from all the emotion. 

She put the dragon egg in the nest and looked at Aenar as he took out a knife.

"Here. And be careful with it. Don't cut yourself too deeply. Just a small cut, for a few drops of blood. And after that, we wait for the egg to hatch."

She looked at the knife in her brother's hand with attention. She took it without a word and looked at the egg again. She raised her hand on top of the egg and cut herself a bit. She let out a little yelp of pain at the pain but kept her hand forward. A few drops of blood fell on the egg, and they all looked closely at it for several minute, but nothing was happening.

As they started to wonder where they had gone wrong, a little sound brought them out of their thoughts. They all searched for the source around them but there was nothing. Then, the sound again. They all looked down at the egg and none dared to speak. 

And there, in the First Flame of Valyria. For the first time in over 150 years. Everyone looked with great surprise as the egg cracked, and a little sand colored head came out of the egg. It was perfect. No other words could describe such a beautiful creature. And then, they all cooed as the dragon made a little chirp. But it seemed that he didn't really liked being seen as a little animal and not a force to be reckoned with. So, with all the strength that the lungs of a just-born baby dragon could muster, he let out a roar that reverberated itself in the cave. It was not as impressive as Ancalagon, even when he yawned in his sleep, but it was there. And for them, it was more than enough.

After a few more minutes, two more roars were heard in the cave, and three little dragons were now in the arms of their bonded. Daenerys had a black dragon, his scales already sharp enough to cut cloth. Viserys had a dragon with cream-colored scales and Rhaenys had one with scales that looked like sand color.

None dared make a sound as the dragons stirred in the arms of their will-be riders.

"So... What will you name them ?"

Aenar asked, a bit of trepidation in his voice. He was quite excited about it.

"Rhaelina."

Daenerys spoke first. The dragon seemed to agree as he almost purred at the name and laid his head on Daenerys's shoulder, silently asking for scratches.

"Rhaegal."

Viserys spoke next. It would seem that he wanted a part of his beloved brother with him. Something that he would have almost constantly now.

"Elianix."

Rhaenys finally spoke, and the dragon had the same reaction as Daenerys's one, as he rolled in her arms and showed his belly, also asking for scratches.

Aenar and Aemon were happy to see that their family had dragons of their own. Aemon had told him that, even with the Ring, he was too old to have his own dragon. He was already very happy to be able to watch them grow, as his Maester's mind never disappeared, even after more than fifty years at the Wall.

Aenar then beckoned them all, and told them that they needed to plan forward. What should they do now ?

The Great Hall of the Targaryen Keep had not seen such life in 4 centuries, and it brought endless joy to Aenar that he was there to witness it. But now, they needed to talk. All of them. They needed to plan. Retaking the Iron Throne would be more than just burning every enemy down until his ass was on that ugly chair.

"I have thought deeply about the future and, personally, I see four ways to give the lords my little surprises.

1) The Grand Meeting of Harrenhall. I invite them there, present the weapons and declare myself the Lord of the Rings and Envoy of the Gods.

2) The silent messenger. I personally visit every Lord Paramount and bring them the weapon, telling that I am but the Messenger for the Lord of the Ring.

3) The Tourney. We wait for the death of Jon Arryn. The Usurper will then choose a new Hand. He will throw a tourney, then a feast. I barge into the feast, show the weapons, declare myself as the last Magical Blacksmith and offer my services to the Crown, swearing fealty to the Realm. Not to the Throne, not the King, not the Royal Family. Only the Realm."

Aenar looked at everyone, as they listened with great attention. He took a great breath, as he explained the fourth and last plan. The most ambitious one.

"4) The invitations. We rebuild Valyria. It will take time, it will take many resources, but the outcome would be the greatest of the four plans."

They all looked at him as though he had just sprouted a second head. Or a third, seeing their coat. None dared say a word. This last plan was madness. Pure madness. It would take so much time, so much resources. But the thought of rebuilding Valyria. Of making the Freehold alive once more. To see dragons flying freely into the sky again after four centuries of nothing but ashes and death.

"So... Which plan are we going with ?"

Chapter Text

As the silence stretched on after he spoke, Aenar was starting to feel a bit uncomfortable. That was until his uncle Viserys rose to his feet and looked at him before saying.

“As much as I respect your intellect, Aenar. 3 of those plans are absolute horseshit. A meeting in Harrenhall ? Really ? That’s just stupid, and you would reveal way too much.

Second, meeting them face to face and one by one is way too dangerous for our cause. They would either try to restrain you or send messages to all the Lords and Ladies of the Seven Kingdoms to look for you until you are brought on your hands and knees in front of the Usurper. You are strong, but even you cannot fight against the Seven Kingdoms all at the same time.

And finally, waiting for Jon Arryn’s death would take way too much time and then revealing yourself as a magical blacksmith is, once again, too dangerous. You would find yourself shackled to the Iron Throne and would be forced to create weapons and Rings for them.”

His words were true. They all knew it. And as they wondered what to do, Aemon spoke.

“Your uncle is right, Aenar. But the fourth plan; on the other hand… I don’t know where this ambition comes from, but I do desire to see it through. I would love to see the Freehold rise from its ashes.”

His own words stirred a great desire in all their hearts. After all, he was right. Recreating the Valyrian Freehold. It was a dream, a fantasy. And yet, Aenar knew that, with the One Ring, his powers and his family, it was possible. They could do it.

Together, they could recreate Valyria. See it rise from its ashes as they worked together to see it done.

“... You are right. I take it we go with the fourth plan, then ?”

He said, a teasing tone in his voice as he had a little smile on his face.

“There’s just one last part.”

Aemon said.

“What is it, uncle ?”

“Why would you give weapons to the Lords Paramounts ? It would be a waste. Instead, as we recreate Valyria, you should make them the heirlooms of the next generation of the Lords of the Freehold.”

He was right once again, and Aenar knew it. When he had forged the weapons, the Ring kept asking him why would he strengthen his enemies before his conquest. And Aenar had responded that he wanted to spin a thread of trust from the Great Houses to him before claiming his throne. But as he thought about his uncle’s words, he knew them to be true.

“I… You are right. I wanted to manipulate the Lords, but it is useless. Pretty baubles shall not gain us support, not for the Throne”. 

They could give the Lannisters all the gold in the world, but it would not change their allegiances. They wanted to see their blood on the Throne. Same thing with the Baratheons and the Arryns. 

But it’s when you take the Tyrells into account that things start to change. The Tyrells have the biggest army in the Seven Kingdoms and they are the largest food supplier to the Realm.

But they were also extremely ambitious and would fight for the apparent winner of the war. The only other way to get them on their sides sent a chill down Aenar’s spine. But he had swore it, hadn’t he ? He would never sell a member of his family, even for the mightiest army in the Seven Kingdoms. 

And so, if the Tyrells desired a betrothal for their support, then he would offer his own hand. He knew that it would please the Tyrells much more than the hand of his sister, his aunt or his uncle Viserys. But as he thought more and more about it, he wondered if it was the right course of action.

The Tyrells may have the greatest army in Westeros, but what would it mean when faced with four fully-grown dragons and the might of the restored Valyrian Freehold.

Just ashes in the wind. It would be all that would remain of the Reach if they fought him. He didn’t want to destroy the Tyrells, not like the Baratheons and the Lannisters. They had been loyal to his House, fighting for the Targaryens against the Usurper. But it was also their fault that his father fell at the Trident. While they drank, slept and feasted just before Storm’s End, they let Rhaegar down, letting him fight against Robert’s army. 

And now, his father was dead and the Tyrells still ruled the Reach. They had been punished by the Usurper, that he knew and acknowledged. So, if the Tyrells remembered their oaths of fealty to his family, then he would not have to raze their House to the ground. But if they didn’t… They would understand the meaning of Fire and Blood.

“Then.”

He started to speak as he rose to his feet.

“We will restore the Valyrian Freehold. But I must warn you. It will be long, it will be difficult. It will be both time and resources consuming. But, if we do it, if we rebuild Valyria, then, we won’t just have a fighting chance. We will stand against them as the New Dragonlords.”

As he spoke, he could almost see the glee in their eyes as they listened. They wanted it. They wanted to see the home of their ancestors be worthy of the name of the greatest country in the world. But they also knew that, without manpower and resources, it was nothing more than a fantasy.

“How are you gonna do it, Aenar ?”

His sister asked, her voice filled with worry and excitement at the idea of restoring Valyria.

“I do not know yet, but I will find an idea. After all, I’ve got the best advisors in the world.”

He said as he lifted his left hand, showing off his Ring, which glittered in the sunlight, before pointing to the Witch-King standing a bit to the right behind him.

“As you desire, my lord.”

His voice was still as cold and deep as ever, even after a moon of listening to it whenever he deemed to speak, they still felt chills when they heard it.

“Thank you, my friend. I hope, together, we will solve the problem of restoring Valyria.”

Once all was said and done, Aenar thanked all his family and then left the room, going to his room at the top of the Castle. 

But as he walked, he heard the Ring speak.

“I can feel a source of magic, master. Fire magic, to be exact. Much weaker than yours, but still present. They are coming here. By my estimations, they will be here in a few days.”

Aenar was surprised to hear that. He reached to his own magic and searched for another source outside of Valyria. And, indeed. Something was coming from the west. It was not very strong, but it was there. And it was enough to disturb him. What could it be ?

He decided to wait for it. He would wait for whatever was coming to arrive here,and from there, he would think about the best course of action. But it would all depend on a single question : Friend, or Foe ?

Aenar stood near the ruined docks of Valyria. Or rather, one of the docks. Valyria had been much more than one city, but now, all that remained of the other cities were naught but ruins and death. But the capital still had its old walls and the Castles of the Forty Dragonlords.

He watched, 3 Nazgûls who had decided to show themselves for once by his side, as several ships entered his field of view.

For the last week, he had felt the magic coming ever closer to Valyria. He didn’t feel any evil intentions coming from the magic, but he could never be completely sure. When his family had learnt that strangers were coming, they were very surprised. Rhaenys wanted to destroy their ships before they reached Valyria, but Aenar had managed to stop her. She was more akin to Visenya than her namesake, but it only served to make him chuckle a bit every time she felt like destroying something. 

But now, he stood tall, even though he was but an eight namedays old boy, he would not show any weakness to those strangers.

After a few more minutes, the first ship docked and he watched as the plank lowered itself and a woman dressed in red garments, her brown hair falling to her shoulders, walked and made contact with the land. She looked around before her eyes fell on him. She smiled and approached him. He could feel the tension of the Nazgûls but he silently ordered them to stand down. They calmed a bit, but still kept their hands on their swords beneath their cloaks. The woman stood before him and lowered herself into a curtsy as she looked at him.

“It is a great pleasure to stand before you, son of the Dragon.”

She said, her voice smooth and light. Aenar was surprised to hear her refer to him as such, but he quickly composed himself and made a small bow himself.

“Welcome to Valyria, my Lady. I must ask, though. Who are you ?”

He said, his tone sharp as steel and fire in his eyes.

“I am but a humble servant of the Lord of Light. I am the High Priestess Kinvara, of Volantis.”

Aenar was not completely surprised. But, why would Red Priests seek in Valyria ? And why send a High Priestess all the way here, even though Valyria was not so far from Volantis.

“What do you seek here, Lady Kinvara ? There is nothing here but death and destruction.”

“Please, my Lord. Do not take me for a fool. I have travelled here in search of the one who revived magic. And I can sense it swirling in your veins. It is strong, yet soft. Sharp and smooth. Cold, but scorching. You are a great mystery, my Lord. One that I would love to solve.”

Aenar was not really pleased with her comments, but he could not just turn her away just for that. Priests were usually always a bit detached from reality more than others. Septa Mordane in Winterfell was quite the proof of that. He could only hope that the Red Priests were different from the Faith of the Seven.

“In that case, my Lady, let me welcome you once again to the Valyrian Freehold. Or what is left of it.”

“Thank you, my Lord. Your hospitality is most welcome. Could I bother you by asking your men to help my own ?”

She said as she gave a quick look to the Nazgûls. She was not frightened by them, as far as Aenar could see. But some people are simply better at hiding their feelings than others. This Kinvara may be one of them.

“...Very well, my Lady. My men will help yours. I would like to invite you and your followers into my home.”

“I am very thankful for your hospitality, my Lord.”

She made a small curtsy once again. She was taller than Aenar by at least two heads, but she didn’t look down on him for being young. He knew she could feel the magic in his veins, and perhaps he would show her some of his magic, if she proved to be a friend.

They reached the Targaryen Castle after thirty minutes of walking. He had expected her to complain about the distance, but she never did. She only ever smiled and looked around her as she imagined the once might of Valyria. A might he was hoping to recreate. 

The doors opened before them and he could see his family standing in the opening, while two Nazgûls opened the door and the four others were each standing behind one of them.

“My Lady, let me introduce you to my family.”

He said as he showed them.

“My sister Rhaenys, my aunt Daenerys, my uncle Viserys and my great-great uncle Aemon.”

They all gave either a curtsy, a bow or in Rhaenys’s case, a nod to Kinvara.

“It is a pleasure to meet you all. I am Kinvara, High Priestess of the Lord of Light.”

The Targaryen family watched the Priestess with suspicion. They didn't know her and were quite used to many people doing everything in their power to either kill them or use them in some way.

But now, a woman dressed in all red and with an aura of magic surrounding her was standing before them, and judging by Aenar's own stance, she was welcome in Valyria. So Aemon stepped forward and raised his hand.

"Let me welcome you to Valyria, Lady Kinvara. Would you like someone to assist you in finding any chambers. You are our guest, after all."

She took his hand in her own and smiled softly at him. If Aemon was many decades younger, he would have felt sheepish at her predatory gaze, but now he only felt a slight warmth in his slowly-healing bones. 

"Thank you for your offer, my Lord. I hope I am of no inconvenience to you."

"Absolutely not. It would be my honor to help you."

They then left together inside of the castle, while the younger members of House Targaryen stayed outside, watching the men carrying chests and resources, while receiving help from the Nazgûls. To give the men credits, none of them ran at the mere sight of them, although some of them looked more sheepish than others. But all still did everything they could to help.

Aenar looked at the horizon, the sun still high in the sky. He made a small bow to the rest of his family, before calling the Witch-King to his side and walked to his solar, on top of the castle.

Aenar was sitting at his desk, discussing with his two closest advisors, the Ring and the Witch-King, as they talked of the reconstruction of Valyria. They knew that it was a huge undertake, but it was only by laying the objectives and all possibles threats unto paper that they realized just how massive their plan was.

-Reconstruction of roads, walls, houses and all that is made of stone and brick.

-Stopping the greyscales from attacking their settlement and the men that Kinvara brought with her.

-They also needed to find a way to repel invaders without revealing their own powers. Aenar and the Ring had the idea of manipulating the monsters of Valyria to kill all threats before they even glimpsed in their way. Aenar had not been too sure about this idea, but when he saw the raw power and strength in those monsters, it quickly changed to agreement with the Ring. 

-They also needed manpower to rebuild everything, alongside with many resources. but Aenar had his own idea on how to achieve that. 

-Finally, they needed to repopulate Valyria, both with citizens and soldiers. It was a tricky part, as they could not just allow people to come live here. But they needed it. The Witch-King, after much consideration of his plans to help his Lord, finally told him to find as many, if not all, of Valyrian descent and give them citizenship of New Valyria.

All of this was the basic problem of restoring Valyria. There was many other things to do, but this was the blunt of the problem. They were getting tired after almost a full week of planning and thinking, with barely any rest. But they needed to find a way.

A knock to his door took him out of his train of thoughts. He raised his head and saw the door halfway open and Lady Kinvara standing in the opening. he bid her entry with a wave of his hand and watched as she stepped forward. She took the seat opposite of him and smiled.

"What can I do for you, my Lady ?"

"I believe we can help each other, my Lord."

She said in an enigmatic smile. But Aenar didn't had time to play games, not when he was busy working to rebuild the lands of his ancestors.

"Do not speak in riddles, my Lady. Speak plainly or leave. I have no time for the rest."

She kept her smile, a glint in her eyes. 

"Very well, my Lord. I would like to make a deal with you."

"What do you want, and what are you ready to give in exchange ?"

She bent forward a bit, her ruby very visible against her pale skin.

"You are the Prince that was Promised. The one sent by the Lord of Light to fight in the Long Night. And, as High Priestess of Volantis, I want to help you."

Aenar would have wide eyes at this, if he didn't had a literal magical Ring at his finger; a man of nightmares next to him and a dragon sleeping a few minutes out of the castle. But now, he was getting quite used to this type of revelations. So, he laid back in his seat and looked at her dead in the eyes.

"... What do you want ?"

"Your secret. Nothing else."

He almost scoffed. Not at the fact that she wanted o know something extremely privy about him, but the fact that he didn't even know which secret she wanted to know.

"Which one, my Lady ?"

"How did you revive magic ?"

He smiled, and showed his Ring in the light coming from the window. Her eyes widened a bit as she gazed unto the sheer might that seemed to radiate out of the Ring.

"I've had help. Ancient help. And now, magic is back into our world. And I stand at the top."

He said the last part in an almost growl. She looked at his eyes, the normal purple shining in an unnatural glow. 

"... I see. Thank you for your explanation, my Lord."

"So, my Lady. What can you do for Valyria ?"

He asked, his eyes returning to their normal colors.

"I can give you both men and resources to help with the rebuilding of Valyria. Whatever you desire, I can give you."

...

...

That ... was quite the incredible offer. If she was serious, then they could solve the most troubling current problem. But what she would want in exchange was the problem.

"What do you want for all of this, my Lady ?"

"Simply for you to take what is yours by right, Son of the Dragon. To see you on the Throne of Swords is my price."

"... Very well, then. We have a deal."

He extended his hand and she shook it, before bowing to him as she rose from her seat and turned to leave the room.

"'Ah, one last thing."

He said to her. She turned to him, a small smile. He snapped his fingers and a ball of fire appeared in his hand.

"Never ask for my secrets again. Understood ?"

She gulped, almost invisible, before she nodded to him.

"As you desire. Your Grace."

And with those final words, she left the solar.

Aenar turned on his seat to look at the setting sun. It was beautiful. So simple and yet so magnifying. No one could deny the majesty of the Sun. And that was his ambition for Valyria.

But now, time to rest. There would be plenty of time to plan later. And as he fell into sleep, practically falling on his desk, the Witch-King sighed before taking his Lord into his arms and carrying him into his bed, settling him quietly and tucking the covers over him, before stepping out of the room, and standing watch outside of the door.

And he then received a vision. he saw a sword with a wolf handle, cloths of all colors and a wolf wood carving.

What could it mean... What indeed ?

Chapter Text

3 moons had passed since the red priests had arrived in Valyria and Aenar made the deal with Kinvara. And Valyria had changed a lot. Every house in a kilometer radius around the Targaryen castle had been rebuilt by the priests and followers of R'hllor, who had worked in tandem with Aenar to rebuild them following Valyrian architecture. Multiple roads were currently being repaired, and the main ones were finished.

In his solar, on top of the castle, Aenar sat at his desk, his mind focused on his current objective. It took great focus and the slightest distraction could set him back several hours, which is why he ordered the Witch-King to stand guard in front of his door. His fingers curled around the knife, his gaze fixed on the hardest detail. It had to be perfect, or he wouldn't allow himself to use it.

He slowly approached the knife to the front and barely plunged it in the eye in front of him. Then, he took it out almost immediately, before finally putting his knife on his desk, his fingers curled around the small wood carving of a direwolf. Aenar wanted to make a gift for baby Arya, along with the two other gifts he had made for Robb and Sansa. A sword and cloths of many different colors. It was Robb's nameday in a three weeks and Aenar wanted to give his cousins a gift.

Aenar still loved his cousins, they were not guilty of his uncle's sins or mistakes. And Aenar would never blame a child for the mistakes of the parents. Not like the Faith of the Seven. Instead, he wanted to keep a good relationship with them, and so he prepared gifts for each of them. 

He had forged a new sword of steel for Robb, but not just any steel. No. He had made a sword of pure Valyrian Steel, which he learned to melt thanks to the forge and the books in the library explaining everything. A sheath of dark leather was made with it to keep the blade. He had worked two days on it and he was very proud of it.

He had asked Kinvara for cloths of many colors for his sister Sansa. They had a good relationship, even when her mother did everything to keep them apart, Sansa had always treated him well. And so, he made sure to get her a gift he was sure she would like.

And for Arya, he carved a wood direwolf. It was only because Arya was still a baby with few, if any, interests. So, he thought that a carving of the sigil of her House would be a good gift for her. And he hoped she would like it.

As Aenar finished the wood carving, he put it down on his desk and rose to his feet, standing in front of the large window. The sun was slowly setting down and he was already getting a bit tired from his wood carving, something that he could not learn from the Ring, as his previous master had no interest in it. And so, Aenar had to learn by himself.

He called the Witch-King inside and the door opened almost immediately, as he stood in the doorway.

“Enter, please. And close the door on your way in.”

And he did. He then quickly crossed the room, his long legs hidden beneath his cloak putting him in reach of the desk in a few seconds. Aenar took the sword, the cloths and the carving and gave them to the Witch-King.

“Take those, give them to one of the Nazgûls, with the instructions to give them to my cousins in Winterfell. They cannot tell anyone where we are, or what we are doing. Only that I am safe and well, but that I am not planning on returning soon. And if Lord Stark tries anything funny, they can put his ass on the ground. But no killing him, got it ?”

The Witch-King nodded, turned around and left the room, opening and closing the door on his way out, as he went in search of the nearest Nazgûl. he would have did it himself if his master bid him to, but he didn’t really desired to see Lord Stark again, not after the way he had treated his master for years. Besides, he had to stay here to help his master with the restoration of Valyria.

He looked out the window beside him, stopping his search for a few moments, as he saw how the reconstruction was coming along. Every house around the castle had been rebuilt, and multiple roads were either finished or near completion. There was even the ground works for a temple. But for what gods, that he knew not. It took him a few more minutes of searching before he saw Morgazar training in the yard of the castle. Their master had even created a private training yard, specifically for them. He really was too good to them, but the Witch-King didn't complain. Neither did any Nazgûl. 

He reached Morgazar, his steps quiet and long. He ducked low when his brother made a spin, and sidestepped a backward attack. Morgazar noticed him and sheathed his sword on his back.

"What can I do for you, my Lord ?"

His voice was clear and deep. Like it could cut anything in it's path, something that the swordsman could very well do with his own blade.

"I need you to go to Winterfell and give these to the master's cousins. The sword for Robb, the cloths for Sansa and the carving for Arya."

He said as he handed the gifts to Morgazar, who took them in his hands and bowed low.

"Also, you cannot tell anyone where we are, or our current and future plans. Only that he is safe and sound, but is not planning on coming back any time soon. "

"Very well, my Lord. I shall make way to Winterfell with haste."

"See that you do. And if Lord Stark tries anything , you have clearance to 'put his ass on the ground'. But you cannot kill him."

"Understood."

And with those final words, they separated and both left the yard. The Witch-King went back to Aenar, while Morgazar went to the docks, where the captain who worked for Kinvara was currently present.

In the library, Aemon and Viserys were looking at books about religion, where they discovered about the Valyrian Gods, and the names were awfully familiar. It was the names of the most famous dragons of their family. It seemed that the Targaryen of old wanted to keep a part of their history with them. 

They found ceremonies, rites, magic rituals and many more things. It really was a treasure of history and culture. The sheer number of things they discovered was absolutely mind-blowing. Books on blood magic, on dragon training, on human biology, on cures and poisons. So much information that made the Citadel look like a hut of miscreants.

They had been searching for plans about the layout of Valyria before the Doom, and they had finally found them. The plans were exquisite, no other word. Straight lines and perfect penmanship had made simple plans for a city into a work of art. And the plans themselves were even better.

Divided into sectors, each one fulfilling a certain purpose, all in order to make the city completely self-subservient. Valyria had truly been the greatest city in the world. They had existed for 5000 years, and not a single time had a civil war occurred. All because they knew that it would destroy them all. They cared more about the people than their petty feuds, which were quickly forgotten every time a new Lord sat the chair of his father. They knew better than to keep blaming a House of Dragonlords, for the mistakes of a dead fool.

Those mentalities, the way the Fourtys behaved with each other, the respect, all those things had made Valyria the greatest kingdom in the world. No, not a kingdom. The Freehold. For no King has ever ruled Valyria. 

And as they looked at the plans and the history of Valyria, they found something quite interesting. Although there had never been a King, there had been a figure with a similar level. A man, not born, but chosen into his position by the other Dragonlords : The Archon of Valyria. A man who could, when necessary, overrule the command of any other lord.

When they read that information, they knew that they had to share it with Aenar, which is why Viserys had ran out of the library to his solar, where he was sure to be currently working.

A few minutes later, the doors to the library opened and in strode Viserys and Aenar, who looked more intrigued more than anything else. Viserys had not told him why he had brought him here, only that it was of great interest. Aenar had not been doing anything important at the time, so he followed his uncle.

"Ah, good. You are finally here. Come, sit down."

Aemon said, his voice clear and strong thanks to the Ring's power. Aenar sat down in front of him, his legs crossed, while Viserys sat next to Aemon. 

"So, what is it, uncle ?"

"We found blueprints about Valyria, plans of the city's outline viewed from the sky. They are perfect, and very precise."

Aenar looked very interested in this, and he had his calculating face, as Aemon called it.

"That's... that's pretty good. Perfect work, uncle. Thank you for everything you do here."

Aenar then rose to his feet, probably to go look for Kinvara to share the news and plan the rest of the reconstruction of the Capital. But Aemon was not over.

"There is more, Aenar. We found texts about a position in Valyria, a title held by a Lord from the Fourtys."

Aenar looked at them, surprised, before he sat back down in his seat and motioned for them to continue. Aemon took the text in his hand and gave them to Aenar, who took it.

"There are mentions of a man called an 'Archon'. We believe it is a man similar to a King, only that he was chosen by the other Dragonlords and voted to the majority, the same process of election for the post of Lord Commander of the Night's Watch."

Aenar looked more and more interested with every word. He leaned over on the table, setting the text aside to look at them, as he wondered what else they had discovered about this so-called 'Archon'. And as he listened on and on the things they learned, he realized just how much this Archon was important in Valyria. He acted as a leader, instead of a commander. He stood at the front of the armies of Valyria, instead of commanding from the back. He fought head on in every battle, or rode his dragon whenever he could.

Until now, there had been 9 Archons of Valyria. 9 persons had been the most important man in all of Valyria. Each time an Archon had been chosen, it was because of great disputes between two factions of Dragonlords, or a war of great magnitude. And each time, the Archon had ruled with precision, with wisdom and knowledge.

"All of this is very interesting, uncle. But why are you telling me this ?"

Aemon laughed a bit at this. Even Viserys looked amused, and he was not the most open about his emotions.

"Why do you think, Aenar ? We want you to be the new Archon of Valyria. No one else but you deserve such a title."

Aenar wasn't sure what to say. What do you even say in such a moment ? He had absolutely no idea how to answer. And he found that he wouldn't need to.

"We are not going to force you, Aenar. Only if you accept it, will you be given this title. That's how it works, here. How it has always worked, for 5 thousand years."

Aemon's voice was confident, and it even gave him a possible way out, if he didn't wanted the title. But Aenar's own desires were not paramount to their plans and future. If he let himself be ruled by his emotions, he would be no better that the drunk stag on the throne of his ancestors. 

And so, with that thought in mind, Aenar looked at his uncle, quiet fire in his purple eyes. 

"Very well, uncle. I accept the title. I shall strive to better Valyria, and to restore it beyond it's greatest days. I swear it on the Old Gods and the Valyrian Gods."

Aemon and Viserys visibly smiled at his words. They were proud of him. They didn't truly know each other yet, as they had only met 4 moons ago. But they were the last Targaryens in the world. The last dragons. And they would avenge their family and show everyone exactly why Westeros had bent the knee to the three-headed dragon.

"Good. Then, I, Aemon Targaryen, hereby proclaim Lord Aenar Targaryen, Patriarch of his House and rightful King of the Seven Kingdoms, the Tenth Archon of Valyria."

There was no need for grand speeches or beautiful words. They were to the point and slightly in a rush. They had a job after all. To restore the Freehold. And it's not with ceremonies and fancy words they will do so. It's with strength, power and men.

But now was not the time for this. Aenar nodded to his uncles, thanking them for their help, as he took the plans in his hands and left the library to find Kinvara. 

They have a city to build, so they better get started.

The waves crashed against the bow of the ship. It was a beautiful sound that had always calmed him, even when he was still in Middle-Earth, serving Sauron. Morgazar stood tall. He always enjoyed the peace that travelling by ship provided. But now, he had a mission. He may enjoy the sea, but in one day, they would finally reach White Harbor, and from there he would go to Winterfell, to bring the gifts for his master's cousins.

He knew that his master kept check on his cousins through the Palantir, and apparently, they had not taken his departure with joy. The son of Eddard Stark had completely withdrawn himself from everyone. His first sister had became much more religious towards the Old Gods, completely rejecting the Faith of he Seven, she also worked to become a true Northern Lady. The second sister was still a babe, but apparently, she only ever said three names : Obb, Ana and On. It did not take a Maester's education to know she spoke the names of her family. But never her parents, much to her mother's dismay.

Behind him, the sailors looked at Morgazar with awe and fear. They had heard from Lady Kinvara the tales of House Nazgûl, a House sworn to the young boy that was in Valyria. That boy was weird. No other word could describe him. But it was those men cloaked in darkness that truly gave them chills. The boy was kind, and quick to give a smile. He was patient, and he never looked down on them for being smallfolk. 

But those Nazgûls were something else. They never spoke any words of disdain or acted weirdly toward them. But their voices, deep and rattling like bones were absolutely horrifying. And the fact that no one had ever seen their eyes added a great deal of mystery to those figures of nightmares.

No one had seen the man eat, sleep or even fucking breathe. He seemed like a dead man walking. Morgazar knew how he and his brothers were seen by the men that served his master, but he did not care. He was far more interested in his swordsmanship, the pursuit of the closest to perfection he could obtain, and the training he provided to his master and his family. Especially Viserys, who held his sword like he was born with it in his hand. Rhaenys enjoyed fighting, but she favored the spear. And Daenerys preferred to train with the Witch-King on magic, as she wanted to become a woman worthy of the Ring she now held. Aemon rarely appeared in the training ground, but when he did, it was a frightening thing.

His control over mental magic was incredible, especially given he had only owned his Ring for less than 4 moons.He could sometimes make them see things that were not there, or push them to attack each other, like they were sparring. He was not a great swordsman, and his reflexes were not those of a warrior, but they were working on it. After all, his old body did not stop him from having the strength of youth.

Morgazar looked at the horizon. he could't see the land yet, but he knew that they would finally arrive tomorrow. From there, it was a week long ride to Winterfell at full speed. He should arrive just in time for the feast for Robb Stark's nameday. In that time, he could only wait and train. Nothing else.

White Harbor was a beautiful city. It's marble streets and statues of merman all around were beautiful, and very interesting. True works of art. All around the harbor, people were yelling of products, families reuniting with each other after long travels, and deals were made, legal or not. Morgazar felt right at home.

He quickly found the stables, where a beautiful black horse was standing at attention. He went to the stable master, wishing to acquire the stallion.

"Excuse me."

He said, his voice deep and chilling. The man visibly jumped up, before turning around, his face becoming a bit paler upon gazing at the nightmare in front of him that was almost two meters tall.

"Wha- What can I do for you, Ser ?"

He said, his voice trembling as he tried to stay calm. A useless effort, but Morgazar cared not.

"The black stallion in your stables. How much ?"

He pointed at the horse in question, his cloak shifting ever so slightly to reveal his huge sword strapped to his back. There was a reason his name meant Dark Sword, after all. The man's gaze was drawn to the blade, and he gulped ever so slightly.

"It's... It's twenty golden dragons, Ser."

Morgazar didn't really know how money worked in this world yet. It had been thousands of years since he had payed something for the last time. But today, he had to act like a normal human, or the closest he could act like one. He had some money that he was given by the Witch-King for his mission, so he paid the appropriate sum to the man, who took the money and quickly led him to the horse, leaving as soon as he climbed the horse, who accepted him without a fuss.

Well, that's done. Now, only to ride to Winterfell. It would be a long ride, a full week. But it's not like he had to rest, now, did he ?

The Great Hall of Winterfell was full of life and enjoyment. But the person for who this party was thrown would rather be anywhere else than here. He hated this. He hated being alone. He hated not seeing him anymore. 

Robb missed Jon. He missed him a lot. He was not just his brother. He was his best and truest friend. The only person he could tell anything and who would listen to him, no judgment or anything else. Just listening.

He knew that he was not being fair to the others who came all the way here for him, but he did not care. If Jon walked through those doors right now, he would throw everyone out himself and make sure that Jon never left him again. Or he would leave with him. Yes, that could work. They could travel together, view things all around the world and witness everything that existed.

Seating to his left was his little sister Sansa. She had also changed a lot ever since Jon disappeared. She had never gone to the sept again. Instead, she prayed in the godswood every day for hours on end, begging the gods to bring Jon back to Winterfell, where they could be a family again.

Robb then looked at his father. He was so different from a few moons ago. His hair was graying much faster than it should, and his eyes were no longer focused. They were lost in the past, where only he could walk. 

And as Robb looked around the Great Hall, he could see the glances. Hear the whispers. Whether the servants who looked at him and Sansa with pity, or at his parents with a mix of anger and disdain.

The Riverlanders had got a much harder life ever since Jon's departure. Everyone blamed Lady Trout, as they called her, and her treatment of the boy. She had treated him like a worthless servant, one that did not even deserve the food he got. 

So now, the Northern servants made sure that the Riverlanders understood their place. They were in the North. And they would adapt, or fall.

Even several Lords and Ladies now stated their opinions more... sharply. The Greatjon was the unofficial leader of this movement, and Lord Wyman Manderly was with him in such actions.

But then, the doors opened, drawing the attention of everyone in the Great Hall, as conversation died. Even Robb looked at the door, excited. Perhaps Jon was back, and they could finally be together again. But no. It was not Jon that stood in the doorway.

There, standing in the doorway, was a man in a cloak that seemed to absorb the light, his face hidden beneath a hood. In his arms, a box. And if no one seemed to know who this man was, or what he wanted, they all heard Lord Stark rising from his seat, almost making his chair fall at the speed with which he rose. His eyes were wide and disbelieving. But then, the servants looked at the man better. And something in their memory surged back to life.

A huge snowstorm in the godswood had occurred, a few minutes after Jon had went there. Lord Stark had entered the godswood, braving the storm, searching for his son. And the blizzard fell. In the distance, they could see Lord Stark... being dragged by two men ? What the fuck was happening here ?

The men threw him on the ground and, from nowhere, six others appeared. They stood at the entrance to the wood, swords drawn in front of their faces, covered by their hoods. In the back, Jon was carried by another figure, a crown of steel on his head. He held Jon like one would a son. Who was this man ? And what was he doing with the Warden of the North's son ?

The memory was brought to them, as Morgazar stepped forward. His steps silent, even in the unnatural silence of the Great Hall, it was weird. Very weird. Finally, Morgazar arrived in front of the high table, and instead of looking at Lord and Lady Stark, he turned to Robb.

Robb was stunned to see the man standing right in front of him. Not only was he almost as tall as Lord Umber, but he had shattered every single rule of respect when you enter someone's house by not announcing himself, no speaking to the Lord and Lady, and instead, he now stood before him, a box in his arms.

"Lord Robb. I bear gifts for you and your siblings."

His voice was deep and cold, a chill like no other. Robb had never really been bothered by the cold, but this cold was unlike any other. Wait ,gifts ? For him, Sansa and Arya ? From who ?

"Who- Who are you ?"

Robb's own voice, the voice of a child, was a stark contrast to the stranger's voice. The man simply answered.

" Morgazar, of House Nazgûl. I come on the behalf of my master, Jon Snow."

And with that, all hell broke down in the Hall. Every Lord started to shout, trying to intimidate the stranger, and Lord Stark had to yell for everyone to "Shut their fucking useless mouths" for silence to come back. But Robb was too caught up in his own emotions to care. Jon was alive. It was all he understood, and he needed nothing more. He jumped to his feet, almost snatching the box from the man, who said nothing and simply stood there, his arms crossed in his back, as he waited.

Robb opened the box and gaped like a fish out of water, as he looked at the sword in it. It was absolutely beautiful. A sheath of dark leather, a pommel of a direwolf with white gems in the eyes. The mouth was opened in a snarl and the sword was extremely light. 

Robb took out the sword, as everyone looked at it. He then unsheathed it and everyone gasped at it's sight. Even Robb didn't know whether to gape, smile, cry or laugh. Perhaps all of it at the same time.

Valyrian Steel. The sword was made of Valyrian Steel. How the fuck had young Jon Snow even obtained such a weapon ? There were very few Valyrian swords in this world, and no one normal would ever give it up for his brother. Even Jon, who loved his brother more than anything. Robb looked at the sword with a mix of awe and incomprehension.

"How ?"

A simple question, more to himself than to Morgazar. But the man answered all the same.

"He forged it himself, I believe. But only him and my Lord would know."

Everyone looked at Morgazar like he had just stated that he was a flying fish that could shit rainbows. Perhaps, they would look more serious if he had actually said that. Robb, put the sword back in it's sheath and on the table, as he took out the cloths in the box. They were of many colors, and absolutely beautiful. Silk of the highest quality and colors of rainbow. Sansa almost jumped in her seat when she saw the cloths.

"That would be for Lady Sansa."

Morgazar's voice was still as chilling as ever. But Sansa's scream of joy was heartwarming, as she almost broke her brother's arms when she took the cloths. They were of a higher quality than any other material she had ever worked with. She still enjoyed embroidery, even if she was training to be a true Northern Lady.

All around the Hall, people still couldn't overcome the fact that Jon Snow was still alive, and he had delivered a Valyrian Steel sword to his brother and silks of incredible quality to his sister. And the fact that the man in black didn't explain a single thing was fucking annoying as well. 

"There is also a carving of a direwolf, for Lady Arya."

Robb looked inside the box one more time and saw that, indeed, a small wood carving resembling a direwolf was inside. Robb closed the box, making a note to himself to bring the direwolf to Arya, and to tell her everything about Jon. But first...

"Where is he ?"

His voice held a strength that no boy should hold. But it did, as Robb wanted nothing more than for his brother to be back home. He almost yelled to the man to tell him when he answered.

"I cannot tell you where he is. But I can tell you this : He is safe and well. he is currently thriving. He will not come back soon. But he will come back. That, I can promise you. Do not despair, young Lord. Jon loves you very much, and is sorry you two had to part in such a way."

Robb wanted to scream and rage against the man, against the world, against his mother, the one that had forced Jon to leave. But he didn't. Instead, he simply slumped on his chair, looking like he was carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders. Besides him, Sansa looked like she had learnt the worst news in the world, which, to be fair, was quite true for her. After all, her big brother would not be coming back soon. But he was alive, and that was the most important thing.

Morgazar nodded to them both, before telling a final sentence.

"For the next nameday, myself or one of my brothers will come with gifts. I wish you both a good day, and never lose hope. You will see him again."

And with those words, he turned on his feet and began to left the room. But Lord Stark yelled.

"STAY RIGHT WHERE YOU ARE !!"

The Nazgûl stopped walking, though he did not turn around.

"I highly suggest you do not try anything, Lord Stark. I may have specific orders not to kill you, but I still have permission to put you on the ground."

His words rose some disdain from the lords, as they heard a stranger talking about beating their liege lord right in front of them. The Greatjon rose to his feet and stood in front of the man.

"Listen here, stranger. You may be here for young Jon, but don't think we will just let you talk to Lord Stark like that."

Morgazar looked at him, before simply putting his hand on his shoulder and pressing down. The Greatjon fell on the ground, almost dazed at what had just happened. Morgazar then looked at Eddard Stark once more.

"Do not try to stop me. I have no intention to hurt you, but I will if I have to."

Lord Stark looked at him, then at the Greatjon still on the ground. He then nodded to the Nazgûl, who turned around and left. All around the Great Hall, people were stunned about what just happened, and Eddard knew that it was going to be a long day before he got any rest, whether with his bannermen, or the argument he could already imagine between him and Catelyn.

In the courtyard of Winterfell, Morgazar climbed on his horse, eager to go back to Valyria. He missed the smell of magic there, and he wanted to tell his master of the success of his mission.

Time to go back home.

Chapter Text

Aenar was looking at the numbers laid out in front  of him. He was astonished, to say the least. He looked back to the Witch-King and Lady Kinvara standing on the other side of his desk, as she had a small teasing smile on her face and he stood with his back straight and his arms crossed behind his back.

"Are you sure of these numbers ? Did you check them ?"

He asked, needing to be certain of it. Because, if they were correct, then they could easily fix one of the biggest problems of building a kingdom from scratch : Food. Kinvara nodded, her smile still on her lips.

"We are certain, my Lord. I have recounted myself three times and I have found the same numbers each time. Same thing with your man. Quite the mind for numbers, might I had."

She said the last part with a little tease in her voice. Aenar looked back to the parchment laid out in front of him. Those were calculations made by the two standing in front of him to prepare for the creation of fields all around Valyria. They were in need of wheat and grains, as hunting could only provide so much food before running dry. Aenar stood up and walked to the window of his solar, deep in his thoughts. The Ring, a quiet presence, talked.

"Those numbers are correct, Master. With such food, we could easily feed 30 thousand people all around Valyria. But we also need the place for so many people."

The Ring was right. Right now, in the last 4 moons since Kinvara's arrival to Valyria and her pledge to help Aenar and his cause had been a great boon to the reconstruction of the Freehold. They had rebuilt more than enough homes to comfortably house 7 thousand people. Aenar had used the Palantir to see King's Landing, and he had been disgusted by the city. Half a million people lived in a city that spanned over just a few miles. And the smell, by the gods, the smell. Aenar was ready to bring back to life whomever made the sewers systems of this city, just to kill him again.

And Flea Bottom was even worse. A hundred thousand people, or even more, lived in a ghetto a tenth of the capital's size. All those sights had made Aenar pledge to create a city where no one would be forced to live beneath a human condition. It was a difficult dream, and the road was long and littered with obstacles. But he would break them all. Nothing would stop him and his family from restoring the lands of their ancestors. He turned back to Kinvara once more.

"What will you need to prepare those fields ? I cannot imagine it will be easy or cheap to start such farms."

"Indeed, it will not be. All I require is the authorization and help to build several temples for the Lord of Light, preferably in the middle of the city."

He nodded at this. He and his family had not yet discussed religion, but they all knew that the Seven were nothing more but a mortal invention, made by weak men. It had shaken Rhaenys and Aemon a bit, who had followed them all their life. Viserys and Daenerys less so, because of their own harsh lives. And Aenar himself had followed the Old Gods all his life. He would discuss this with them, as he refused to act like a tyrant by taking every decision himself without consulting his own family.

"I will discuss this with my family. But I believe we will access to your request."

She smiled brightly at this. Her faith for R'hllor was extremely strong, especially since they had met and she declared him the Chosen of R'hllor. Aenar had not been particularly thrilled by such a statement, wishing to lead his own life by himself, without any god breathing down his neck. A bit ironic, considering he and his family were the closest thing to gods in this world with their Rings of Power and their own dragons.

Speaking of Dragons...

Rooooooaaaaar !!!!

Seems like Ancalagon is back from his hunt. Aenar couldn't wait to climb on his dragon once more and soar through the clouds, letting his mind go free from the responsibilities of his position. It had been far too long since he had truly let go. And in but a few years, he would no longer be the only dragon rider in the world. Three new dragons would fly alongside him in the skies of Valyria. He imagined the look of awe that would appear when he would fly above the city once it will be restored. Those looks could only ever be surpassed by the fear that would pass in the armies of Westeros when he would take back his birthright.

Aenar stood up from his chair, dismissing Kinvara. She left the room, the whispers of her silk dress against the cold floor the only noise as she left. He then turned to the Witch-King, who still stood straight as he waited for his next instructions.

"Will Morgazar soon be back ?"

"Yes. In two to three days, I believe."

Aenar was happy to hear that. He wanted to hear from the Nazgûl what had happened in Winterfell. He had seen how happy his cousins-siblings were with his presents. Robb had been using his new sword, that he named Snow Fang, every day in the training yard, training to become a great swordsman. Sansa had been stitching new clothes from the cloths he had gotten her. She had made breeches for Robb, a dress for herself that allowed for easy movements, and baby clothes for Arya, who had not been seen without the wood carving ever since Robb had given it to her. She even slept holding it in her little hand. The Trout had tried to take it away from her, succeeding only in making her cry her lungs out, until Lord Stark arrived and chastised his wife for her foolish actions, before giving Arya the carving back, silencing her almost immediately.

But even all of this did not stop him from wanting to know their exact reactions to his gifts when they were presented with them. And so, he awaited Morgazar's return with eagerness.

But first, he had to meet with his family about Kinvara's request. So, he asked the Witch-King to bring his family to the Family Hall, where they usually met to discuss about Valyria and possible options about the future. It had been in this very room they had decided to recreate Valyria, and it had become a tradition of sorts to house those meetings there. Well, now he had to get a move on if he wanted to be there on time.

The table was lively, as always whenever they were all together. Aenar smiled at this. Back in Winterfell, he had been nothing more than the bastard of the Warden of the North. It was nothing short of a miracle whenever he could eat in the Great Hall during a feast. And even when he did, he usually stayed to his own side, unwilling to being seen by the southerners, or worse, Lady Trout.

"So, Aenar, what is it that you needed us here ?"

His great-great uncle started, his voice no longer frail and his eyes shining with purple, something that fitted him very much.

"I just got out of a meeting with Kinvara about possible farming opportunities."

They all leaned forward at this, Daenerys little form making it a funny and cute scene as she had to stand up a bit to truly lean forward.

"She has accepted to helping us with creating fields for wheat and grains in the Farming District of Valyria."

They all smiled at this.

"As long as we allow the construction of a few temple for R'hllor."

And the smiles were no longer there.

Rhaenys was the first to break the silence.

"Why does she want that ? We do not follow their god here."

"Indeed, we do not. But it does not mean that we should forbid anyone from expressing their beliefs."

Viserys then started to speak.

"And we should just allow people to come and force their religion unto us ? It that what you are saying, nephew ?"

"No, of course not. But we cannot deny the existence of R'hllor, or have you not felt the magic flowing out of Kinvara ?"

They all looked at each other at his words. They had felt it, of course. Although not as strong as their Rings, her magic was still visible, a comforting flame in the darkness. Even if their owns looked more like a raging inferno.

"Besides, do we really want to act as the Faith of the Seven ? Do we want to be part of those that harass, or burn, those who view things differently than their own narrow and twisted view ?"

He said that last part as his own magic and anger slipped into his words, at the thought of what he had suffered at the hands of the Trout and Septa Mordane, back in Winterfell. He had the personal ambition to burn down every sept in the Seven Kingdoms, just like the Andals had cut down so many weirwood trees in their invasion, all those millennia ago.

The others glanced at each other, worried for him. They knew a few things he had shared about his life in Winterfell, but never had they felt such raw anger coming from him. He who was usually so composed, belying his own young age of soon-to-be 9 namedays.

Aenar composed himself, stopping the flood of magic flowing out of him. He then looked at his family, awaiting their response. Aemon was the first one.

"...Very well. I agree with you, nephew. I don not believe in R'hllor but it does not mean that we should stop people from worshiping him."

Daenerys nodded at those words.

"Aemon is right, we cannot stand between someone and their own religion. Only tyrants would do such a thing."

"Daenerys is correct. Let the people see how we accept them all, and they shall be ever more willing to serve."

Rhaenys continued, building on what Daenerys had said. Only Viserys had not answered yet. They all looked at him, awaiting his answer.

"All right, all right. I won't be the bore by standing in the way. Besides, I can't deny that I feel some sort of... attraction towards R'hllor. I cannot deny his existence, that much is clear."

And with his words, they were all sure of one thing. Valyria would become a land open to all, and to all their beliefs. The Targaryen House would never stop someone from expressing their beliefs, as long as they followed the laws of the land. 

And so, Aenar said.

"Then, I take it we agree to her proposal, yes ?"

They all nodded at this. He rose to his feet.

"Perfect. Valyria will only grow from here, and we shall have our revenge. Winter is coming. With Fire and Blood."

"With Fire and Blood."

They all responded. Aenar smiled one last time and left the room, going to Kinvara to tell her of their decision.

The piece of paper in his hand was heavy with intent. He had been wondering whether it was a joke when he received it first, but when several whispers came to him from many different sources, he had no choice but to imagine that it must carry some degree of truth. Even now, it was still weird to imagine that it was true. And as he walked to the chamber, he wondered just how much should he reveal.

The door was opened to him by the old knight, his glare doing nothing to him. The conversations in the room died down as he stepped in. All eyes turned to the Master of Whispers, Varys.

"My Lords."

He said, bowing as the others were already seated. They merely nodded to him. Lord Stannis Baratheon, the Master of Ships, grunted, like his presence was an offense to him. Varys took a seat, the same one he had been taking for the last twenty years. But today was the first day he was a bit uneasy, for several reasons might he add. Not just the news of Winterfell, but also the disappearance of Illyrio and the Targaryen children. No one had seen them for over 5 moons, and Varys did not like that. If Daenerys was not there to help Aegon in his claim, then most of their plans would crumble to dust before he could take his rightful throne.

Varys couldn't even begin to talk when the door opened once more and a man larger than life passed them. All those around the table rose to their feet as King Robert Baratheon made his appearance in the Small Council Chamber for the first time since the Greyjoy Rebellion. The King sat down in his chair, grunting as he did from the effort.

Everyone sat down as he motioned them to. Then, he started talking.

"So, what the fuck is so important that I had to get out of bed so early ?"

His voice resonated around the room. Ser Barristan looked at him, some hint of disdain into his gaze towards the King. After all, it was past noon. Varys was the first to talk.

"Whispers from the North, Your Grace. About Winterfell."

That seemed to get the King's attention, as he leaned forward, his smile wide at the idea of any news from his brother by choice.

"So, tell me. What happened ? Is Ned alright ?"

"Lord Stark is well, Your Grace. But the news are not about him, but more about the Stark children. Specifically, gifts they received during Robb Stark's nameday."

Robert huffed at those words, as he sat back down in his chair, slumbering in it.

"And why is that so important ? It's just some gifts."

He said the last part almost dismissively.

"Those gifts are very special, Your Grace. Or have you ever received a Valyria Steel sword for your nine nameday ?"

Gasps resonated around the room, though Littlefinger smirked. That little weasel already knew, that much was sure. The Queen looked bored out of her mind, but her body posture was telling how much she was interested in hearing more. But the King was the most interested, as he almost jumped from his eat, looking ready to ride to Winterfell himself.

"What are you talking about ? The lad received a Valyrian Steel sword ? As a gift ? From who ?"

His questions all but barreled out of his mind as he tried to understand exactly who would do that. Who would give a boy a sword made of the rarest material in the world ?

"Lord Robb Stark did receive a Valyrian Steel sword, that he has apparently named Snow Fang, in reference to the one who gave it the sword."

They all looked at him, expecting the rest of the story. Even Lord Stannis was bent over, listening to the story he was spinning. He wanted to know as well. Ser Jaime was looking at him with expectation, and Pycelle, the old leech, was almost breaking his neck from how he was twisting it to look at him. Not that it would be a great loss.

"During the festivities, a man dressed in a dark cloak appeared. He did not bow to Lord Stark, or anyone else for that matter. He walked straight to Lord Robb, a wooden box in his hands. In the box, there was a Valyrian Steel sword, cloths of numerous colors; all of the highest quality, and a small wood carving of a direwolf. The man then introduced himself as Morgazar of House Nazgûl."

Everyone was getting impatient with him. They all wanted to hear who had given the gift. Who had given the sword. But a flicker of recognition passed in the King's eyes. It disappeared as quickly as it appeared however.

"The man said he was here to bear gifts. Gifts from Jon Snow."

And with that, a eerie silence fell over the room, as people tried and failed to get their mind around what they just heard. Jon Snow. A bastard. A bastard gifted his siblings riches that Kings and Lords would kill for. A bastard had given his trueborn brother a Valyrian Steel sword. How in the hell is that even possible ?

A laugh started to make itself known in the room, and everyone turned to look at the King, who all but exploded into laughter when he realized how everyone was staring at him. For several minutes, nothing was heard in the room but the booming laughter of King Robert Baratheon. It took way too long in Varys's mind for the King to stop laughing. And he then boomed his voice.

"GODS BE DAMNED !! I WANT TO MEET THAT BOY !!! WHERE IS HE NOW ??"

And Varys found, much to his own disappointment, that he knew not. Ever since this Morgazar left Winterfell, he had been impossible to track down. There had been a few whispers of a man fitting his description in White Harbor, a week later, but the timeline did not match. He would have to ride without stopping at full speed with a good horse to make such a journey possible.

"I do not know, Your Grace. The man never told of his whereabouts, only that he was not in any danger. He mentioned that he or one of his brothers would come at the next nameday, should you wish to pry more information from the man."

Robert looked to be considering this option. Then, he hit the table with the palm of his hand and rose to his feet.

"When is the next goddamn nameday for one of Ned's kids ?"

"In two moons, Your grace. It will be Lady Sansa's sixth nameday. I take it you will attend ?"

"You're damn right I will attend. I want to know how the fuck did the little bastard got his hands on a Valyrian Steel sword."

Then Stannis began to speak.

"We need to take into account this... Morgazar, of sorts. He introduced himself as a member of House Nazgûl. But I have never heard of such a House. Have you ?"

No one responded at this. To be frank, the names were very queer themselves. Morgazar ? Nazgûl ? It held no Westerosi root of any kind. But there was none in Essos either with such a name. Was there another country, where people had such names ? If so, where ? And how did young Snow got his hands on a House from this possible land ?

So many questions to be answered, and none were given. The man had barely said anything that could be used as a hint to find the bastard. But he had said one strange thing. And he needed to say it, whether it would come back to bite him in the ass when Robert learned that he had not shared this vital intel.

"There is one last thing, Your Grace. Something that the man said, something of great proportions."

"And what is that, Spider ? Did the bastard shit the weapon from his ass, like my goodfather shits gold ?"

He laughed at his own lame joke, though both the Queen and Ser Jaime looked at the King with varying degrees of hatred. Strangely enough, it was the Kingslayer who looked more insulted than the Queen.

"No, Your Grace. Apparently, following the man's own words, Jon Snow forged the sword himself."

And with those words, the King fell back in his chair, looking like he had just aged twenty years. Lord Arryn, who had been quiet the whole meeting, looked like his heart had stopped. The Queen gaped like a fish at his words, Lord Stannis had more emotion on his face than ever before, and Littlefinger,well. Littlefinger already knew everything. Varys knew very well that what he had just said could change everything. There were few blacksmiths who could reshape Valyrian Steel swords, and it was a difficult task, where you needed years of practice and experience. But forging a sword ? That was unheard of. It had not happened since the Doom itself, which had wiped Valyria from the surface of the world. 

When words of what transpired in this meeting would start to spread across the Seven Kingdoms, then, for the first time since the death of the Last Dragon, the Game of Thrones would change completely.

Forever.

Chapter Text

The Great Lion

The letter in his hand was filled with absurdities beyond anything he had ever heard. And yet, he had no choice but to believe it.

When he had first received news of Robb Stark's nameday from spies and merchants, he had dismissed them without a second thought. Then, others came with the same tales, and he had been almost surprised by it. And now, a letter from his daughter telling him the exact same thing he had been hearing for the last two weeks.

It was too much coincidences. Too much impossible tales all spinning the same story. It was infuriating, and he didn't had anything he could use to calm himself. There was a time where he would just have to turn his head and look at his wife's face. At her eyes that were so full of life and joy, even when he was not. And just that action would bring a smile to his face. Now, he only had the hollow comfort of his solar, and that didn't brought even a spark of joy in his eyes.

A Valyrian Steel sword. He thought. A bastard forged a Valyrian Steel sword and gifted it to his trueborn brother. It was absolutely unbelievable, and yet, there were too many coincidences to believe it not. One coincidence is a suspicion, two are circumstantial evidences, and three are cold hard proof. He had worked that way all his life and it had never failed him before. But now, he stood at the edge of something he had never even heard of before. It unnerved him like nothing else. Only Aerys's own behavior towards his wife could claim the crown of the things that unnerved him the most, though the Imp was just behind.

It was already annoying to be a Great House without a Valyrian Steel sword, when so many lesser Houses had one. And now, to hear that Robb Stark had received one from his bastard brother as a gift was the drop that spilled the cup. He had to make a move, he had to show that House Lannister needed no sword to stay ahead in the great Game. 

Tywin sat back in the chair of his solar, the cushions doing nothing to soothe his aching. His eyes fell on the letter once more.

Father.

I bear news of great importance from the North. It would seem that the heir to Winterfell, Robb Stark, has received a Valyrian Steel sword during his nameday. Not only that, but the sword is a gift from his bastard brother.

Apparently, a man named Morgazar appeared during the feast and gifted the sword to Robb Stark, along with cloths of numerous colors for Sansa Stark. I do not know how the bastard obtained such riches, but the problem is what the man said. The bastard would have forged the sword himself.

I do not know the truth of these events, and I ask of you to uncover the truth. We cannot allow others to try and outmatch House Lannister. We must learn the truth of those events and how the bastard obtained the sword.

By the man's own words, he or one of his brothers will come to Winterfell for the next nameday of one of Lord Stark's children. The next one is of Sansa Stark, in less than two moons. Robert plans on going to Winterfell to meet either the man or one of his brothers.

We must act, father.

Cersei Lannister

Queen of the Seven Kingdoms

He put the letter down as he crossed his arms over his chest, wondering about his next move. He had to discover the truth, that much was clear. But how ? That question was much harder to answer, and he did not have a lot of time to answer it.

In the end, he decided that the easiest and most efficient way was to go to Winterfell himself. If he sent the Imp or one of his brothers or his sister, it may be seen as an insult. And so, he had to go himself. Besides, he would easily learn the truth if he was the one asking the questions. Tywin had to find out himself, or he may not even believe it.

And so he rose to his feet and walked to his brother Kevan's room. When he finally reached it, he knocked twice before opening the door. He saw his brother sitting at his desk, writing something. When he saw him, he put down his pen and turned to look at him.

"What is it brother ? Something wrong ?"

"Nothing yet, Kevan. I plan on going to Winterfell soon. I have business there that I must conclude myself. In the meantime, I want you to rule as my Castellan."

Kevan nodded at this, though he seemed a bit surprised. Probably more by the fact that he was going to Winterfell himself over some business deals than by the fact he would have to rule Casterly Rock for a time.

"Very well, brother. When will you be leaving ?"

"As soon as possible. I have less than two moons to reach Winterfell."

Kevan's eyes widened at this, but he quickly composed himself. Tywin was usually not a man who let others tell him when to get somewhere, but right now, time was of the essence. And so, with a final nod, he turned on his heels and left the room, closing the door behind him.

Tywin Lannister now had but one objective in his mind. Meet those so-called 'Nazgûls' and discover the truth about Jon Snow. And if possible, he would see that his house would finally lay claim to a Valyrian Steel sword once more. They would hear the Lion roar once more.

It was time to ride to Winterfell.

The Queen of Thorns

Olenna Tyrell was a shrewd old woman, that much she knew of herself. But the news she had heard were unlike anything she had ever heard before. If her spies and those merchants all spoke the truth, then Westeros had just changed in a way that no one could have predicted, and Olenna hated this, when she was not the reason for this. Not only this, but she hadn't even foreseen such a thing.

On the other end, who had ? Who could have even imagined such a thing happening ? Not only had the heir to the North received news from his bastard brother who had vanished 6 moons ago, but he had even received a Valyrian Steel sword as a gift from said brother. It was incomprehensible. Not only did the bastard had held such a sword, but he decided to gift it to his brother, instead of selling it or keeping it for himself. Who does that ?

She sighed as she put down yet another letter telling her of the events occurring around the Realm. The King riding to Winterfell, the approaching nameday of Sansa Stark, who would apparently be witnessed by one of those men dressed in dark cloaks once again. And now, Tywin Lannister was on the move, most probably eager to meet those men in black.

She had to act, to do something about all those events. She could not let her House fall behind in the Game. No. They had to stay in the race, to ensure they would grow strong. And the options ahead were far from numerous. The fool that sat on the Iron Throne despised them, the falcon did nothing to change this, the Lion ensured they would grow extremely slowly, if not at all. There were but two Great Houses that cared not, and one that, though they may try and care, Olenna cared not for. The Suns of Dorne had been withdrawn from the matters of the Realm for almost a decade now. The Wolves of the North were uncaring for the matters that happened beneath the Neck. And the Trouts may do whatever they want, they were easily the weakest of every House. 

After all, the North had Moat Cailin and their warriors unlike any others, the Westerlands had their gold and their army, the Eyries had the Bloody Gate and the famed Knights of the Vale, the Stormlands had their great soldiers and strong men, and Dorne had the desert and their spears. And the Reach had the greatest army in the Realm and provided the food to every kingdom. But what did the Riverlands actually hold to their name, other than having forced marriages to two Wardens ?

Nothing. That was the answer. They had nothing. Few men, a weak army, the lands were easy to take under control, and they were surrounded on every border by a Kingdom that could easily wreck them. It was laughable, really.

Olenna shacked her head at those thoughts. She wondered a bit where they came from, but quickly dismissed that thought as well. She gathered all the letters and prepared to walk to her fool of a son. They had to go to Winterfell, that much was clear.

She found him in the gardens, alongside Margaery and Willas, who were taking care of plants, while he watched lovingly over the two of them. Mace Tyrell may be a fool, but at least he loved his family. She walked with her cane and soon reached him.

"Mace."

He turned to her and his smile was wide.

"Mother ! What can I do for you ?"

"We need to go to Winterfell, for Lady Sansa Stark's nameday."

His smile fell at that, as he tried to understand why she wanted to do such a trip on such short notice.

"But... Why, mother ? We have no interest in the North."

"I know that, fool. Have you not heard of what happened during Robb Stark's own nameday, three weeks ago ?"

He shacked his head at that.

"No, what happened ?"

Gods, he really is dumb.

"A Valyrian Steel sword, idiot. The boy was gifted a Valyrian Steel sword ! By his own bastard brother, none the less."

His face immediately twisted into surprise, his eyes wide and his mouth open like a fish. He tried to speak, to say something. But the only things that came out of his mouth was inconsistent gibberish.

"Oh, do close your mouth. You look like even more of a fool than usual."

He did as he was told.

"Sorry, mother."

"Now, listen close."

And she proceeded to tell him all of what had happened back in Winterfell, three weeks ago. The visit of the man in black, the gifts, and the news that Jon Snow, the bastard son of Lord Stark of Winterfell had survived. She had not cared when he had disappeared, but now, the news of his deeds with the forging of a Valyrian Steel sword was too great. They had to spin a bond between their House and him, if they wanted to obtain such a skill. Perhaps they could even get him under their employ, and teach others of his craft.

As she thought about all of this, her granddaughter came to her, flowers in her hands. She handed them to her.

"Here, grandmama. For you."

She smiled as she took the flower bouquet.

"Thank you, my sweet. This is beautiful. A perfect bouquet."

The little girl smiled at her, her smile beaming and warming her old tired bones. She knew that her golden rose would grow to become one of the most beautiful women in the Realm, one day. Such beauty deserved a crown, and she would make sure that she would get it. No one would stand in the way to the Iron Throne. No one.

They had to get in touch with this 'Jon Snow' and the men in black were the only lead to him. He would be a great boon to their House, and perhaps they could learn how to forge Valyrian Steel swords themselves. How they could entice him, she would have to think about it a bit. Gold, perhaps, although the Lannisters could try the same thing. A marriage with a girl of the Reach could be easily arranged, especially if he was like all other bastards, lustful and ambitious.

And if not, then she would just have to make sure that no one else would get his own peculiar skills.

She left the garden with only one thought in mind.

It was time to ride to Winterfell.

The Quiet Wolf, a moon and a half later

Winterfell had not been so busy in years. He could not even remember such a time, actually.

When he had received the letter from Robert telling him he would be there for Sansa's nameday, he had known it was because of Jon. But the letters hadn't stopped there. No. It had only grown from there.

Now, they had to prepare for the arrival of the Lannister envoy, with Tywin Lannister himself leading them. And if that was not enough, then the arrival of the Tyrells in a few days would only increase his blood pressure. He had no choice. He had to accept that they would all be there, and he knew what they all wanted.

Jon. They came for Jon. And he had no idea what to do.

He was sitting in his chair when the door to his solar opened and his wife entered.

"Ned, we need to talk."

Her tone left no room for argument. He sighed at this, and he wondered what she now wanted.

"What is it now, Cat ?"

He turned to face her fully, his grey eyes boring into her own blue ones.

"You know what, Ned. It's about your son."

Your son. Not only was it a barely-veiled insult at him for having a bastard son, but it also was a lie. Not his son, but hers. And only three people in the world knew the truth. Himself, Howland, who had not left Greywater Watch in the last 10 years, and Jon himself. No, not Jon. Aenar. When he left, his eyes said the truth. He was Aenar, and he would avenge his family.

But now, he had to deal with Cat.

"What do you mean ? Jon left half a year ago. He is gone."

"Really, Ned ? You think I am going to believe that ? He had a Valyrian Steel sword, Ned. Do you even realize what this means for us ? For Robb ? For the North ?"

"Then tell me, Cat. What does it mean ? How important is it that Jon gave Robb such a sword ?"

She rolled her eyes at this and scoffed.

"Do you really think a bastard would give such a sword without something in return ? I know what he wants, and I swear he will never have it. He will not take Winterfell from Robb. Not while I stand."

She really is delusional. He thought as he listened to her rambling on and on about Jon and how he would usurp the North from under their noses, all before kicking them out fro the front gate of Winterfell. It was almost pathetic, really. She was so stuck in her own twisted and narrow view that she did not see Jon for who he really was.

But is he really the one you thought he was ? He heard a voice say. It sounded very much like his sister's voice, but twisted and cold, so unlike the warmth and life that filled her back when she was still here, when she was still alive.

The argument continued for several minutes until his wife finally stopped ranting and looked at him, waiting for him to speak. But he had nothing to say. Nothing honorable he could answer. Oh, he had a few answers but none were good or kind to her.

So, he simply told her that Robert, Tywin and the Tyrells were coming over for Sansa's nameday. The anger on her face quickly faded to unbridled joy at the thought of meeting the greatest Lords and Ladies of the Realm.

And to think they were all coming for her daughter's nameday. This was great. Perhaps a betrothal could be discussed with Lord Tywin or Lord Mace. Perhaps even with the King for the Crown Prince and Sansa, or Robb and the newly born Princess Myrcella Baratheon. Yes, this was great. They could tie themselves better with the South, and bring the North back into the fold. Her own Lord Father had told her that the North was too independent, and they needed to be shown that they were subjects of the Crown, just like all the others.

Ned could almost see the thought process in his wife's mind, but she was crazy if she imagined for even a second he would allow another marriage between the North and the South. He would not betroth his children for political reasons. They would marry for love, and nothing would stop him from doing that. But he knew very well that saying such a thing now was dangerous, especially with her still being so high on her emotions from ranting about Jon. So, he would bide his time and wait. He would wait just like he has before.

When his wife finally left his solar, still smiling and plotting for alliances with the other Great Houses. And Ned could only sigh as he sat in his chair, looking out the window to see the snow covering the ground of the keep. They were arriving, and he could not do anything about it.

They were riding to Winterfell.

Balôkhâr, The Flame of Tyranny, three days later

When his Master told him that he would be the one to go to Winterfell to carry the gifts for his cousins, he knew not what to think. Only that he would do as he was bid. But now that he had time to reminisce about everything, especially about Lord Stark himself, he was not very happy that he had to see him again. The way he had treated his Master still grated his nerves. It was only because he was not allowed to kill anyone that his blade would stay clear of blood, though his gloves may not if they disrespected him or his Master.

He clenched and unclenched his fists, itching for a good spar against his brothers or his Master himself. He was becoming a respectable swordsman and could claim victories here and there against them, except from Morgazar, who had lost only once to him, back in Winterfell. But perhaps he could spar in Winterfell if someone not too shitty showed up. After all, he had been commanded to stay in Winterfell for a week to be there for the children and tell them tales of his life both as a man and as a Nazgûl. He could also share a few things about his Master, but nothing on his location or his plans.

His horse stirred beneath him, and he watched ahead and saw that the castle was finally into view. Good. He thought. Getting tired of riding for a week straight. And he launched his horse into a final run, wanting to get this mission over with and seeing Valyria again. He really was proud of his Master for everything he was doing back home. The farms were a huge project, and he had actually pulled it off with the help of the Red Priestess and her followers. 

When he had witnessed the project, he knew that it could easily feed thirty thousand people. But he had forgotten one thing. Volcanic ash. Valyria had once been the most fertile land in the entire world. And now, they were even more fertile with the ashes that lingered there after the Doom. Now, the farms already complete could feed almost 50 thousand people with only 100 farmers working there. And when every farm would be finished, then they could feed at the very least a million people with a thousand or two farmers. It was unbelievable, and yet so very true.

The court yard of Winterfell was filled with people when he arrived. He stayed in the shadows and watched everything happen, as a man larger than life and with a red face hugged Lord Stark in a bone-crushing hug. Behind him was a beautiful woman with blonde hair and a striking figure, though Balôkhâr cared little for such things. Behind her was a man who looked like a male version of the woman, a white cloak bellowing behind him as he was dressed in a golden armor. This was Jaime Lannister, so the woman must be Cersei Lannister, the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms.

A bit behind the King and the Queen, he could see an older man, around five and forty to fifty years old. His whitening hair still had some hints of blond, and his green eyes were sharp. This must be a Lannister as well, and the only one who matched this look was Tywin Lannister himself, known as the Great Lion.

On the side was a group of Lords dressed in gold and green, and a old woman stood at the front, along with a fat man, even fatter than the King. Ah, the famed Tyrells. He thought. All of this had been expected by his Master, who had warned him of the possibilities of other Lords being present to Sansa Stark's nameday.

Well, no matter. They will have their gifts all the same. And he waited as the King and Lord Stark left in direction of the crypts and the other Lords and Ladies were led into Winterfell. He had to wait until the feast to give the children their gifts, and so he went to the godswood, where he knew that few people went, especially during such a day. He would be undisturbed until night fell and the feast began. There, he could make his entry, preferably the most spectacular possible. He had never lost his taste for the dramatic, after all. His life as one of the Greatest Conqueror of Middle-Earth had shaped him into the Nazgûl he now was. He looked at the sun and sighed. He still had several hours left before entering the Great Hall.

And now, to wait.

The Red Wolf, night of the feast

If someone had told her, one year ago, that her nameday would have for company the King himself along with the two richest Houses in the Seven Kingdoms, she would have looked at the person like he was mad, before going back to sewing clothes with her mother or playing with her brothers. But now, she could only be in awe at the presence of Lord Tywin Lannister and King Robert Baratheon, both had come for her nameday. She had already been excited for her nameday, but now she was in a constant state of joy.

She looked around the Hall, seeing the King and her father in a discussion about the past, the Queen was looking down on everyone while Ser Jaime looked a bit uncomfortable. Next to the Queen was her father, Lord Tywin Lannister, the Warden of the West and Lord of Casterly Rock. She knew her father had strong opinions on the Lannisters, but she hadn't expected such a cold greeting between the two of them. Though it seemed Lord Tywin cared not really for the North either.

Near the High Table, the Tyrell delegation sat, as Lord Mace Tyrell talked and ate even more than the King. Besides him, an old woman sat, eating more slowly. Sansa knew her as the Dowager Lady of Highgarden, Lady Olenna Tyrell. She looked around the room, obviously searching for something. But what, Sansa knew not.

Beside her, Robb was getting more agitated with every passing moment. And she knew why, after all, the same thing was happening to her. One of the men in black would soon be here. It was her nameday and the last one had promised that someone would come for her own. And she had loved the last gift so much she was shacking with anticipation from her next gift. If the new man brought even just half as much as last time, she would be thrilled.

As the feast went on and on, she could see the Lords of the Reach grow agitated, while the Queen wore a scowl. Even the Queen's father looked around the room with a mix of coldness and anger. The King had stopped talking with her father and instead looked at the main door, almost willing it to open by magic.

And then, a great knock.

All sounds died in the Hall, as everyone waited.

A second knock, even louder. All looks turned to the door, where the sounds were coming from. The King looked with glee, as the Queen wore a mask of disinterest. Lord Tywin had his hands in front of him, intertwined with each other. Lady Olenna looked at the door with a small satisfied smile and her own father looked a bit paler than usual.

Finally, a third knock.

And the doors opened.

And in walked the tallest man she had ever seen. He was easily 2,20 meters tall and had a sword tied to his waist, his cloak hiding most of his body except for his blade. And yet, his face was completely hidden by the black hood covering his head. He walked into the Hall like he cared not who was here, or who they were. He looked more akin to a King than a servant. Or even a Conqueror, like the mighty Aegon I Targaryen, who had united the Seven Kingdoms.

The man walked with an air of purpose, his might radiating from him with every step. She could see how everyone else watched him, their eyes wide as his aura spread around the room. He was a true King and he walked like one. In his hands was a chest of wood, just like the last one, though this box was much larger. It was probably the size of a small dog. He walked straight to her, bowing to no one and not even acknowledging them as he moved through the Room. 

Finally, he stood before her, his gigantic stature staring down at her. She had heard tales of the Mountain that Rides and believed that only Gregor Clegane was taller than this man. And then, he spoke.

"Lady Sansa, I bear gifts from your brother for your nameday. He wishes you to have a beautiful year, full of merriment and wonders."

His voice was deep and strong. If steel had a voice, then it would be his. No questions asked. She looked at the box as it was laid on the table before her on the spot she had cleared before. Her hands reached for the top, slowly opening it. The man stepped back, his arms crossed behind his back as he waited for her reaction. One that did not disappoint as she gazed at the gift, her eyes filled with awe.

Inside the box was a gown unlike any other. Spun from silk softer than a whisper, dyed the deep blues and silvers of House Stark, and embroidered with white roses and running direwolves. Its thread laced with silver, glimmering like starlight. She picked up the gown and watched the reaction of everyone. The Ladies looked at it with awe and envy, wishing to receive such a gift. While the Lords wondered just how much does such a gown cost. Even Tywin Lannister had to swallow up his pride and admit that this was one of, if not the best, gown he had ever seen. The Queen was not so happy to see that someone else over than her had such clothes, but she had to keep up appearances.

Then, a glimpse of blue and sliver caught her gaze and she slowly set the gown down, handing it to her mother who looked at it with wonder. She reached into the chest one more time and saw a little bracelet. When she picked it up, she was surprised by the lightness of it and it was only when it came to light that she realized why.

Valyrian Steel. Again. It was a delicate circlet of Valyrian Steel shaped like intertwining branches, set with blue winter roses. Those winter roses would never wither, though she knew not that, as they were enchanted to keep their specific scents forever.

She took the bracelet and put it around her wrist, feeling how it fit perfectly. Everyone was gazing at her like they couldn't believe what they were seeing. They had to accept the truth now. Jon Snow could forge Valyrian Steel. The proof was right in front of them.

Sansa was still reeling from the gifts when the man stepped to her brother, who looked expectant.

"For you, Lord Robb, your gift is waiting for you outside. Do you want to go now ?"

He nodded so fast and almost jumped from his seat as he all but ran to the open doors, the man shrugging and following him, his long legs easily catching up to her over-excited brother. Sansa rose from her seat and went after them, as many others in the Hall did the same. The King was almost running down the hail from how fast he was walking, even being half-drunk as he was. The Queen walked much slower with her brother and her father by her side. The Tyrells were calm on the surface. And her father was frightened of what Jon had given Robb.

When they reached the courtyard, she could see the reason for Robb's shriek of joy.

A beautiful horse. Something she had never seen before. It was powerful, that much was clear. It's long legs looked like they could swallow miles in just a few minutes. It's body was muscled with raw power, and it looked to be bred of the finest stock. It was a horse fit for a Warden, or even a King. Sansa couldn't believe that Jon had just given Robb another gift of huge value, just like that.

Robb looked at the horse with awe, then at the man in black. He then asked, a bit sheepishly.

"Can... can you help me up ?"

The man looked at him, then at her father. He was extremely surprised, but in the end, he nodded. The man turned back to Robb and picked him up before placing him on the horse. Robb caught the reins in his hands and stood straight. It was incredible. He looked like he was ready to go to war. the King laughed as he saw Robb, yelling about how 'this was Ned reborn' as he laughed.

Meanwhile, Sansa was happy her brother was happy. It had been a long time since he had last smiled before the first man came, two moons ago. Now, he was truly happy, and she could see it in his smile and in his eyes, as it felt almost like Jon was back with them. It felt good. It felt right.

Thank you, Jon. Thank you for everything.

Valyria, a week before.

Aenar was with Lady Kinvara, the Witch-King, Aemon and Rhaenys as they rode to the farms. It had been around two moons since they had started on the project, and it was growing quite fast. He could see how the farms were quickly coming along, with plenty of buildings already complete. There were houses for farmers, windmills and barns to stock the animals and the wheat and grains.

When Aenar had first seen the predictions for the farms, he had been distrustful. He didn't believe that you could feed so many people with so few farmers on such harsh land. Ho, what a fool he was.

Not only was Valyria the most fertile land back in it's prime, but now that it had been fertilized with volcanic ashes, it was even better than before.The sheer speed at which wheat would grow was astonishing. And not only that, but the harvest was bountiful. They could feed at the very least fifteen thousand people just with the small part of the farms that were already complete. It was a sight for sore eyes.

As they rode through the fields, Aenar allowed himself to smile for the first time since Morgazar told him of his cousins reaction to his gifts. He could only hope that his new gifts will be well received. When he had come to Kinvara, giving her a Valyrian Steel sword as payment for the gifts, he hadn't expected her to use the rest of the money it had brought to purchase wheat and grains they could use. When asked her reason why, she simply answered that it was her duty to help the Chosen of the Lord of Light.

Aenar was still a bit uncomfortable with this, but he had no intention to disrespect her or her Faith. After all, he and his family had vowed to make Valyria into a land open to all, and to all faiths. Well, apart from the Faith of the Seven ,considering their history and treatment of others that did not share their narrow view of the world. 

Well, if he was completely honest, the second reason was because of Viserys. In the last moon, his uncle had been spending more and more time with Kinvara, speaking of theology and faith. Aenar could see that his uncle was captivated by their faith, and he was happy that his uncle had found something to occupy his thoughts when he was not working in the library with Aemon, or spending time with the quickly-growing Rhaegal, probably the most energetic dragon of all. He barely slept during the night, preferring to stay awake and moving around, trying to fly around a bit in Viserys's room. It was sweet.

Speaking of dragons...

A roar were heard, and they turned their heads to look at the approaching form of Elianix. She was growing quite quickly and was now easily the size of a hound. Her wings were wide and strong enough to fly on short distances, and it seemed that she wanted to be with her rider. Aenar laughed a bit as Elianix all but dropped herself in Rhaenys's arms, and she almost fell from her horse catching her dragon. The glare he received only made him laugh even louder, and it wasn't long before Aemon joined in.

Their company rode a while longer, simply taking in the sights of the farms, before Aenar decided to ride back to the keep. The Witch-King accompanied him, while Kinvara and the others stayed, wishing to simply gaze upon the marvels that were appearing. Even the strange fog of ash has started to vanish around Valyria, and they could see much clearer all around them. Even the simple act of breathing deeply felt good and true. 

Aenar was lost in his thoughts, as he rode back to the castle. The farms were growing steadily, and they already had food for 5 thousand people for at least six moons. This sept of obtaining food was almost over. Now, they had to think about finding people they could bring, not as servants, but as men and women that they desired to free of shackles. And what they needed were people of Valyrian descent. They needed the genetics to be brought back to Valyria, and the cities with the most descendants of the Freehold are Volantis, Lys and Myr.

They already had a good alliance with Volantis through Kinvara and the Red Priests. And with a temple already built and a second on the way, people could pray to R'hllor without any issues.

Myr and Lys, on the other end, posed more of a problem. Those two cities were slavers city, with the majority of the population being either slaves, or servants who were barely better off. The power imbalance in the city was quite weird, with around three to four slaves for each master, with the richest masters having more than a hundred slaves. It was a disgusting way of living for Aenar, who knew the way some slaves were treated. The men were soldiers and servants, while the women were either washerwomen or bedwarmers.

He may be young, but he knew what a whore was, and those women were treated far worse than prostitutes. They had almost no rights, and were expected to just lie down and let the man do whatever he wants with her. It was disgusting.

But now was not the moment for such thought. And as he got ever closer to the castle, he felt the Ring wishing to speak with him.

"Master, I can feel someone approaching Valyria. I sense both fire and darkness."

Fire and Darkness. Strange... Aenar knew not what it could mean, but he had to be ready.

"Do you know when the stranger will arrive ?"

"According to my estimations, tomorrow. I do not know how they hid from my gaze for so long. Their magic must be special to be capable of such a feat."

Those words could be seen as boasting, if the Ring was such a being. But he was not. He only cared for the truth, and his services to his Master. It was what he was, and he would sooner destroy himself than break the words carved unto him. They were his binding, his truth.

Aenar had to go back to the keep and tell his family of the arrival of strangers. He remembered when the Red Priests arrived in Valyria. Now, new strangers were arriving, and he had to be ready for them. And he would be.

The docks were quite lively, with every Nazgûl but Balôkhâr present. His whole family stood with him, and Kinvara was a bit behind them, looking over the water as they saw a single ship coming. The flag was unknown to them, but Aenar and the others could sense the magic flowing off the ship in waves. It felt... strangely familiar. Like coming back home after too long spent away.

The ship soon reached the dock and they waited as the gangplank was laid down. Then, they saw a figure covered in a dark and white cloak, a veil covering it's face and a hood over the head. But they could also see a beautiful necklace surrounding the figure's neck. The necklace looked to be quite heavy, with emeralds and sapphires alternating with each other. it was beautiful, and a bit enthralling.

And then, the figure raised it's hands to the veil and hood and slowly took them off, seemingly loving the attention and the suspense. And when they were finally pulled off, they heard Aemon gasp as they could finally see the figure's face and hair.

Long silver hair, thick and curly, falling to the hips. A heart-shaped face. And the eyes. Ohh, the eyes. One was the darkest of blue while the other was the brightest of green. The face of a beautiful woman stared back at them, her gaze fixed on Aenar, a small smile at her lips.

There was only one woman who matched such a description. But it was impossible. She was supposed to be dead, and even if she had somehow survived, she must be over a hundred years old. And yet, she looked to be no more than five and twenty. And then she spoke.

"Good morrow, young dragon. It is a pleasure to finally meet you."

Her voice was smoother than silk and lighter than the air, and it held the power to break weddings with a whisper of pleasure, or destroy hearts with one sharp word. It was a power that only the fairest of all held in their hands, and this woman was the fairest of all.

Aenar was almost gaping like a fish, while Aemon looked to be completely lost and Viserys blushed a bit when she smiled at him. Rhaenys and Daenerys were a bit jealous of the woman's beauty, but they were also a bit sheepish under her gaze that held untold strength. Aenar finally gathered his wits and smiled at the woman, his eyes sharp.

He watched as she gave him her hand and he caught it in his own, landing a small kiss on it. Her skin was smooth and seemed to be untouched by the hardships of life. She had the beauty of a maiden, but the heart of a seductress. There was only one woman like that in the entire Seven Kingdoms, and the world as a whole.

This woman was a legend in her own right, along with her half-brothers : Bloodraven and Bittersteel. And she finally confirmed what they were all thinking with a little introduction.

"I am Shiera Seastar, and I came to help you."

Her smile was wide and true, her gaze warm and no darkness hid there.

Aemon was lost in the past, back when he had seen this woman for the first time. He had been but a child, but he could still remember the beauty that all but ruled the woman alongside her lover and brother for years. He had a little crush on her when he was a child, but had grown out of it as he aged. And now, even though he was much older than the last time he had seen her last, he remembered why he had this infatuation for her. He had it no longer, but he could not deny her incredible beauty.

And as Aenar introduced himself and the others, Aemon could only look at her, completely lost in a past he had thought long gone and buried. But now, he knew no longer what he had to do, or say. Only that he had to know her plans. Shiera never did anything without her own motives, and this was probably a new plan. But what, he had not idea of.

As they walked to the castle, Shiera taking in everything around them as she listened to Aenar explain a few things, but nothing of true importance, such as their Rings or the dragons, Aemon realized that, with her here, they would have to open their borders sooner than they had thought.

Winter was coming. And it was bringing Fire and Blood.

Chapter Text

So, this is not a chapter. Really sorry. I just had to tell all of you that I am going to the hospital for a week because of my pancreas. I won't be able to write during that time, mostly because of the painkillers. I apologize for this, but don't worry. I wont be gone long, and I will be working twice as hard as soon as I come back for the next chapter, who will feature, included but not limited to :

-Interactions at Winterfell with the Nazgûl, Balôkhâr.

-Meeting with Shiera Seastar.

-The beginning of a romance between Aemon and someone else.

-A Crow learns about Valyria, and prepares a trip to find artifacts of great power.

Once again, I am sorry for leaving you all like this for a week, without any news. Goodbye, and see you all in the next chapter.

Chapter Text

Winterfell.

The snow crunched beneath his boots, as he followed the two children inside the godswood. They were looking at him like he was a god, or a man without peer. That part was mostly true, but still, it felt fucking good.

They were walking quietly, as they did not wish to rouse the castle, especially after last night, where he had arrived in grand theatrical manner, something that he always liked. He knew what the Lords of Westeros were after. They were all after the same thing.

His Master, the Lord of the Rings. The Archon of Valyria. Aenar Targaryen, first of his name.

But in that moment, it did not matter, as he watched the two children kneel in the snow beneath the Heart Tree, praying for their brother, as they did every morning until it was time to break their fast. They prayed for their brother, prayed that he was safe and well, and that he will return to them. If not today, nor tomorrow, then one day. And the presence of the man in black behind them was a strange reassurance, especially given the fact he had told them he was to remain in Winterfell for a week, just to be with them.

After a few more minutes of praying, Robb and Sansa rose up to their feet and walked together to the Great Hall, followed swiftly by Balôkhâr. All eyes turned to them as they entered, but Robb did not care, and Sansa was quietly happy that so many people recognized the man behind them as a powerful individual. They had not seen him fight, or even raise his voice, but everything about him screamed of a warrior.

His stature of 2.20 meters tall, a giant of a man. His muscles, powerful and strong, yet concealed beneath his dark cloak, no one able to see under it, not even his face, when the hood covered it completely.

And the sword that was strapped to his waist was bigger than a normal greatsword. Not a bastard sword, but rather something between the two. It would be difficult to wield, but she sensed that Balôkhâr was pro-efficient with it.  But the part that made everyone shiver was his voice. It was deep and strong, capable of thrusting even the strongest man into despair.

As they sat down in their seats, Robb to the right of his father, and Sansa next to her mother, they saw as Balôkhâr stepped behind them and stood behind their father, an equal distance from both of them. Even the King had slowed his feasting down to watch him. Everyone in the Great Hall was watching him actually, and yet he did not care.

He made no move when they whispered amongst themselves, whether it was about Jon, the gifts, or even the man himself, Robb did not know, and he found he did not care. For in that moment, it almost felt like his brother, his twin in all but name, was back home. And that was worth more than every present he could ever give them. Though the sword and the horse were quite welcome, thank you very much.

The Tyrells were probably the most insistent in their gaze, especially Lord Mace Tyrell, who looked at the man with barely concealed greed. What was passing through his mind, Balôkhâr did not know. Though that was most probably because he cared not. Beside him sat his mother, the Dowager Lady of Highgarden and renowned Queen of Thorns, Lady Olenna Tyrell.

And just on the other side, sat the Golden Rose of Highgarden. Margaery Tyrell, a young woman of eight namedays, and yet, Balôkhâr could already see that she would grow up to be a beautiful woman. One that could only be outshined by the ethereal grace of the Targaryen blood. Young Princess Daenerys already showed such early signs of beauty. And while Princess Rhaenys was not a woman yet, he could not deny she was a perfect blend of Martell and Targaryen blood. She would surely grow to be a beautiful woman.

If he was still a man, he may have tried to seduce either of them once they came of age. But he was no longer a man. He was a Nazgûl, a Ringwraith, bound to the One Ring. Bound to the Lord of the Rings. And he would remain such a thing.

The fast was soon over and he followed the two children as they left. Robb went to his room, and told him to go with Sansa to the training yards. He arrived a few minutes after them, carrying the sword his master had forged and that his brother had delivered two moons ago. The hilt was in the shape of a snarling wolf, with two jewels the color of blood for the eyes. All around the yard, Balôkhâr could see men and women gathering, wanting to watch the Heir to Winterfell spar, Snow Fang in his hands.

He could see Lord Stark watch from the battlements, a proud look in his gaze. His wife was beside him, her face between a scowl and a smile. An ugly thing to watch. The King was watching, a mug of ale in his hand, and he already looked half-drunk. His wife stood beside him, but her gaze was fixed on him, instead of Robb. Her brother, the Kingslayer ( pray to the gods Rhaenys never catches you calling him that) looked at Robb, a smirk on his face. But why, he didn't know.

On the other side stood another man with a white cloak. Older, and no less deadlier, stood Barristan the Bold, the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard. He was also watching him, seeming to be looking for something.

Balôkhâr watched as the first man stood against Robb. It was a young guard, but he had already completed his training, making him a full time member of the Winterfell’s guard, and he was older and stronger than Robb. He had him beat both in strength and reach, so if Robb was not a fool, then he would either try to match him in speed, or get into a battle of attrition. The best kind of battle when your equipment is better than your enemy, but he has you beat on the rest.

The guard stood straight, while Robb was much more relaxed in his pose. A weak eye would have seen it as either sloth or absence of skill, but Balôkhâr saw what others did not. This was a mummery of the first pose of Numenor's Blade. The very same pose his Master had shown but once or twice, six or seven moons ago. Impressive, young Lord. To copy a move simply from memory is no easy feat.

The guard moved first, and attacked Robb with a stab, and Robb sidestepped it, easily seeing it coming. He raised his sword in front of his face and parried the second blow, a thrust to the side, as the man spun on his left heel. They stood face to face again, Robb smiling a warm smile.

He then attacked himself. A bold move when your opponent has a higher reach, but he moved quite fast for his age. He was a decent swordsman for his age. Not as talented with a blade as his Master, but still. Commendable.

The fight was faster after that, as the guard had to raise his sword in order to parry and guard himself against the bite of Valyrian Steel. Robb no longer sparred with wooden swords, nor blunted weapons. He fought live steel. A decision his father had reluctantly approved of, while his mother had tried to flat out refuse. But in the end, he got his way, and sparred with live steel.

After a few more minutes of fighting, Robb saw a small opening. A simple misstep from his opponent allowed him to fall to his knees and spin on his left leg, thrusting the right one out and tackling the man. Watching as the guard fell down while Robb rose back up, before putting his sword near his neck.

"Yield."

"Aye. I yield."

Robb smiled and sheathed his sword before giving the man his hand, helping him up.

All around the courtyard, men and women were astonished at what they had just witnessed. 

A young boy, no more than 9 namedays, had bested a soldier in a move that no one had ever even imagined before. Even men like the Bold and the Kingslayer were looking with a mix of interest and concern. In their minds, such a move could not be easily countered, and if you fell, you were dead.

But Balôkhâr saw what others did not. He saw the way he had moved, the speed he had used. Robb Stark had tried to copy his Master’s moves, and had mostly succeeded at it.

But the moves were still too straightforward, too telegraphed. There was a lack of fluidity, and the way of Numenor’s Blade was almost completely based on fluidity.

A great clapping sound was heard, and all turned to look at the King, Robert Baratheon ,who was looking at the boy with happiness on his red face. 

“Way to go, lad. If you keep this up, you’ll be the next Sword of the Morning. How the fuck did you even do that ?”

He asked, as curiosity itched his way into his voice at the last question. Robb looked a bit sheepish at the fact that the King was looking at him.

“I… I just copied what my brother did.”

“Your brother ? You mean Young Snow ? That brother ?”

“Yes, Your Grace. He used that move against Theon a few moons ago.”

Robert looked to be thinking about something, his gaze lost in the past. Then, he snapped his fingers, like in recognition.

“Yes, I remember. Six moons ago, after the Greyjoy Rebellion. I remember the lad fighting against air like a damn demon from the Seven Hells.”

“That’s him. I never saw anything else like this, and even now, I still can’t do it as well as he did.”

That is when Balôkhâr spoke, his voice deep and strong, a storm just waiting to be unleashed, a fire threatening to burn everything in its path.

“That, Young Lord, is because you favor your left hand to spin, while you are right-handed. You put too much pressure on your arm, and this slows your rising back. Such a mistake would be fatal on the battlefield.”

Everyone looked at him, all eyes wide as he spoke for the first time since last night. Even now, they still shivered when he spoke. Good. He thought. They should fear me. It is only natural.

Ser Jaime Lannister looked at him, almost expecting more from him, but Balôkhâr stayed silent, letting Robb learn from his mistake.

“Who the fuck are you, again ?”

The King bellowed from his own spot, over the battlements near Lord Stark. He was looking at him, most probably sizing him up, not that he could properly do so, with the cloak surrounding him and hiding most of his body from view.

“I am Balôkhâr, of House Nazgûl. That is all that matters, and all you will know from me.”

His words were arrogant, and so was his tone. But no one could actually move against him, such was the power of the Ring he carried on his right ring finger. But Robert Baratheon was not a man who enjoyed men speaking to him in such a way.

“YOU DARE SPEAK TO YOUR KING IN SUCH A WAY ?? I COULD HAVE YOUR HEAD FOR IT !!”

Balôkhâr slowly turned to completely look at him. He stepped forward, his boots not making a sound, other than the creaking of the planks. No one moved against him. No swords were drawn, no arrows were knocked into bows, no men even moved to try and stop him.

All looked at him, awe and wonder and fear, as he walked till he stood in front of the King. He slowly bent over, his height dwarfing even this giant of a man.

“You are not my King. You are not my Lord. You are nothing to me, King Robert. I serve no one but my Master. You are not him.”

His voice was low, deep, slow to a torturous degree, and the King’s eyes widened a bit, fear in them. Balôkhâr never really used the power of Angmar’s Fear, but right now, he wanted to show this fat King who he truly was.

Robert finally nodded at him, and it was all over in a blink. He rose back up to his full height, looked around as everyone was looking at them, internally shrugged, and moved back to Sansa. Or at least, he tried to.

“Tell me, Ser. Would you be interested in a friendly spar ?”

He stopped walking, and slowly turned back around to look at the one who just gave him the one thing he wanted from this trip. And the man who offered it was probably the best one around, along with the one standing next to him.

“I am not a knight, Ser Jaime. But I am very interested. ”

Jaime Lannister nodded at this. He took off his cloak, giving it to Ser Barristan, who took it in his hands, folding it nicely, before stepping forward.

They moved together, until they were facing each other in the yard.

“To  five or a yield ?”

Jaime said, his hand already unsheathing his golden sword, the blade smooth and white in the light of the Northern sun.

“First blood.”

Balôkhâr answered, his own sword larger than Jaime’s own, but he could still wield it with only one hand. The blade was pitch black and seemed to suck all the light from the world and hide it from view.

All around the yard, men and women were looking at the two men, standing but a few feet away from each other.

Tywin Lannister looked at his son with expectation, waiting to see what would happen. Cersei, the Queen, looked at her brother with fire in her eyes. It seems like she enjoys watching her brother fight.

The Tyrells were looking mostly at Balôkhâr, and were very interested in his special sword. It was neither Valyrian Steel, nor anything else they knew. Whatever the sword was made of, it intrigued them greatly. And men such as Mace Tyrell did everything they could to obtain what intrigued them. His mother was by his side, her hand resting upon her cane, her eyes looking at him, seemingly trying to decipher who he was. Not that she could achieve it.

The Stark children were probably those who were the most expectant of the spar soon to happen. Robb was almost vibrating from the energy that resided in him. Sansa almost swooning from the idea of a spar between a golden knight and a dark soldier. It was a thing out of a song. But Lord Stark and Lady Stark, on the other end… They were not as happy as their two children. He looked torn between wanting to see who would win and stopping this spar altogether. The Trout just looked to want him to drop dead, most probably from the sword of the Kingslayer.

Jaime raised his sword in front of him and stood in a very good pose, his feet apart and not aligned, helping him to keep balance.

Balôkhâr raised his own sword and stood tall, a wall of ice that nothing could break. No one moved for a few beats, until Jaime dashed forward, thrusting his sword ahead, searching to draw blood almost immediately. Balôkhâr stepped to the side, and ducked low when Jaime spinned around, a bold move but very efficient against lesser swordsmen. Too bad Balôkhâr is not one. He stepped back, his cloak flowing in the wind, and yet it didn’t stop him from being one of the best. He was not the best swordsman in the Nazgûl. That honor belonged to Morgazar. But still, he was way better than a man. Even one such as Jaime Lannister.

He deflected the next blow, letting the sword strain itself against his own, the steel not as strong as the metal that made his sword. A metal only found in Mount Doom, back in Middle Earth.

He let the Kingslayer exhaust himself, moving only when needed and letting him think he was pining him into a corner. And then he overreached.

That was when he moved.

A shadow.

That was all they saw as he stepped into Jaime’s guard, knocking the sword away and putting his own at his throat, drawing a single drop of blood.

Jaime didn’t even see it coming. One moment, he was pressing down on him. He had thrust a little too far. And the next, his sword was nowhere to be seen and he felt a cold to his neck.

All around the courtyard, everyone was astonished by what they had just witnessed. The Kingslayer, a man famed in the Seven Kingdoms for being one of the greatest swordsmen in Westeros.

And he had just been bested in a single move by an unknown man in a black cloak. No one could even see his eyes or his face, making him even more of a mystery.

A great clapping sound was heard and everyone turned to look at the King, who seemed to be having the time of his life, happy to see a Lion of Casterly Rock being bested so easily.

Balôkhâr cared not for the reputation of one’s family, but he knew that Tywin Lannister did not enjoy the sight of his golden son beaten in such a sound move, by a man unknown to all.

Balôkhâr sheathed his sword back and walked away from the yard, going back to Robb and Sansa, who were looking at him in awe.

Robb, no doubt, wanted to learn from him. While Sansa seemed to almost swoon from the fight and chivalry she just witnessed. Seeing a Kingsguard fight was already an incredible sight, but for one to lose to an unknown man was unheard of.

Together, they walked away from the yard and into the godswood. Robb looked at him all the way, and Sansa lost in her thoughts.

“How did you do that ?”

Robb asked him once they reached the Heart Tree. 

“Training and experience. I saw an opportunity and I took it.”

“But he seemed to be winning the whole fight.”

Balôkhâr smirked at that.

“And yet, I am the one who still stands. It matters not who seems to win. Only who wins at the end. No matter what you have to do to ensure your victory.

Robb was listening enraptured by him. To him, this man, this Nazgûl, was becoming his greatest hero. A man who could defeat a Kingsguard without even breaking a sweat. It was surreal.

And all that Balôkhâr could think about was the storm coming his way.

He had shown his power.

He had shown his strength.

He had shown a glimpse of what a Nazgûl is.

And now...

They will want more.

The Golden Lion and the Bold.

Ser Jaime Lannister was not a man easily riled up. He could whether even the worst insults sent his way with a smirk. He had watched men who thought themselves above others look down at him like he was trash. Men he could easily beat with a sword, not that they would ever take up a challenge against him. They were stupid, but not that stupid.

But now, as he looked at the ground in the room he shared with Barristan, he could only grit his teeth at what had just happened. He, the Golden Lion, the youngest member of the Kingsguard EVER, had been bested by a unknown fucker in a cloak.

That, more than anything, irked him. He would have not really minded losing at someone of great fame, such as Barristan, Rhaegar Targaryen with his sword, Prince Oberyn Martell and his spear, or especially Arthur Dayne, his former Knight and instructor. Losing to those men brought you no shame, for they would actually take the time to actually fight you.

But losing to a man no one knew, a man that no one had ever heard about. Now, THAT was annoying.

As he sulked in his bed, wondering how he had been defeated, he heard the bed besides his shift and creak under a weight. He turned his head, his emerald eyes landing on the sight of the Bold, looking at him.

For several moments, no sound was heard in the room other than the breathing of the two white brothers. They were still thinking about the fight that had happened in the courtyard, and the speed at which the Nazgûl had defeated Jaime. The sheer speed and talent of the man was unseen in both their memories. He could probably even defeat Arthur if he was not wielding Dawn.

"What are we doing now ?"

Barristan asked, not even looking at Jaime as he did. The Kingslayer looked up to the ceiling and sighed.

"I... I actually don't know. Whatever he is, he is more than just a man."

"You're right. His speed, his strength, his voice. It's unnatural."

Jaime nodded, his head lost in a whirlwind of jumbled up thoughts. A man dressed in black wielding a sword never seen before, defeating a Kingsguard without breaking a sweat. When news would reach the corners of the Seven Kingdoms of this event, it would once again make everyone wonder " Who is Jon Snow ? "

...

...

...

...

"Do you think they know ?"

The question was asked so simply, just thrown in the wind for whoever caught it to answer it that Jaime almost didn't answer. He had to turn to Barristan, to see his eyes pouring into his own, to answer. Do they know ? That the boy they swore to protect is the son of Rhaegar and Lyanna Stark. Jaime had absolutely no idea whether they did or not, be he could not stop himself from wondering, just why ?

"I, I have no fucking idea. If he does, then he could kill anyone here in a flash. If he doesn't, then it's even weirder."

Barristan looked at him confused, asking silently for him to explain.

"Why do they follow him if they don't know he is a Targaryen ?"

And Barristan found he had no answer whatsoever to that question.

In the silence of the room, Jaime Lannister and Barristan Selmy could only silently pray that, when the time came, they would endure the war to come.

Winter was coming. And it brought Fire and Blood.

The Great Lion.

He was still reeling over what had happened in the courtyard. How does this lowlife man dares to do that to his son ? His golden heir ? The one who had killed the Mad King and truly ended the reign of terror of the man he once called a friend, and more of a brother than his true brothers.

As Tywin Lannister walked the halls of Winterfell, his face betraying nothing of the thoughts on his mind, he searched for the man in dark. The sword he had used was unlike anything he had seen before, and it seemed to excess even castle-forged steel. Only Valyrian Steel was above this sword, he thought.

But now, he had to find him. Whoever this man was, it was the one he served that truly brought him to Winterfell. Jon Snow. Even now, it still felt almost impossible to think that a bastard had so much wealth, so much power.

But the gifts the Stark children had received yesterday were unlike anything he had ever seen. The gown that Sansa Stark received was the best he had ever seen, threaded from silks softer than a whisper, and the colors were a perfect reminder of her Stark blood.

And the fucking Valyrian Steel bracelet. He had never seen such a thing before, but now he was forced to acknowledge it. The bastard could forge Valyrian Steel.

As if that was not enough, if being a Great House without a Valyrian Steel sword was not enough, then seeing that the Heir to Winterfell had one of his own, a second sword for House Stark, then the insult was twofold.

But at least, compared to his fool of a daughter, he was the most patient man alive. She had all but ordered that Robb Stark was to give up the sword for House Lannister when she talked and ranted to him about the unfairness of it all. Of how the Lords and Ladies of the North paid not their respects to her golden cub, her pride and joy, but to a bastard of the North, who prayed to trees and was born outside of the marriage bed.

Tywin had to endure her relentless bantering for almost thirty minutes until she finished. Were he back in Casterly Rock or in the Red Keep, he would have dismissed her as nothing more than a servant. He had been proud of her, once. But after seeing the way she treated others, how she saw anyone else not her or Jaime as lesser, that annoyed him.

She had never learned to play the Game like he had. Never learned subtlety or patience. The only thing she knew was strength and power. To crush you enemies in a single bout. And while he would normally be proud of her for this, she thought that it was the only way to play the Great Game.

There were thousands of strategies to the Game, but she thought she had it all figured out. Crush others, and you win. How the fuck is she actually his daughter ? Were he a lesser man, he would have questioned his late wife's fealty, but he was not a lesser man. He had loved her, as she had loved him. That meant more to him than anything else. She was the only one who could ever make him laugh. 

He shacked his head to rid himself of the thought of Joanna, not wishing to sulk all day when he had so much to do today.

Right now, he had to find the man named Balôkhâr and either obtain a Valyrian Steel sword or the location of the Bastard.

He found him in the godswood of Winterfell, as he watched over the two Stark children and weaved them stories. He barely listened to whatever he was saying, so lost in his own head was he.

"... Really ? They are so strong ?"

Hmmm, what are they talking about ?

"Even stronger than that, young Lord. The only reason I stand before you today is because of them. I would have died a long time ago were it not for my brothers in arms."

The boy looked at the Nazgûl ( seriously, what the fuck is that name ?) his eyes looking like stars so much they shimmered as he listened on. But then, the man turned his head to look at him, his hidden eyes seeing him. Not Tywin Lannister, Lord of Casterly Rock and goodfather to the King, but Tywin. Just Tywin.

"What is it you seek, Lord Tywin ?"

The children turned to look at him. Robb Stark looked both displeased with the fact the stories were over and the amazement of seeing the richest man in Westeros. Sansa Stark looked only happy. He knew she must entertain thoughts of being the next Queen, and truly, it was the least dangerous choice of all the Seven Kingdoms. A Tyrell girl to rule alongside his eldest grandson was a dangerous thought to entertain, and he would die before it happened.

But  right now, his mind was not filled with thoughts of future Queens, but of the man in front of him.

"Ser Balôkhâr, I need to speak with you. Now."

He cocked his head to the side at this.

"I am not a knight, Lord Tywin."

"Lord Balôkhâr, then. Or are you going to tell me you are not a lord either ?"

"Indeed, I am not. I am the Flame of Tyranny of the Nazgûls. Nothing more, nothing less."

The Flame of Tyranny ? What the fuck does that even mean ?

"..."

"What do you want to talk about, Lord Tywin ? Myself, or my Master ?"

Tywin narrowed his eyes at him as the man barreled through the conversation, destroying every little plans he had to control the flow of information. This man did not play the Game like others did, and that made him dangerous.

"I want to know about Jon Snow."

"And what makes you worthy to know about him ?"

Just nine words. And he almost lost his composure. Worthy ? WORTHY ? HIM ?? TYWIN LANNISTER, WHAT MADE HIM WORTHY TO KNOW ABOUT A BASTARD ?? 

"...... How does he have Valyrian Steel ?"

"No, I won't be sharing such information. Not to you, not to anyone."

Tywin was really starting to get riled up with every second that passed. This man was annoying him in ways even that dreaded Imp couldn't, with all his whoring and drinking. This man was treating him like he was no one, not even worthy of being scrapped of his boots were he a shit.

"And why is that ? I  am sure we can come to an agreement of sorts."

"My Master has given me explicit orders to not tell anything about him to anyone outside of a restricted circle. You, Lord Tywin, are not part of this circle. I advise you to leave before you do something foolish."

Just like that, the man turned around and left the godswood, the two Stark children following him like moths drawn to a flame.

As the snow started to fall around him, Tywin Lannister, the Great Lion of Casterly Rock, the man who had destroyed entire Houses, just because they disrespected him, and yet, right now, he could do nothing else but rage silently at the insults this man had proffered towards him.

Jon Snow and the Nazgûls would Hear Him Roar. He would make sure of that.

The Star.

Seeing Valyria was absolutely incredible. And so was waking every day to see it.

The sights were beautiful, the rebuilt houses and roads were of great craftsmanship, and the Targaryen Castle was a sight that she felt only Asshai could compete with, though even the City of Shadows lacked the warmth that sipped in her bones as she laid down even more in her bathtub, in a room given to her by her... Great great great...great ? nephew. 

Nephew. Her nephew. Easier to see and less annoying. Her family- Their family tree really was more of a circle than anything else. No matter, she thought. She was back where she belonged. With her family. With the Dragons of Valyria.

As she rose from her bath, the water trickling down her naked body, she let her thoughts drift to the events that brought her here.

She had felt it, just like every other shadowbinder. The pull of magic was something she had never even imagined possible. She almost lost control of the shadows under her control, but she managed to keep them. Not everyone was so lucky and she could still see how they had been torn to shreds by the monsters of Asshai, their strength untold.

She had met with every shadowbinder above a certain level, searching for the source of magic. All had the same answer. They did nothing, and it must have been someone far more powerful than them. She knew it could not be the Warlocks of Qarth, but perhaps sorcerers in Yi-Ti or something of this frame. And yet, when the shadowbinders of Asshai all met for the first time in generations.

There, during the greatest ritual they had ever executed, they could see a flash of gold passing through their minds, as a sentence kept repeating in their heads. The Lord of the Rings shall rule in time.

After fighting with herself far more than she should have, she eventually decided to leave Asshai, to leave the City that had accepted her for almost a hundred years. All because she felt she just had to. That it was time for her to sail back West.

And yet, as she did, as she sailed seeking the pull of magic, she could feel it growing stronger, hotter and colder at the same time. And in her mind, she remembered white hair, red eyes and white skin, as the man talked of Songs, of Ice and of Fire, of the Conqueror's prophecy and of his dreams for the future. She remembered the two of them laying together, her skin flushed and dripping with sweat as she cuddled into his side. They never talked after their passions, letting themselves simply bask in the moment.

She felt the magic and knew where it was coming from. Every wave of power, every whisper of knowledge. All lead back to there. Where magic had almost died, four centuries ago. And now, where magic rose back, stronger than ever before. Whoever had done this was someone worth knowing, someone worth meeting. And gods be damned, she would even if it was the last thing she would do in her life.

Her ship sailed ever closer to Valyria and she felt, deep in her heart, that she was doing the right thing. She was going home.

And as she landed in Valyria, the sight she was greeted with, she would never forget. A boy, no older than nine namedays and looking like a true King. Two girls, both Valyrian in blood, if one not by look. They would grow to become beauties unparalleled, that she could feel. Another boy, around thirteen namedays, his eyes clear and warm, yet steel was in his gaze, even if not in his posture. An old man standing besides them, and his eyes, she could feel she knew them. But those eyes had belonged on the face of a younger boy, a boy that had blushed when she looked at him with a smile.

Behind those five people, she could see eight figures cloaked in darkness. They felt... wrong, in a strange sense. Not dangerous towards her or the others, but out of place. Like they didn't belong here, or anywhere in this world. She shuddered beneath her cloak, warming herself up by using the slightest hint of magic. And yet, the little drop she used felt like a mug of water, so strong was magic in those lands.

The boy presented himself and the rest of his family, and she was happy for the first time in, she forgot how long. Her family, even if they didn't know each other yet. They were her family, and that was all she wanted. A family to call her own, after the events of Daemon, their eldest brother, of Brynden and Aegor fighting for her hand, she had almost forlorn the possibility to have one.

And yet, right now, she felt that, perhaps, she could have one.

She left the confines of her memory, finding the present much more interesting and beautiful. But even here, in chambers she called her own, she knew she had to talk to them. About him. About it. The man he was, still is under the control of the creature that now holds his body in the tree.

She sighed as she walked to the side of the room, where her closet was. She had been given several gowns by her nephew and the Red Priestess, Lady Kinvara. She chuckled as she thought back to Kinvara and Aemon. How in the Seven Hells did no one else notice was something she found infinitely amusing. Those two were so obvious she wanted to shout at them to shut up and kiss. Or fuck. Or both. Definitely both.

She dressed in a white gown, so much like her own back in the Red Keep, in the Maidenvault. She put it on easily, used to having no handmaiden unlike so many of those Ladies of Westeros that could barely get out of bed alone, let alone dress. She put on her necklace, the familiar weight of it on her neck a comforting presence. Finally, she looked at herself in the mirror of the room, happy to see that, even after a hundred years, she was still a woman of incredible beauty.

She left the room and walked towards the Great Hall, where the family broke their fast every morning, like they were just a normal family not plotting to destroy the Baratheon legacy, or uproot Tywin Lannister and his so-called power. It was a fun sight to witness, and she was happy she had seen it several times. It had took her almost two weeks, but now they saw her, if not family, then a friend. Aemon the only one who was more weary of her, but mostly because he knew her from before. 

She reached the Hall and when she entered it, she smiled seeing Aemon and Kinvara in a deep conversation, Viserys and Daenerys in another, while Rhaenys talked with Aenar about training. He was really the oddest of the bunch. Quiet and reserved, but so quick to give a smile or a glare. He could shift from a kind young boy to a man who had seen it all in but a second. And his magic, gods his magic.

A burning inferno if she ever saw one. It flowed throughout his entire body, the fury of Fire mixed with the quiet rage of Ice. Strength tempered by patience. A combination so impossible, yet so true.

She sat down in her chair and smiled at everyone, greeting them as they did her. She could see from the corner of her eye two Nazgûls ( She had learned who and what they were five days ago ) guarding the room. It was the Witch-King and Khamûl, the Lord of the Nazgûls and his right arm.

She looked to Aenar and saw that he was staring right at her. He knew, or at least suspected, that she had something to say. He nodded at her, a silent bid to speak her mind. And so, she did. She rose to her feet, and everyone turned to look at her. Even Kinvara. She would have asked for her to leave, were she not so sure that she would one day become her good grand grand niece. A really fucked up family tree indeed.

"I must apologize for breaking the mood right now, but I have news that I must share. News of great importance."

Everyone looked at her expectantly, though Rhaenys was half-glaring at her, unhappy that her conversation with her Valonqar was cut so soon and sharply.

"I am sure you all know of my half-brother, Brynden."

Once again, they nodded.

"Brynden was always a strange fellow, though not the monster people speak he is. My memories of him are few and stretched, but I do remember a man who fought for his family first and foremost."

Aemon said, his gaze strong and powerful. The magic in him was subtler than the others. Like it was meant to weave from the shadows and not stand in the light. Perhaps it is.

"Indeed, he was. Or rather, he is."

And just like that, Viserys almost jumped from his seat at her words. The meaning of her words lost on no one.

"BLOODRAVEN IS ALIVE ??"

He yelled in the Hall. A glare from her had him back in his seat. She was patient with children and soon-to-be adults, but not with noise.

"Yes. And it is both a blessing and a curse. Only time will tell."

"What do you mean by that, Shiera ?"

Her youngest nephew said, his arms crossed over his chest as he looked at her, the violet of his eyes so prominent, even in the light of the Hall.

"Brynden is still alive and in Westeros. I believe he has gone North of the Wall. I do not know why, nor when."

Aenar nodded at this, his head cocked to the side as he listened to her. She wondered what was going on in that head of his.

"Why are you sharing this with us, Shiera ? And what do you mean by blessing and curse ?"

"My brother is still alive, and there are few things I wish more than to see him again, to hold him in my arms once more."

Aemon chuckled at that, no doubt remembering how their hugging always ended up. He had once witnessed them lost in the throes of passion, and had almost fled to Dragonstone, so embarrassed was he. It took both her and Brynden to tell him that he had done nothing wrong for him to accept it. After those events, he had not looked at her in the eyes for five days.

"And the blessing and curse ?"

Aenar pressed on.

"... There is an old entity, older than even Valyria. It is known as the Three-eyed Raven, and was once of the Old Gods, until it brought Ice and Darkness into this world by revealing the Children of the Forest how to create what would bring the greatest threat this world has ever seen... The Long Night."

Everyone was silent at her revelations. Even Kinvara looked almost shocked, and judging just how good this woman was in hiding her emotions, she could only imagine the turmoil going on inside her.

"... And what does it mean for Lord Bloodraven ?"

"My brother is still alive, in his body. But so is the Raven. They share the same body, and I fear the Raven is too strong for him to continue to hold on for more than a decade at most. I need your help, Aenar. I need your help in bringing Brynden back."

He looked at her, his purple eyes betraying nothing of his thoughts. She had always been good at reading people through their eyes, but Aenar's own were a shield.

"... Can he help us ?"

Shiera nodded at this, she knew he could. She knew he would. Aenar sighed softly, then looked at everyone in the room. They looked expectantly at him. He rose from his seat and said.

"Alright. If I can help him in any way, I will. I promise you, Shiera."

She smiled at him, and not even thinking, she got closer to him and hugged him tight. She felt him tense beneath her, but he eventually held her as well.

And as the Hall emptied itself, the inhabitants leaving to their own lives all around Valyria, she remained a few more instant before returning to her chambers. As she laid down on her bed, she could only sigh at everything that had happened today. But at least, Aenar had promised her he would help. And that meant more to her than he could imagine.

As the Star of the Sea closed her eyes, she let her thoughts drift to man with red eyes and white hair.

Soon, my love. Soon. Never again am I letting you leave.

And in the Far North, where Ice whispered and trees sang, a man in a tree lifted his head.

Soon, my love. Soon. I will never leave you again.

Chapter Text

Winterfell, a day after the duel.

Balôkhâr stood in the training yard, looking at Robb as he attempted to repeat the movements he had just shown him. The young Lord showed promises in the way of the sword, though he could not remain in Winterfell to train him. He still had to go back to Valyria and serve his master. But for now, he had five more days to spend with the Stark children before his return.

As he watched over the young man training, he saw from the corner of his eyes Sansa stirring. Her head turned to the side, and he followed her gaze, only to see it being drawn to Lady Olenna Tyrell. Fuck.

He watched, his eyes unblinking, as she came near him, two tall guards at her back. Twins, obviously, judging by how they looked so much like each other. Balôkhâr wondered how she could tell them apart. Perhaps she had a special trick for it, or she just knew them by heart.

"Left, Right, leave us be."

Or she just called them that. Works too, I guess.

The old lady stood before him, her sharp gaze scrutinizing over every part of his body she could see beneath the cloak. Which, to be fair, was really not much. The concealed daggers on his hips weighted heavier for but a second, as he prepared for whatever the old shrew wanted from him. Though there were few things she could actually want from him, other than his master's whereabouts.

"Robb, Sansa. Go to your parents, I will come find you soon. And do not waste time."

The two children seemed ready to try and make him change his mind, but something about his body language and the unseen glare he sent them was enough for them to not question him, as Robb took Sansa's hand in his own and they walked away quickly, leaving the two of them alone on the battlements over the courtyard. Well mostly alone, he thought, as he could still sense the presence of the two men who had come with her.

"..."

"..."

"..."

The Lady obviously wanted him to break, but that was a game he had perfected in thousands of years. He had been a servant of Sauron for 5 millennia without speaking a single word. He didn't need to, not when the Orcs were too cowardly to talk to them, or when he and his brothers could discuss without opening their mouths. He only started to speak after he had arrived in this world, as his master was actually interested in hearing about them, and so were the other Targaryens.

Balôkhâr was still standing tall, his body unmoving, when the old Lady simply sighed deeply, and looked back at him, her little smirk she had been wearing before now completely gone.

"Lord Balôkhâr. Might we have a discussion ?"

"Yes. And I am not a Lord."

Her eyebrow lifted slightly at this, but she didn't say anything else. She was a smart woman, she had probably recognized that his culture was different from hers. For him, the only Lords he knew were his Lord Nazgûl and his Master, the Lord of the Rings. Though that was still a title he had yet to truly claim, one that he was not intent on claiming actually.

"No matter. I still want to talk with you."

"Very well. What is it you seek, Lady Tyrell ?"

"My son and I were wondering about your sword."

She said as she pointed her finger towards his back, while her hand still rested on her cane. She looked at him with her eyes of coldness, but it only made him laugh inside as to how much he was used to the gaze of the Witch-King, a gaze that would make any lesser man piss themselves in fear. He stood straight as a line, and waited for her to continue. He would not allow her to try and command anything from him.

"What about my sword ?"

"What metal is it made of ? I know it is not castle-forged steel, nor is it Valyrian."

"...Doom Steel."

Her brow rises at this. She looks at him expectantly, waiting for him to explain, but he does not. Instead, he simply looks at her with nothing in his cold eyes. She sighs after a few minutes like that.

"Where is it from ?"

"Far away from here. And before you ask, no, you cannot buy it from me, nor from any of my brothers."

She snorted, a very unladylike sound, one a bit similar to Rhaenys actually, and laughed a little.

"I have no interest in buying your sword, good man. I would much prefer a... stronger steel."

His lips thin into an almost invisible line. So, that's why she's here, huh ? Valyrian Steel. Just like the Old Lion, it seems the Queen of Thorns cannot stop herself from trying to get her own hands on his master. But whether she sought a sword or more, that remained to be seen. And yet, why did he care ? His master was busy reconstructing Valyria from scratch, while the rest of the Targaryens were working with him.

"Speak plainly, Lady Tyrell. I am many things. Patient is not one of them."

"...Has anyone ever told you you are quite rude towards your elders ?"

Okay, NOW he wants to laugh. This lady is but a new-born babe to him. He has lived over five millennia, and witnessed things beyond mortal comprehension. And yet, this lowly mortal calls herself HIS elder ? he should put her to the sword right fucking now-

"Grandmama !!"

And just like that, he let go of his anger. He was ready to do many things. Killing a grandmother in front of her grandchild was not one of those things. His shoulders relaxed ever so slightly as he saw a little girl, around eight namedays old, brown hair and doe-eyed, almost running to her grandmother, holding her little dress from the sides. Her smile was wild and true, as her eyes sparkled with mischief and childhood wonder.

Her grandmother turned to look at her and smiled at the sight of her little granddaughter standing in front of her. She put her hand on her precious's rose hair and asked in a sweet voice.

"What is it, sweetling ? I am quite busy with Lord Balôkhâr."

He almost made a remark about him not being a Lord, but the child was faster than him.

"I was speaking with Lord Robb Stark, and he told me that his brother had gave him the Valyrian sword he has. And so, I thought that I could ask Lord Balokar a few questions."

He cringed at her pronounciation of his name, as she turned to look at him, a silent plea written in her wide eyes.

"I don't think we-"

"It would be my pleasure to discuss with you, my Lady. I will answer your questions to the best of my abilities."

Lady Olenna looked almost offended, but knew better than to make a comment. She looked at her granddaughter and leaned over her, whispering a few words in her ear. He watched as the little girl nodded eagerly, and the Queen of Thorns left the place, her cane hitting the ground repeatedly as she left. He turned his head to look at the young girl who watched him, obviously eager to ask her questions.

"What do you want to know, young one ?"

"Is it true you serve Jon Snow ?"

And bam. First question, and it was already there. He had expected the question, but not so soon.

"...Yes. My brothers and I have sworn our House to him, until his very last day."

She looked a bit confused at this.

"But... Why ?"

"He deserves it. He more than anyone in this world."

"How so ?"

A question he could not answer truthfully.

"...Because. If you want to know more, you will need to ask my Lord, though he hardly ever leaves my Master's side. You would be hard-pressed to find him."

"Uhhh... Okay, thank you for this. Can I ask you one more question ?"

"You just did."

"Two more questions ?"

"You just did."

"Four more questions ?"

He smirked.

"Yes."

She grinned like a child who just got her favorite treat. The same grin Daenerys would wear when she defeated him or his brothers in the yard with her magic. Mostly because, if she won, she would actually get a treat from Shiera, along with a big hug from the rest of her family.

"Is it true that Jon Snow can forge Valyrian Steel, and even create it ?"

A question he had the right to answer, but not any details could be given. Sounds hard, but is actually very easy.

"Yes. To both questions."

She looked in complete awe when she heard that. She grinned, and bowed slightly before turning around and leaving the yard. Her footsteps quickly faded in the wind, as he watched where she had disappeared. He looked at the sky and exhaled. This week was going to be long.

The Crow's eye.

Fire. Ash. Darkness. Death. And worse.

For years, those had been the only things he had dreamed about. The only things he could dream about. And with the Shade of the Evening, the dreams were even worse. He would dream of monsters, and creatures beyond human imagination.

But all changed six moons ago.

It started with the roar. Not a creature, not a man. it sounded like the very foundation of the world had roared.

Then, followed the visions. Gods, the visions.

A golden Ring flowed through his mind, spinning around, unseen and yet everywhere. Voices sang in untold tongues and impossible dialects, as whispers carried smells he could not taste.

Nine nightmares cloaked in the shape of men stood around four dragons, and one winged wolf that breathed fire.

A shadow turned into a star, rising from the sea.

A woman in red cloaks, hovering around a fading dragon, only for the dragon to roar and snatch her in his wings. In protection, strangely enough.

And there, he saw himself. A God, fighting and killing away, only to fall from the sky by the claws of the wolf.

Just as he fell, as he was about to die, the wolf stopped. A boy caught his hand, halting his fall. A hand rested on his head, and the dreams faded away. The blue of his lips disappeared like blood in the rain, and he laughed. Not mad, but true, warm... peaceful.

Euron Greyjoy, the Mad Kraken, opened his one good eye. He was lying down on the bed of his cabin, in the shadows of the Silence. He swung his legs over the bed and rose to his feet. Turning to his closet, he took his favorite clothes : A black and blue doublet, a cloak made of untold silks in colors that seemed to never stay the same, his black boots, turned crimson from the fields of blood he walked into, and pants the color of midnight sky on a stormy day.

He walked out of his room and onto the deck. All around him, he could hear the sound of the waves crashing down on the hull of his ship, and the winds through the sails. And yet, that was it. No other sound. The men of his crew were dead-eyed, their minds turned into mush and fear. They did their jobs, their tongues ripped out of their own mouths as they worked to keep the ship ever sailing. 

Euron walked to the bar, and with just a thought, he turned the ship around. They had been sailing towards Yi-Ti. But now, something else was calling. Something older, stronger, darker. Truer and infinitely more dangerous.

What a beautiful way to live and die. For a man cannot live as a God without dying first.

As Euron Greyjoy and his fleet sailed to the ruins of a dead land, whispers carried words of his coming. And in the ruins of a renewed solar, Euron's covered eye blinked once, then twice.

At the table, sat a little boy, no more than 9 namedays. He was writing something on a piece of paper. But when he tried to get closer, the boy looked up. His eyes... Gods his eyes !!

The color of dying sun in the moonlit sky, and behind them, an ember of gold flickered. The boy smiled and said.

"Come, Kraken. Sail, and meet your fate."

The vision ended, and Euron gasped loudly. No one turned to watch him, they had learned long ago that stopping work for any reason was a very bad idea. Euron simply waited, and as he thought back to what he had just witnessed, he laughed, mad as he was, mad as he had always been.

This boy was death and power. Blood and darkness.

Fire and Ice.

Aenar Targaryen.

The vision had just faded when the door resonated with a knock. He turned his head to look at it, and saw the Witch-King standing there. He bid him enter with a nod, and waited as he stood before his desk.

"What is it ?"

"I just received a raven from Balôkhâr. The Lions and the Roses moved. The Steel is important to them."

Aenar smiled slightly at this. He rose from his seat and turned to the window of his solar, the sun setting from behind the mountains of Valyria.

"It was to be expected. Westeros are little more than a flock of vultures. Show anything worth it, and they will all run to you. Even if ruin lied at the end of the race."

The Witch-King stood there, silent as always. Aenar turned around, and told him.

"Bring my family and Kinvara to the Great Hall. We have something important to talk about."

He bowed and turned, leaving the room with nothing more than a whisper in his path. Aenar looked at where he had just gone, and walked out himself, walking to the Hall. As he walked, he did not let himself think about Valyria, or his family. For once, he preferred to walk simply, no thought.

He arrived first at the Hall, and walked inside. He sat at his usual chair, the dragons carved into it, a reminder of what he truly was. After a few more minutes, the others arrived. Rhaenys smiled when he saw him, as she sat in her usual chair, right to his left. Daenerys followed and sat next to Rhaenys. Aemon sat the other chair next to Aenar, and Viserys was beside him. Kinvara and Shiera were the last to arrive, as they sat on the remaining chairs, opposite of Aenar. The Nazgûls stood in the shadows of the room, ever silent witnesses of their family. Aenar rose to his feet and spoke.

"We have been working on Valyria for six moons now. We have been restoring a realm that has been dead for four centuries, and woke dragons from stone. But we are far from over, very far."

Aemon was first to respond.

"And what should we do now, nephew ? Opening trade would be far too reckless, and we do not have enough Valyrian Steel to entice the rest of Essos."

"Correct. But trade is not on my mind. Not yet. For how can we trade, without merchants ? Without people to work their own jobs into this city ? Without the very heart of what trade is, not gold and silver, but goods and craftsmanship."

The others looked a bit confused at him. All except for Kinvara and Shiera, whose eyes glinted with a bit of greed.

"What do you mean, Aens ?"

Rhaenys was next to speak. He smiled at her, tough this was colder and stranger than usual.

"I speak of people, Rhae. Men, women and children. All of them, running around Valyria, going to work everyday, meeting one another at the tavern, and dancing in the streets when a market is held. That, is my vision."

"You... You... You want to bring people to Valyria ??"

Viserys said, his eyes wide and disbelieving. Part of him wanted to believe it, the other was scared of what it could mean if someone from Westeros learned it too soon. But Aenar's conviction was stronger than fear, and Viserys nodded at him.

"I do. But no just anyone. Valyria, for all our powers, is still a dangerous land, and many cannot enter it without great cost. I am sure you have noticed the one thing that Lady Kinvara's crew all have in common ?"

Daenerys answered that question.

"Violet eyes and silver hair. Valyrian traits."

"Indeed. And that is the only reason they are not yet dead."

Their eyes widened slightly at this, except for Kinvara and Shiera, who already knew this from their own deductions. They watched him with their eyes gleaming.

"What do you mean ?"

"Valyria is not just a land, with walls and roads. It is more. It is the rivers flowing through the remains of our ancestors home. It is the magic flowing all around us, unbroken, even after all this time. It is the reason why no one that does not carry Valyrian Blood can live here. Not without paying a great toll."

They all looked at each other. Among them, the one with the less Valyrian blood was Kinvara, and yet, she remained unharmed by whatever horrors Valyria could conjure to destroy the ones unworthy of it. Meaning that, if even her could remain here unbothered, many others could. Probably all who carried Valyrian blood in their veins could remain here.

"So... How do we bring them here, then ? And who do we bring ?"

Aenar looked at Kinvara, who smiled sweetly, poised in her chair.

"Volantis is one of the three cities were many inhabitants are of Valyrian descent. We'll begin there. From there, we'll move to Lys and the other Free Cities near us. Most importantly, Slaver's Bay."

"Wha- Slaver's Bay ?? This is a cursed place, where men and women are sold like cattle !! What could you find there, that is of any interest ?"

Rhaenys and Daenerys did NOT look happy by his last sentence. He almost expected to receive something thrown at his face. Rhaenys more likely. But all that happened was silence.

"People. That is what we will find there. Just like you said, men and women are sold there. How do you think they would respond to us, if their chains were to be broken ?"

"Not as easily as you expect. Chains can become a blanket, given enough time."

The Ring whispered in his ear. Aenar's eyes narrowed at this. He knew better than to swipe the advice of the Ring without a second thought. Part of him wanted to know why, the other was sure that he already knew. Broken men seek protection. If we want to free them, we need to be there for them.

"So, first Volantis, then Slaver's Bay. And next ?"

Aenar laughed a bit, this sweet, strange sound that they had heard less times than they had fingers.

"That is a bit too far for now. We'll begin with Volantis, then we will see what we do. All I ask, is that together, we stand united. House Targaryen suffered more than enough, and we cannot act recklessly. Not anymore."

They looked at each other, than at him, and nodded.

This is just the beginning. Soon, Valyria would be reborn, and they could finally begin their next steps. The rebuilding of the Freehold.

Aenar left the Hall, and walked to his solar. His mind was filled with many thoughts, but right now, he was thinking about the different things he would have to do.

Brynden Rivers, still somewhere North of the Wall. Tied to a monster in human shape, one that had tried to avenge the Children, but who had gone too far.

Westeros, vultures that they are, circling around Balôkhâr in Winterfell. They are going to use his connection to the North to try and bring him back. He knew that.

Euron Greyjoy. The Mad Kraken was the most immediate threat, coming here, at this very moment.

Aenar watched outside, and as a roar from Ancalagon resonated in the city, he smiled.

He would bring Fire and Blood to his enemies. That he knew. That he would do.

Chapter Text

Aenar Targaryen

The ships were full with the one thing he needed most. His lips curved upwards at the sight, while Rhaenys stood beside him, her hand clenching and unclenching repeatedly. Daenerys was on his other side, her silver hair blowing in the wind of the docks. Docks that, while they had seen some better days, were much better than almost seven moons ago.

Now, Valyria was no longer the ruined place, cursed with ancient horrors, and madness beyond human comprehension. Oh, don't get me wrong, it was still very dangerous, and no one dared walk out of the Dark Walls of the Capital. But inside, it was safe. The stonemen no longer resided in it, scared off, whether by the dragons, or the power of the Rings, Aenar knew not. And quite frankly, he didn't have the time nor the focus to care about it. All that mattered was that the people that lived inside the Walls were safe, and no monsters had been spotted inside. 

Even the sea was no longer truly boiling, only much hotter than a sea normally is. A bit strange, but less so than the huge fucking dragon that slept curled up around the First Flame. Ancalagon really was a big napper. Even more so than Aemon and Kinvara, who napped a lot. AND ALWAYS AT THE SAME TIME !!! So weird...

He snapped out of those thoughts as the ship drew closer to the docks. The sails bore red on them, flames as a sigil, with a sword being surrounded by them, not in threat, but in reverence. As though the flames served the sword.

On the deck of the ship, he could sense the presence of Kinvara, her fiery spirit easily seen. Though she was far from alone, as many other lesser presences could be felt all across the ship. There was only one thing those presences had in common.

They smelt of dragon.

He smiled, warm and true, as the rest of his family did. They could sense it. Sense the power, the might. Sense the blood of their kin, even if it was not as potent as their own.

Finally, Valyrians were coming home. And from there, the Freehold would rise once more. The ashes were clearing, the dust laid down, the seas were no longer boiling to death those who swam in it, and the skies were breathable in every part of the capital. The scent was akin to a warm hearth after a hard day of work. And that felt more homely to any Valyrian than anything else. This scent, this feeling seeping into their bones, into their very soul, was that of home.

The ship docked just near him, and Kinvara was the first to step down, her red skirts trailing on the ground beneath her, yet not being sullied in any way. Aenar smiled at her, and she smiled back, a smile that could only mean one thing. It is done.

Behind her, men and women began to appear on the deck. Not many people, but a proof. A statement. A declaration etched not in words, but in acts. Valyria rose, and with it rose power.

They walked down the gangplank, their purple eyes taking everything into account, their silver hair glittering in the light of the sun. The first one was the oldest, and yet he looked just a bit older than thirty namedays old. His eyes shone like amethysts, and his hair flowed in the wind. He was beautiful, even for a Valyrian. A woman and two children stood at his side, and they bore expressions of wonder and light dread. The kind that appears when you don't know what you are doing somewhere.

Aenar stepped forward, his boots echoing over the wood of the docks. They all turned to look at him, their eyes widening at the sight of a boy dressed in red and black, purple eyes and black hair, a shining ring of gold on his finger. And when he spoke, it was like time itself had stilled, even for but a moment, just to listen to him.

"Greetings, my friends. It is a true pleasure to greet you..." He said as he slowly spread his arms. "To Valyria."

They looked at him like he was either mad, or a god. The children looked in awe, the weary with gratitude, and the doubtful with reluctance at following him. Yet, all those looks stopped and looked up when four roars were heard.

Their eyes snapped upwards and their mouth fell into a silent scream when not one, not two, not even three but four dragons flew overhead.

The first one, and by very far the largest, was fully dark and bore green eyes that seemed ready to kill you for a laugh. The second had black and red scales, and was the biggest of the three smaller dragons. The third one looked like he was made of sand, and was the fastest of the three. The last one was green-blue, like an emerald in water, and looked to be the most mild-mannered of the three, as he simply scooped low and landed near Viserys, who immediately reached up to pass his hands over the scales.

The newly-arrived looked in awe at the sight of the dragons, their blood singing with approval, with joy. The blood of their ancestors, those who had ridden dragons, still lived strong in them. After all, Valyrians often mated with one another, the idea of the purity of blood still strong in them. A few of them were not as pure-blooded, but all could still live in Valyria, and not fear the dangers of the Doom's remains, the curse of King Tommen Lannister, Second of His Name. The man who thought to plunder Valyria after the Doom, only managing in losing his House's Valyrian Steel sword, Brightroar. Goddamn fool.

One of them actually fell to his knees in worship as he gazed upon the dragons. Aenar could almost hear Ancalagon's grin at this. Same thing with the rest of his family, who knew how prideful their dragons could be. Especially Drogon, who was the eldest of his siblings.

Aenar stepped forward, smiling warmly at the men, women and children that stood enthralled by the sight of the dragons. He spoke, clear and strong.

"I know that all of this must be confusing. I ask only for you to trust me, to trust us. Just for a few days, as you see what is happening here. What we are building here."

He walked to the kneeling man, and outstretched his hand to him. The man looked in his eyes, his own eyes wet with tears of awe, as his lips trembled, struggling to say the words he wants to. He took the offered hand, and rose to his feet, still looking like he was in a dream he had no desire to wake from.

They didn't even speak as Kinvara's servants brought them to the houses near the Targaryen Keep, their gazes shifting from one place to another in an unending discovery of things no one thought they would be seen again. Far in the distance, they could see the Dark Walls of the Capital, the same protection that kept them safe from the horrors of Valyria. All around them, they could see men with the same traits as them working tirelessly to rebuild. One house at a time, one road at a time, one brick at a time.

All until the Freehold in it's entirety stood tall and strong. But before this, Aenar had to take care of something. A man was coming here, and he was too dangerous. Too mad. Aenar didn't like that, and neither did the rest of his family, the shadow of Aerys still present in the back of their minds, especially Rhaenys, who had lived in the Red Keep with that mad man. The only thing he could do for now, was wait until he arrived in the waters of the Boiling Sea.

And from there, well... The Ring was more than an advisor to him. No matter how strong Jon was in the arts of fire and ice magic, the Ring was a true master in domination magic.

The Mad Kraken was coming to Valyria, seeking to plunder it just like so many other before. Just like Tommen Lannister, just like the Essosis, just like the Targaryen Kings of old, and even like Balerion the Dread, though he was the only one that survived, and not unscathed. By his own estimations, he had two weeks.

He would be ready for him, he would show him exactly why you don't mess with dragons. 

Come, Kraken. Sail to me. And meet your fate.

The seas were hot. That was a problem.

That was a big problem.

Why ? Because they were just hot.

Where were the fumes ? The vapors ? The dead fishes cooking as soon as they got too close ? Everything that made the Boiling Sea.... Boiling.

Instead, it was just hot, like a pool that had stayed in the Dornish sun for too long. The ships sailed through water meant to kill all those who cross it, like it was just the Narrow Sea. He looked at the mountains surrounding the water, half-expecting crazy stonemen or horrors beyond words to jump from behind a tree. Instead, all he found was just water and water. Water stretching for as far as the naked eye could see. And while the Candle could see far beyond, it was too hard to use during his waking time without the help of the Raven.

Part of him was still pissed at the Raven for helping him see beyond the limits of time, right before ripping that off of him. But Euron Greyjoy was not a man that cowered before greater beings. There were none to cower to. He was the greatest, the one that had to become a God. It was written, in fire, in shadow, in the seas and the stars.

So why did his spine chilled with every mile he sailed towards the boy ?

He could see the main spire of what had once been the Capital city of Valyria. The First Flame stood in the middle, it's heart pulsing with heat and smoke. Euron had felt the pull of magic, of destiny. He was not to fall. Not here. Not now. He was to rise. And when he saw the legendary Dark Walls of Valyria, the eternal protection against all those that could foolishly try to defeat this Freehold. Or perhaps it was made to hold something in ? No matter.

The docks were strangely restored. He had expected to land on rotten wood and moss and cracked stone. Not on something that felt like it had just been swept clean. He ordered the gangplank to be lowered, and was the first one to lay feet on the shores of Valyria. He breathed deep the clean air of the once-great land, and was awe struck by it's mighty presence. Magic in other lands was like a little mug, barely filled, and highly diluted. But here... Here, it was everywhere. He could sense it. Sense it's might, it's power. It was incredible. 

He and his crew walked the clean streets of Valyria. All around him, houses stood, looking like they had just been rebuilt. He did not breach into any. He walked straight to the huge castle instead. He could sense it, feel it. He could taste the smell of the boy on his tongue. It smelt of fire and tasted of frost. The silence of the land seeped through the souls of his crew, and it took but a few minutes before one of them fell to his knees, clawing at his throat until blood flowed from it and his eyes rolled in his skull, as he died silently.

He did not say anything at it. He did not weep for the weak. And a man who died simply by walking through a land was nothing but weak.

Or so he thought.

When he reached the castle, he was the only one standing. Every single one of his crew had fallen prey to the strange power of Valyria. The whispers were growing ever closer, his vision blurred at the edges, and he could see monsters every time he blinked. Which he had not in the last three minutes.

Now, as he stepped on the very first step of the stairs leading to the door of the castle, the main gate opened all by itself, and coldness gripped his soul in it's deadly grip. Sweat trickled down his brow, but he kept on walking ahead. Perhaps he shouldn't have.

The doors were all locked, and he could hear footsteps all around him. Yet, whenever he turned to look to where the sounds were coming from, there was nothing but shadows and emptiness. It felt as though he was being lured into a trap, as he trekked his way up to the highest tower of the castle. A light flickered behind the door, and he swore he could hear a man talking.

And before he could burst through the door, it opened all by itself, and there, inside a solar filled with tapestries of dragons and shelves with more books than he had chests of golds on the deck of the Silence, there sat a boy at the desk. He was barely nine namedays, but a strange fire lingered in his gaze. Purple shone in them like jewels and a ring of gold sat on his finger, as he slowly drummed his finger over the wood of the desk.

"I expected you sooner, Greyjoy."

His voice was light-hearted, like he was talking to an old friend, instead of an armored man with two swords, ready to lunge at him and kill him, before claiming all that lingered in this strange castle.

"Who the fuck are you, boy ? And what is wrong with this fucking place ?"

He chuckled, a sound low and almost inaudible. His eyes glinted with warmth, but darkness lingered beneath it all. Then, he slowly rose to his feet. He was not tall, far from it, being around 1,30 meter. But his presence was towering. The weight of his soul almost crushed Euron's own.

"I am Aenar Targaryen, son of Rhaegar Targaryen and Lyanna Stark. I would tell you all the other titles, but we have other things to do, don't we ?"

He teased him, like he was a child. How dare he ? HOW DARE HE ? HE IS EURON GREYJOY, THE MAD KRAKEN, THE CROW'S EYE. And yet, this little sniveling boy, one who should be, by all rights, dead, or not even exist. And now, this same boy is looking at him like one looks at someone lesser. He knows that look, it's the same one he wears all the time.

"As for this place. Well, nothing is wrong for me. Valyria just has a few problems with you entering. Luckily, you paid the toll."

"The what ? What toll ?"

He smirked at him. He fucking smirked at him.

"The lives of your crew was enough for Valyria to allow your entrance."

"Then, I'll take yours to repay this. Then, I'll take everything in this fucking castle. I'll kill every men, enslave every child. As for the women... Well. Perhaps I'll keep you alive to make you watch."

His head snapped straight to him, his eyes no longer bore the spark of warmth, and his mouth that had a small smirk now was as straight as a line.

"You don't talk much, now ? I knew you were just a little boy playing at war. Now leave, run along, before I skewer you and use your skin as my new sail."

The boy raised one of his hand. He snapped his fingers, and fire manifested in his hand. Then, with the other hand, he conjured a sword made of pure ice. Euron's eyes widened at the sight, but he barely had time to think before he had to raise his swords to block the ice sword from splitting him in two. He kicked the boy in the chest, and saw he he was sent back, but still managed to stay on his feet. He bore death in his gaze, and looked akin to a wolf, as he snarled to him and ran, feinting high and thrusting low, forcing Euron to roll to the side, let he be pierced in the chest.

The wolf.

He began to attack himself, his twin swords relentlessly searching to pass through the boy's guard. His one good eye stayed on the fire, as he fought purely by instincts. When he felt a burning cold on his right hand, he let his sword drop to the ground, and tried to sweep the boy's legs from under him, only for him to jump up and slash him across the chest. Euron stumbled back, but refused to let go.

He put a hand to his chest and was relieved to see the sword only slashed through steel, leaving his chest untouched, if just a bit colder. The fire in the boy's hand still burned, but he made no move with it, using only his ice sword to fight him.

The wolf.

He rolled to the right, dodging another thrust by twisting his body, and parried it as he jumped back. That boy was good, very good. The only reason Euron still stood was because of his longer reach and battle experience. The boy had him beat in technique and speed, while their strength was on the same level.

He attacked again, his sword chipping with every strike, as the cold blade almost took off his head when he ducked. Then, his blade became extremely hot, and he had to drop it when he saw that the boy had just used the fire to overheat Euron's own sword. He jumped back, but felt his back touch a wall. he didn't even had the time to dodge when he felt the sword at his throat.

The Wolf. The one to break him.

The boy stepped forward. And with a high knee, he kicked his balls. Euron's eyes widened to a comical degree, as he fell to his knees, nursing his balls. The boy stood tall, yet not. His presence was higher than his status, and no one Euron had ever met made him feel so... small. So meaningless. So nothing.

The sword disappeared from his hands, and he raised his left hand, the one with the Ring, and put it on his head. Euron felt it immediately. He searched for entrance. The boy wanted to toy with his mind, just like the Raven. He wanted to show him things beyond human comprehension, then take it back. He wanted him to writhe in pain at the floor, searching his mind for remnants of explanation, of memories that bore the mark of divinity.

But nothing happened. Instead of intrusion, he felt warmth. Where darkness should pass, a golden light filled the empty places of his soul. Where death had claimed him, he rose with life, akin to a phoenix of legends. Euron Greyjoy had his blue eye see things of wonder. He saw dread. He saw death, and he gazed upon life. He tasted silence, and feasted on lively halls. He heard a broken song, and let his soul weep at another that seemed to he woven from starlight.

Then, when all had passed, when songs were done, when halls had grown cold and when death and life had ended their eternal dance, he saw the wolf again. He was much older than now, but still bore himself like a king. No, like a God. He was sitting on a throne made of gold that shimmered like the purest of jewels. Beside him were two maidens far more beautiful than anything he had ever seen.

One had dark hair and olive skin, and he could spend days gazing upon the wondrous curves of her body, the breasts especially, who looked to fit perfectly in the palm of a hand. She wore a dress black midnight, and had jewels braided in her hair. Her smile was light and teasing. And when her arm brushed against the wolf's one, he contracted his own, trying to stop himself from taking here right on the table.

The other woman had far paler skin, with silver hair that could have been woven from moonlight for all he knew. Her body was not as curvaceous as the other one, but she certainly bore the better arse of the two. He would have gladly died being suffocated by it. She was dressed in a gown of pure red, with an open back and long slits at the thighs, showing off her long and shapely legs, one he could suckle on for hours.

There was a man with long silver hair and purple eyes, his body one of a warrior tested in battle. He laughed merely at the joke of the woman beside him. He was wearing a doublet black and red, and his eyes were wet with tears of joy. He put an arm on the woman's waist and pulled her into his lap, kissing her fully.

He was admonished by another man. He was older, perhaps thirty namedays or so, and his hair was long and his eyes were gentle, even as he chastised the other man. A woman with black hair and a flowing red dress was sitting next to him, and she put her hand on the man's arm. When he paused to look at her, she lunged at his lips and did not relent for three minutes. When it was over, the man's eyes were nearly black with lust, as he stood up abruptly, took the woman's hand and walked straight to the door, sporting quite the erection. The others laughed merely at this.

And he heard that laugh. The one he had heard in his dreams for months. His head snapped to the right, and he saw him. The fucking Raven.

Except.

It wasn't the Raven. It was the same body, the same face, the same voice, but it wasn't the Raven. That man had white skin and red eyes, and had a birthmark on his neck, one that shaped like a raven itself. He was seated next to another extremely beautiful woman, with silver hair and mismatched eyes, one green and one blue. They both bore the same ring on their right ring finger. And when they looked at each other, he almost puked so sickening was their sweet love. If they wanted to fuck, at least get a room.

He continued to look around, as he saw he was in a hall bigger than any other. It somehow dwarfed the Silence, and even the Throne Room of the Red Keep could fit into this hall, and there would still be room.

He looked everywhere, searching why he was here. Why him, of all people, was standing in this hall.

Until he heard the voice.

"...then, and I swear it's a true story, he stumbles out of his own room, his clothes disheveled, his hair thrown all around and a smile of pure joy. I see him and I ask him " What happened to you ? You look like you wrestled a dragon and won." And that little fucker, ten and five namedays old, smiles like a little fool. He raises his hand, and he shows me two fingers. And he says "Two dragons, Euron." and he walks away, skipping away like a little princess. I laughed harder than I had in five months."

And with that, the man gulps down a mug of ale, as a woman drops down in his lap. The man grins and and kiss her fully, his hand around her waist, keeping her in his lap. Euron Greyjoy, the Mad Kraken, the Crow's eye, watched an older Euron Greyjoy, no blue on his lips, and his two blue eyes shining with a light he hadn't seen in years. The woman laughed when he pinched her bosom, and Euron Greyjoy watched as an older version of himself stood up and left the hall.

The hall started to disappear before his eyes, the laughter diminishing, the lights fading and the people unseen. All until only he and the man on the throne were left. He walked to the throne, and knelt, not even thinking about it.

"You kneel before me, Euron Greyjoy. This is the first time you do so. You will kneel two more times in your life. For the rest, I want you to stand as tall as you can."

And with that, the man stood up and put his hand on his head. And just like that, every single whisper stopped. The voices were unheard, the shadows stopped dancing around him. His eyes closed, taking in the silence of his mind. Tears rose, but he refused to let them flow. He would not. Not in front of a man he doesn't even know.

He looked at the man, who smiled warmly at him. The ring on his finger glittered like gold, and when he looked at his hands, he saw a ring of his own, painted blue, with a sapphire on it.

"Welcome home, Euron."

The Kraken wept. He let out years of tears in this place that did not exist, while in Valyria, in the solar of Aenar Targaryen, the rest of the family watched a kneeling Euron Greyjoy crying in front of their King, who kept his hand on the head of the man.

The Spider.

It was impossible. It was impossible. It was impossible.

He had spent days after days tracing everything back together, days listening to every whisper that his little birds carried to him, days taking every mental pin and putting them on the board in his mind. Nothing made sense. And that was impossible.

The Nazgûl had stayed a week in Winterfell, and was never seen away from Robb and Sansa Stark. He had fought only once against Jaime Lannister and had soundly defeated the Young Lion. When he left, he had him tailed, only for the ones he had sent after him to lose his track in three days, stating he rode too fast, too long. How does a man rides too long ?

Then, when his little birds in White Harbor told him that the Nazgûl was seen boarding an Essosi ship seven days after leaving Winterfell, he understood the Nazgûl was lost to him, for now.

So, he had resoluted to bide his time until the next Stark nameday, which would be Arya Stark's second one. And apparently, Lady Catelyn was pregnant, two or three moons along. That would mean four visits from the Nazgûls every year.

After that, he heard other songs from Volantis. Apparently, the First Servant of R'hllor, Kinvara, had took a part of the Valyrian population of the city, and they had sailed east, where they had been lost while sailing throughout the ruins of Valyria.

Speaking of Valyria, many whispered that the gods were angered, because, after four hundred years, the First Flame burned again. Smoke was released every day and lava was flowing from it's mouth. Varys would have sent someone, if he didn't believe that he would die before even reaching the Flame. No one came back from Valyria. No one.

He walked through the shadows of the Red Keep, unseen and unheard by everyone, as he continued to think about everything that had happened since Robb Stark's nameday. It was too much, too fast, and too soon. The flow of information could not be controlled if everyone learned of everything through songs that travelled faster than his own ravens.

So, all he could do was sit back and wait for the next clue to drop. For the first time in years, he was the one in the dark. He did not like that, especially with Aegon still being raised by Connington on the other side of the Narrow Sea, as they travel from Free City to Free City, never in the same place for too long. If Varys wanted his nephew to stand on his rightful throne, he had to make Westeros yearn for the return of the Dragons. The return of the true dragons. The Red ones would never rule again, Varys had made sure of that, whispers in the ears of a king, letters he burned to stop another from being crowned. All for Aegon to take what was his by right.

But ever since Illyrio disappeared, seven moons ago, he had felt like he was completely lost. Without him, most of Aegon's movements came to him weeks after he had moved. That was way too long, and he could not go on like that. He should either go to Essos himself, or bring Aegon here. Though the second option was extremely dangerous.

The Black Dragon will take his Throne. And the Realm will either bend or burn.

Chapter Text

Fields of Valyria. Two weeks after Euron’s arrival.

Aenar was riding through the wheat fields of the Capital, his riding leathers slick with sweat as he exhausted himself as much as he could, the heat of the sun and the land combined made it all the much easier to do so.

His mind was, for once, not lost in politics, the future or even his next forging, but in the simple act of taking in the sight before him. The sun was high in the sky, casting golden reflections across the wheat that surrounded him as far as the eye could stretch, and the high walls of the Capital in the distance, standing between him and the abominations of the Valyrians.

He rode until he stood in the middle of one of the fields of grain,on one of the stone paths. There, all around him, he could see men and women, his people , working together, planting seeds, reaping wheat and collecting grains. It was a heartwarming sight.

And any time he would get close to them, they would smile and cheer for “the young dragon”. He was no Daeron Targaryen, but it always brought a smile to his face whenever the Valyrians showed him and his family love for something so trivial as bringing a people back where they belong. In their homeland.

He stood there, the wind flowing in his hair, tussling them in a wild way, as he watched everything around him. The golden wheat that shined thanks to the sun, and the blue sky clear of any clouds, a perfect weather for a perfect day.

There, he got off his horse and lay down in the field, his back to the ground and his eyes fixed towards the clear blue sky. He smiled lazily, as he closed his eyes and let the breeze flow around him in a comforting manner. Right now, nothing but the soil, the wind and the sky existed. Just him and nature.

Then, he felt the shift more than he heard it. He turned his head to look to his right, and there she was, in all her grace. His mandia. Rhaenys.

“Nice spot you got there, Aens.” She said with a smile, her purple eyes so similar to his own looking straight at him. He couldn’t stop the boyish smile that spread across his face with all his might. Not that he fought it in any way.

“Thanks. I just wanted to clear my mind for a second.” He looked back to the sky, as he let silence surround him and his sister. For several minutes, neither spoke. It was just a normal moment in a life that had never been normal for either of them. 

For once, just once, Aenar felt like he belonged somewhere. A feeling he had felt but a few times in his life. When he had found the Ring, when he had bonded with Ancalagon, when he had arrived in Valyria with his family, and when Valyria had seen the return of her children for the first time in four hundred years.

The silence was heavy, and yet comfortable. There was no awkwardness, no difficulty between them, no hidden meaning beneath the whispers of the wind, no blade hidden in their sleeves. Well, except for Rhaenys’s own in her boot.

Then, he felt a second shift, and when he turned his head to the left, he was greeted with the bright smile of his aunt Daenerys, who looked brighter than ever before. She was kind in a way that he couldn’t understand. When he had learned the life she and Viserys had led and how they fled from every single one of their homes because of the Usurper and his knives in the dark, Aenar had been surprised as to how she could still sleep better than all of them at night, without trouble nor fear.

His Nazgûls had never reported a single nightmare, nor shriek from his aunt. That was better than for Rhaenys, Viserys or even Aemon, who sometimes rose in the middle of the night because of a bad dream, of fire and death. Ashes and ruin. Of being lost to the memory of the world.

“Well, fancy seeing you here, Dany. Wouldn’t have guessed you wanted to get out of the training field before the day was over.” He said as she giggled slightly, and gods, was this sound heavenly. He heard Rhaenys snort from behind him and he smiled at this.

“Yeah, I know. I just saw Rhae ride after you and I wanted to see if everything was alright…” She said the last part with a hint of worry in her voice, and Aenar smiled at her as he grasped her hand and squeezed it a bit tighter than usual.

“Don’t worry for me, sweet aunt. I just wanted to clear my head of everything.” She smiled at him, then turned her head to look at the sky alongside him and Rhaenys.

And for several moments, whether minutes or hours,they couldn’t tell, they just remained there lying down, taking in the clear blue canvas that lingered above their heads, uncaring of everything that happened beneath it. What was the importance of a chair made of swords for the gods that lived in the sky ?

He smiled lazily and closed his eyes, the burning of the sun still visible behind his closed lids. He could hear the soft breathing of his aunt, and the louder, stronger one of his sister. Without even thinking twice, he took their hands in his own, and just laid there, as he felt their heartbeats quicken, then slow down when they realized he had no intention to do anything but hold their hands.

He didn’t know why he had done this. He had just done it. Like it was the most natural thing in the world. And when he felt them relax and slowly scooch up closer to him, he let a wolfish grin rise the corners of his lips. 

They remained together like that for what could be either minutes, hours or days. None could tell, and none wished to guess. For the three children, the small time they had just spent together was more than enough, and yet he would have killed for more.

Aenar rose to his feet, his tunic tussled and brown from the soil, and Rhaenys groaned when he took back his hand. She then rose herself and her riding leathers were much more clean than his. He looked at Dany and gave her a hand to help her rise. When she took it, he pulled her up fast, enjoying the slight yelp that came out of her, and avoided the blow she sought to strike him with at his shoulder.

The three of them stood in the field together, and just as he tried to turn and climb on his horse, his tunic was caught in a death grasp by Rhaenys. He turned to look at her, his eyes wide, just as she planted a deep kiss on his left cheek.

He turned scarlet red in less than a second, and the giggle that left her made Dany laugh as well, right before she kissed his right cheek as well. Meanwhile, Aenar’s brain had just short-circuited, and was not registering anything over the silky smooth feeling of their lips on his cheeks.

The last sight he would have of them today was their giggling selves as they rode ahead of him, their hair flowing behind them in wild waves of onyx and silver.

And he smiled at the sight.

The Old Dragon.

He was sitting in the library of the Targaryen castle, a book lying forgotten in front of him and a warm, beautiful, perfect , body draped in his lap, a tongue lost in his throat.

His eyes were closed as his hands roamed up and down the bare skin of her back and her own were pressed into his chest as she curled up into him like a cat. Though she moved far more than a cat did.

He didn’t relent for a single second as she continued to stroke his tongue with her own. The moans he made were quickly swallowed by her and the same could be said of her own. They had been lost together for what felt like eternity, but was more akin to five minutes.

Then, in a whisper of wood across the stones of the keep, a loud laugh echoed from the entrance of the library. Almost immediately, Kinvara scrambled off of Aemon’s lap as they both turned to face the intruder.

There, standing tall in a dark doublet, breeches of midnight black that would change color every time you looked back, two empty sheaths on his hips and a patch on his left eye, while his right one shined with something he could see as true amusement.

“Well, guess I should have knocked, then. Sorry for disturbing you lovers.” The Not-So-Mad Kraken said as he made a slight bow at them, and walked towards one of the shelves of the library, where Aemon knew resided the books on sailing and shipbuilding.

“What are you searching for, Lord Euron ? Mayhaps I can help you.” Aemon told Euron as he rose from his seat, while Kinvara was sitting down near one of the hearths of the room, a cup of wine that had been forgotten now filled again as she gazed into the fire, her eyes transfixed by it.

“Don’t worry about lil’ ol’ me, Maester . I got it under control. Just looking for a book about Valyrian ships for the lad.” Euron said over his shoulder, still looking at the books, his one good eye shifting from one shelf to the next in an unpredictable pattern.

Aemon bristled a bit at the reminder of his title and the oaths he swore. True, he was technically a Maester, though he hadn’t worn his chain since he had left Castle Black, for what felt like a lifetime ago, but was closer to a year in real time.

“Still, I am sure I can provide you help, if for my own sake of mind than anything else.”

“Don’t worry, you can go back to your priestess. I ain’t gonna rat out on you. Why would I ?” He finally said, as he turned his head to look at Aemon. The smile he wore was the weirdest that Aemon had ever seen, and he had lived with Brynden and Aegor both.

Euron then turned back to the shelf, until his gaze fell on a specific book about the history of Valyrian ship-building. He took the book and walked towards the entrance of the library. Then, just as he was about to leave, he turned back to look at Aemon and whispered one last thing.

“Propose fast, man. Or you're gonna lose her. She ain’t the type to wait around, even for a dragonlord.”

Then, with a twist and a twirl, he left the room, leaving Aemon alone with his thoughts and Kinvara, still sitting on a chair, her legs tucked under her, as she stared at the fire of the hearth.

Aemon sat back at the chair where the book he had been reading was still lying. He didn’t know what gods to thank for Kinvara having not noticed it. He took it back in his hands and continued to read “Valyrian Ceremonies of the Fourteen Flames”.

There, lost in one of the chapters about the rituals of the Third Flame, there was the ceremony for a pure Valyrian wedding.

Soon. Very soon. But perhaps not too soon , either.

The Bold

Ser Barristan was walking in the Red Keep, following the King from his bedroom to the Small Council Room, where the Spider had important news to share. Barristan had no idea what, though. The Spider had been much more elusive as of late.

The King, on the other hand, did not change in the slightest. Still drunk, still a whoremonger, still spending too much. He sighed internally when he thought how close Westeros had been to a real king, one that would have seen this realm to be strong and good. If Rhaegar hadn’t allowed Robert to rise from his initial fall, one that Robert used to throw sand at the Prince’s face, then, Elia, Rhaenys and Aegon would all be alive, perhaps Lyanna Stark and her son would also reside with them.

Unfortunately, those thoughts were but flights of fancy in a world where the Usurper sat the Iron Throne and the children lied dead and broken, while the kind Princess had been raped to death in a way that had almost made him kill Robert on the spot when he had laughed over their bodies.

Finally, he recognized the door of the Small Council chamber and allowed himself no longer to think about the past. In this room, the fate of the Seven Kingdoms was discussed every day and today, something of untold proportions may yet happen.

The doors opened with a loud groan, as every head turned to look at the King who didn’t care and just went straight to his chair, groaning as he sat in it.

“Alright, what is so important I had to come all the way here myself ?” The King said in his loud voice. Already, Barristan was getting annoyed at him, and he could see how Jaime’s own face twisted from behind his sister.

“My little birds have been singing the strangest tunes, Your Grace. Not only that, but two cubs have seemingly… vanished.” The Spider said in his voice of silk, his hands intertwined together inside of his long clothes.

“And ? What do I care about it?”

“ Dragon cubs, Your Grace.” And with those two words, Barristan watched the almost sleeping king rise up at his full height, a hint of the warrior of old in the way he stood tall and strong, though his humongous belly did not help him in any way.

“ WHAT !? What did you just say ? ” Barristan could see how the Spider gulped ever so slightly, even he was not a fool enough to say the King still couldn’t pop your head like a grape if he so wished.

“Unfortunately, Your Grace… The Targaryen children have completely disappeared. The last time they were seen was almost a year ago, in Pentos. Nothing since.” Barristan could see a vein pulsing on the King’s forehead, and he could distinctly hear his teeth grinding. From the other seats, Barristan could see how Baelish smiled, just like always, the old leech Pycelle coughed several times, and he found himself praying for him to die. Next to the King, Lord Jon still sat, though he looked to have aged several years in a single minute, and Stannis and Renly couldn’t be more opposite from each other, with Stannis almost turning his teeth into powder and Renly leaning casually back into his chair.

“One. Year ? They have.. Disappeared… FOR ONE YEAR ? AND I HEAR ABOUT IT NOW ? Explain yourself, or you will soon learn why a spider webs and doesn’t fly !!” The shout almost made him reel back and cover his ears, and he saw Baelish’s own greasy smile slip, even just a bit. The spider was threading on very thin ice, and one slip would see his web go up in flames.

“The whispers were so strange, and the distance does not help with my birds, Your Grace. I refused to believe it as well, in the beginning.” 

“Where. Are. They ?” Each word was slow, more of a groan than a normal voice, and Barristan found himself comparing it to the snarl of a wolf more than the bellowing of a stag.

“I…I do not know, Your Grace. They are lost to my little birds. And with the rest of Essos falling into chaos, two small children with silver-hair are not bound to attract attention.” At those words, every one turned to face him fully, and even Barristan found himself getting interested by what he just said.

“What do you mean, Lord Varys ? What is happening in this backwater land of crazy priests and whores of silks ?” The Queen finally spoke for the first time since the beginning of the Council. Her hands were tucked together, but none but a fool would see her as weak or powerless. A coiled lioness was still a lioness all the same.

“Volantis has seen a drop in its population. Specifically those that bear Valyrian traits.”

“And ? What is the matter with the dragonspawn ?” The King said, as he finally sat back down in his chair, as it creaked under his weight.

“They are leaving, Your Grace. High Priestess Kinvara, of the Temple of R’Hllor, has been leading several expeditions manned with only Valyrians. I tried to plant several little birds, but they were caught each time.”

“Where are they going ? Why does this ‘Kinvara’ act with them ?”

“I do not know her intentions. And unfortunately, I have lost their traces in the ruins of Old Valyria. And my little birds cannot cross the Doom.”

Barristan had half a mind to straight up leave in the direction of Valyria. There were too many coincidences. The boy disappeared in the middle of the night, and the two Targaryen children just after, and now the descendants of Valyria now left the first Daughter of Valyria, and vanished without a trace on the way.

Too many coincidences. He had to do something. Had to.

“Your Grace, if I may speak.” He finally said, and he could see everyone’s surprise at him speaking during a Council meeting, especially Jaime.

“What is it, Barisstan ?” The King said in his gruff voice, anger laced behind every word at the thought of the Targaryen children having disappeared. 

“I would like to volunteer to find where this ‘Kinvara’ has been taking the Valyrians.” At his words, several jaws fell open, and he heard Pycelle cough and splutter several times, while Jon Arryn looked at him wide-eyed and Jaime with a disbelieving gaze.

“You what ?” The King looked at him like he had just grown a second head, like Maelys the Monstrous. Though that head was more that of a babe than a real head. Still disgusting though.

“Then, Your Grace, I wish to join Ser Barristan.”

What ?

What ?

WHAT ?

Barristan’s head twisted at neck-breaking speed, as he watched wide-eyed the man who had just said those words, the cloak on his back pristine white, his half-smirk vanished, giving him a look that could rival his father’s own, and his blonde hair tussled from the training session he had had with Ser Arys Oakheart an hour ago.

And yet, Ser Jaime Lannister had never looked more serious than right now. From the way he stood tall to how his hand lingered near the hilt of his sword to his stern face, nothing about Jaime spoke of aloofness, nor foolish pride.

No. This was the look of a man who knew what he desired, and was ready to kill for it.

All eyes turned to the King, the one who held the power in this situation. Cersei looked ready to kill her brother for even volunteering to such an action, and Barristan knew that, if they came back, Tywin may kill Jaime as well.

“...You two are some of the craziest fuckers I have ever met. And I know myself !!” The King said, voice booming over the walls of the room. Barristan did not shift in any way, and neither did Jaime, who looked at the King with expectation on his face. No one spoke for several moments, as all eyes turned to the King, who had a thoughtful expression on his face…

For three seconds. Then, he finally agreed.

“Alright, alright. Barristan, you’ll take the Kingslayer with you to Volantis, and follow this ‘Kinvara’ Priestess. Find out where they are going and come back as soon as possible.”

“As you command, Your Grace.” Barristan said, bowing low. Jaime gave a small bow himself, and the look on his sister’s face spoke of only one thing.

“NO !! I WILL NOT AGREE TO THIS !!” She yelled at the top of her lungs, the shrill sound almost making him groan in pain.

“SHUT UP WOMAN !! I AM THE KING, AND THAT MEANS I CHOOSE WHERE YOUR KINGSLAYER BROTHER GOES !!” The King truly yelled, though that sound was much more frightening than Cersei, who paled a bit and leaned back into her chair, seemingly searching to disappear from sight.

“Now, all of you, get out of my sight.” And just like that, the Small Council scrambled off, though Lord Jon Arryn and Varys kept the most decorum from all of them. Still proud, even in such manners.

Now that Barristan was finally freed from the King’s presence, he watched as Jaime walked past him, and winked. Then, with a silent word whispered on the lips, he said : “Rhaegar’s son.” 

Chapter Text

The Bold

The ship he had taken along with Jaime had been an easy journey, as the seas were kind and they were never attacked by pirates. Such respite was well-received from the two tired Kingsguards, who had half-managed to escape the political hell that King’s Landing was becoming. Or rather, what the Red Keep had become ever since the first Nazgûl appeared in Winterfell.

He could still see Jaime being soundly defeated by one of them, that giant bigger than even the Mountain, a true rock that no one had ever surpassed, Barristan was sure of that. Even Jaime attested to it, and Barristan knew better than to diminish the testimony of a man that had seen the Mountain more times than he had. Not that he ever wished to set his eyes on that monster again. What had happened to Princess Elia and her children had been horror beyond words.

The streets of Volantis were wide and littered with dust that rose and surrounded them, choking them slightly when they didn’t wear their cloaks correctly to protect themselves from it. They had arrived three days ago, and had found a luxurious inn, Jaime paid for everything. Thank the Gods for Tywin Lannister’s pride of never having a Lannister go poor.

He and Jaime had been investigating the seeming disparitions of the Valyrians from Volantis. And they had found out it was true. They were led on a boat by a Red Priestess of R’hllor, and they left eastward, never to be seen again. And yet, the ship returned every two weeks, not a single scratch on its hull. The sails were red, but more scarlet than orange, like it should be for the Lord of Light. He and Jaime had both recognized the red without much problem. After all, both had served a King under those colors.

And both had suffered under it. He had to see the fall of the Silver Prince, and was forced to bend the knee to a drunk Usurper and monster. Jaime had been forced to shatter his oath into a million pieces to save the inhabitants of King’s Landing from the last cruel order of the Mad King. He had then sat on the Throne, mind lost in a tempest of thoughts, and had then watched as the broken and discarded bodies of Princess Elia and her children had been brought before Robert, who had laughed and spat on them, calling them “dragonspawn”. 

Jaime had confessed to him of his desire to pierce Robert with his sword at the moment. The only reason he hadn’t was that with Robert dead, the Rebellion would lose its figurehead, and many would have turned to Prince Viserys for the crown. And Jaime remembered the show of madness that had sprouted from him at a young age. Both Barristan and Selmy preferred to serve under an unworthy king, than forced to watch another mad one ascend to a position he had no claim to. Especially when Rhaegar had a second son they had learned about a year ago.

Sometimes, he wondered what would have happened if he had never seen the boy in Winterfell, after the Rebellion. If Lady Stark had somehow managed to stop him from attending the feast, on pretext of not offending the King with the presence of a bastard.

Like Robert Baratheon would ever be offended by a bastard. He had more bastards running around the Realm than even Daemon Targaryen and Aegon the Unworthy had, combined. A shameful, lackwit, drunk, whoremonger, disgusting pig of a king. But worst of all, he was a kinslayer. And the gods cursed those above all others. None were forgiven from that curse. He only hoped he would get to see the Usurper fall to this curse.

The repeated knocks at his door interrupted him from his thoughts. He rose from his bed, as he swung his legs off of it, and his hand drawn to his blade beside his bed, hand around the hilt, ready to draw it at the first sign of danger. When he opened the door, he was greeted by the smiling face of Jaime, who was dressed in a light tunic of brown and breeches of fine leather, though no gold nor crimson adorned any part of his outfit. The Kingslayer had no wish to be recognized as a Lannister, in a city that still called herself the First Daughter of Valyria, and whom many inhabitants could claim kinship to the Targaryens.

Being seen as the one who had killed a Targaryen King, and who had sat in silence as two others were murdered, alongside their mother, would not sit right with them. Not right at all. The only thing that told of his Lannister blood was his blond hair and green eyes, and blond hair was not uncommon in Volantis. Green eyes were rarer, but not enough to condemn him a Lannister immediately.

“I found the ship. It’s coming back in three hours. Get ready. Now.” Jaime had barely finished speaking that Barristan had already turned on his heel and packed everything he carried with him as soon as possible. A few sets of clean clothes, an oil for his sword, a wet stone and his scabbard, that he tied to his hip and sheathed his sword into. Jaime had already left to do the same, as they both took but ten minutes before meeting on the ground floor of the inn.

Jaime took out a few coins from his purse and gave them to the innkeeper, as he thanked him in his broken Valyrian for everything. The innkeeper looked a bit suspicious at them, but accepted the coin nonetheless. Jaime spun on his heel, and Barristan was quick to follow him towards the harbor, where the ship that the Red Priestess commanded would dock in a few hours.

As they walked towards it, he couldn’t help but ask Jaime.

“What if we don’t find him there ?” He asked him, a hint of worry in his voice. Jaime did not stop smiling all the while.

“I highly doubt he isn’t there. Think about it, Barisstan. No one ever goes to Valyria for almost four centuries, not since my ancestor Tommen, and now that Rhaegar’s son disappears with those… creatures , somehow every single Valyrian descendant is leaving on a crazy expedition towards Valyria itself, and no one but the Red Priestess comes back. And yet, no one, and I mean, no one, questions this. At all.” 

Jaime did make sense. But Barristan couldn’t help but worry. The what-ifs couldn’t leave his mind no matter how hard he tried to fight back against them. The multiple scenarios of sailing all the way to Valyria, in a ship that they didn’t even know they would survive, in a city where they could get slaughtered simply for being who they were. And then, perhaps, once they did all of that, they wouldn’t even find him there. Valyria would be empty, just blackened ruins of death and destruction. All because they had one flight of fancy, one last fantasy.

Jaime could see the wheels turning in his mind, and struck him lightly on the back of his head. Barristan groaned at the slight pain, but Jaime was faster than him when Barristan tried to strike back, and he ducked out of his palm.

“Stop worrying, Barristan. We won’t know about him until we arrive. We can only wait and hope.” He looked back towards the harbor, as it became clearer to them how big the crowd of silver-headed people stood there. Upon the deck of the ship, there stood a beautiful woman, long brown hair and bright brown eyes, stood a woman dressed in a fiery red dress with black threads sewn in it. She stood tall and strong, her arms flaying around as she talked to the crowd, who seemed lost in her speech, in her voice. Barristan could hear some words, but couldn’t make them out, for it was Valyrian. Volantene Valyrian, true. But the closest to High Valyrian still. The only word he could hear was ‘Zaldrizes’ . Dragons.

His eyes widened ever so slightly, and upon looking at Jaime, he saw how he had also recognized the word. The Mad King and Rhaegar had both spoken in Valyrians, and that word had been one they used in almost every sentence. The dragon must have three heads, I am the Dragon, they shall bow to the dragon, the dragon will rule over the Seven Kingdoms, and all that shit they spouted.

For all his greatness, Rhaegar was a prince lost in prophecies and shows of slight madness. Not like his father, but more like he didn’t realize in which reality he lived in. It was discomforting, but Barristan had gotten used to it. Besides, it was better than hearing Cersei Lannister keep telling how she was a Lioness, how her son was a true Lion, and how perfect and golden he was. Weird as fuck, and double the craziness, that woman was.

Barristan and Jaime got closer to the ship, as they noticed guards in black armor standing nearby, with weapons of dark steel with a pattern of swirls on it, akin to a black fog. Barristan’s jaw fell as he recognized the smoky patterns of pure Valyrian Steel. And when he looked closer, he saw it wasn’t just one or two. Every single one of the twenty soldiers carried a Valyrian Steel sword, and they looked ready to use them, if the grip they had told anything else.

The priestess was still talking animely, when Barristan saw another shape on the boat, dressed in a black and white gown that covered the entire body, but still clung to every curve, and a mask on the face, hiding every feature, except for the waist-long silvery hair that flowed around the figure like liquid moonlight. Barristan couldn’t deny the allure of the figure, definitely feminine, if those curves told anything else.

The only notable feature was a heavy necklace, with emeralds and sapphires intertwined together in a beautiful swirl of riches. Something in his mind told him about the necklace, how he should know about it, but he still couldn’t really remember who carried such a wonder. Jaime also looked confused, but the fact he was not really a scholarly man gave him even less chance than Barristan to recognize the necklace.

Then, the figure turned towards them, and it stopped walking completely. Barristan felt a chill spread across his back, as the eyes hidden behind the mask seemed to stop their entire body from moving. The figure then moved towards the Red Priestess, and spoke in her ear. They both watched as she turned her eyes towards them, and a slight smile spread across her lips. The two women descended the gangplank, and the crowd parted before them, as they slowly walked towards them, hips swaying with every step they took towards them.

Barristan only managed to free himself from the strange bindings he was in, his soul felt like it managed to crawl back into his body, just as the two women finally stood before them both. They were a bit smaller than them, and especially beautiful. The Red Priestess’s eyes glinted with knowledge and amusement both. The second’s couldn’t be seen behind the mask she wore. But Barristan could now see the necklace with more details, and his breath caught as he finally recognized it from the stories.

But before he could speak, the figure raised her left arm and removed the mask she wore. His eyes grew ever wider and his jaw fell to the ground as he gazed upon one of creation’s most perfect beings. From the heart-shaped face, to the full lips, to the high cheekbones and smooth jaw, all the way to her mismatched eyes, there was no imperfection on this woman. Her eyes were full of amusement and knowledge, and when she spoke, it was with the weight of centuries in her voice.

“Well, I expected many things today, but the Bold and the Kingslayer standing here ? Now, that is a marvelous surprise.” She said with a smile, as the Red Priestess stood just beside her in her red gown, small rubies woven in her hair like liquid fire. She was looking them over like one would cattle. Assessing, judging, searching for flaws.

“Now, be a good boy for me… What are you doing here ?” She said with kindness, but Barristan was not fool enough to lose the glint of wariness behind her lashes. He stood tall, even faced against one of the most legendary women in Westeros.

“We are searching for the King.”

“Well, isn’t he in the Capital, getting drunk on whores and wine ?”

“I have no time for jape, my Lady. We are here for the true King.”

Her eyes narrowed down to a reptile-like slit, as she searched every inch of his soul for the slightest show of deception. She saw none, but wasn’t convinced yet, if the way her shoulders still stood tall was any indication to the old knight. It would take more than a few words to convince her.

“If I may..” Interjected Jaime, surprising Barristan and the two women, as he made a step forward. “We are tired, my Ladies. Tired of the fool that sits on the throne, tired of the Realm as it is today, tired of the Stag’s rule.”

The two women made no move to stop him, and Jaime took that as a way to tell him to continue speaking. “Robert Baratheon is a drunk whoremonger and kinslayer. My sister Cersei is even worse, and her spending habits are running the realm into the ground, all the while as my father sits in his pretty castle, and Lord Arryn makes no move whatsoever to stop the monster he once claimed as foster son.”

The women seemed almost impressed by his declaration, and Barristan saw how Jaime’s jaw ticked at the mentions of his sister and father.

It had taken him much longer than he expected to, but Jaime had eventually realized just how bad his sister was. From her interactions with literally anyone, to the way she spoke to and about Jaime, or even the simple way she would just spend gold without caring for the expenses. Expenses Jaime’s father took care of, for no reason over than Lannister pride. Fucking Lannisters.

The two women shared a glance and a conversation in a single second. Then, two guards in black armor, and armed with the same Valyrian Steel swords the others wielded as well, came next to them.

“My ladies, the ship is full. We are ready to depart. We await the orders.” The first woman, the one dressed in all red, turned to look at the guard on the left who had just spoken and gave him one simple nod.

“Perfect. And make sure to prepare a guest cabin. We are having company on this trip.” She said the last part as she looked at Barristan and Jaime both, who gulped at the way she spoke. There was something about her that set Barristan’s instinct off. The two guards looked at them with suspicion, their gazes lingering on Jaime’s hair and eyes. At least, he had dropped the Lannister smirk, so that was something.

“Come, Sers. He will receive you in Valyria.” The Red Priestess said, right before leaving towards the ship, the other woman with the Valyrian traits and mismatched eyes trailing behind her. The two guards remained near them, hands near their swords. Barristan gave a nod at Jaime, and both began walking towards the ship, climbing aboard it, and they saw just how large it truly was.

Three masts were on a triple-decked ship, the hull was large and high, a grand structure that floated without any single problem. But the strangest part was the absence of oars to row the boat into the sea. The sails weren’t even out in the open, but somehow folded back. Ropes were all linked together in a patchwork of madness that Barristan couldn’t understand. 

“Come with us, Sers. We will guide you to your cabin.” The first guard said to them. They followed, their minds still lost in trying to understand how such a ship even moved, if the sails weren’t available, and no oars could be used. So, as they got below deck and into the hull of the beast, Barristan simply wondered how his King would react to their arrival. He could only hope for the best…

And prepare for the worst.

The Lord.

There were many words he could have used to describe his mount.

Lazy, for starters. Aenar swore that Ancalagon could nap for a week straight, only to wake up, stretch out, roll over and nap again.

He was also gigantic, bigger than even Winterfell’s Great Hall, bigger than the Throne Room of the Red Keep, Aenar reckoned. His scales were midnight black and seemed to shift in shade if you looked long enough, not that any sane person would. Even Euron had nearly pissed himself when he saw the giant sleeping dragon.

Another word was strange. After all, no dragon had ever lived as long as Ancalagon, and that was just counting on the years counted. Records claimed that he had lived on Dragonstone far before the arrival of the Targaryens, over four hundred years ago.

But what was really weird about his dragon was his fire. Where others would spit orange and red flames, normal fire, Ancalagon’s own flames were bright green. A color that would normally be found only in wildfire, the secret recipe of the Targaryens of old, who used it after the loss of the Last Dragon, to stay in power. Until his grandfather decided to start burning people alive, at least. Then it became a shit show.

Kinvara, Shiera, Aemon, Viserys, Rhaenys, Daenerys and even fucking Euron had all questionned him on why Ancalagon spewed green flames, or why he was so big and lived so long. Aenar had asked that question to Ancalagon himself multiple times, but the answer was always the same. I was born that way, and I lived that way.

Well, fuck you too, I guess.

And yet, right now, all of this was the last of his worries. Every theory he had, every thing he wondered as to why Ancalagon was so different from other dragons, everything he could possibly imagine. It all crumbled to dust before the cold hard proof of the ledger that laid in his hand. A mere ledger, a book found in the personal library of the Lord of House Targaryen, a book that may have been read by his namesake, Aenar the Patriarch, Aenar-Who-Fled.

And that ledger, that little book, had answers to questions he had been asking himself for almost a year. Now, he had the answers, and what he read had made his mind go blank.

Subject Entry: ΔK-101 “Kanavāzmu”
Common Designation: The Cannibal
Hatch-Year: 4876 A.F (After the Foundation )
Origin: Unrecorded Caldera Cluster | Independent Roosting Territory: Rak Essaria (Burnt Peak)

Report:

By order of the Triune Flame Council, subject ΔK-101 was secured for longitudinal observation and cross-breeding trials aimed at enhancing the aggression threshold and firepotency index of draconic stock intended for the Eighth Legion’s western campaigns.

The wyrm—referred to in vulgar Low Valyrian by the commoners of the 14 Cities as “Zaldrīzes ūndeksir”, the Cannibal—displays pronounced hostility to all life, with no discernible variance between prey, predator, or kind. His growth is stunted not in stature, for he is immense and wing-broad, but in spiritual resonance. No dragonbinder horn can call him, for he rejects his ancestry. No blood incantation has stirred in him the ancestral submission, for he drank the blood of the rituals and burned the field in green flames unseen before. He devours his kin, hatchling and grown, including unbonded dragons bred from the bloodlines of Golerya the Emerald and Dantovoï the Giant.

Attempts to introduce bonded rider candidates of unblemished Valyrian descent failed catastrophically. Candidate Seryza Velaryon, aged seventeen was immolated before a syllable left her lips. Candidate Morghulys Maegaryen, aged fifteen, was devoured whole. The beast did not feast out of hunger—he tore as a statement. It would seem as though it wishes to scare us.

"He does not know us.
He does not care to."
— Final words of Arch-Trainer Halon Qhaedax before his death, recorded in ash and fire.

Hypothesis Reassessment:

The experiments that were conducted on the bloodline of ΔK-101 seem to have sparked a hatred of all that is Valyrian for the wyrm. It burns any men or women who try to tame him, devours dead dragons and eggs whole, and has eaten by seven different occasions a living grown dragon, though it would seem that the beast needs to be provoked before such a reaction is brought out of it. Fourth Flame Daemon Vulcarys nearly died on the back of his dragon as he flew away from the beast’s territory. As soon as he left it, the Cannibal left them alone, and flew back.

Conclusion:

The Cannibal is not of our flame. He may wear the flesh of the dragon, but he is no kin to the Firemade. He is a failure of breeding. He is a failure of faith . A beast born of fire untamed and unclaimed, antithetical to the Covenant of Bond.

He will not be bred.
He will not be mastered.
He will outlive us all, gnawing on the bones of our legacy.

Recommendation:
Do not pursue reclamation. Fortify the Northern Rookeries. Leave Rak Essaria to him. Leave him alone. Should he leave, let him. And pray to the Fourteen he never returns…

Seal of Vharmion Maegaryen
Dragonmaster, Ninth Flame | Keeper of the Second Furnace

His eyes grew wide with every word that he read, and he couldn’t stop himself from reading even more. He wanted to know, needed to know everything there was to know about his mount. And he was far from disappointed. From the fact that he just learned Ancalagon was over six hundred years old ( he has to thank him for NEVER telling him this, by the way !) but also that he is not a normal dragon. Apparently, if what he understood from the ledger is correct, then Ancalagon was an experiment gone wrong, a test that had been failed and that they tried to fix, only to realize he was too strong for any of them.

There were many words that Aenar could call Ancalagon right now, but a failure was not one of them. That dragon was a being of might and power, one who could bring ruin to any civilization, but didn’t. He could have bathed Westeros in fire over a hundred times before the Targaryens ever arrived there, and reigned on its ashes. And he didn’t. Probably because he just preferred to nap instead.

He reclined on the back of his chair, as he watched outside the window of his solar, and into the bay and the open sea of the Capital of Valyria. He saw Kinvara’s ship sailing into the harbor, and as he watched it, he noticed the flag that flew above it. Or rather, the two flags.

One was a sigil of three yellow stalks of wheat on a brown field, a sigil that had been famous for over forty years. That was the sigil of House Selmy.

But that flag was quickly overshadowed by the other one, who made his blood boil and his hand clench at his sides, while his eyes narrowed and his breath became labored and rough. He felt the Ring pour soothing sensations into his mind, but the mere fact that this sigil flew in Valyria was, to him at least, an incredible insult.

The crimson and golden flag that bore the Lannister lion was a sight he had wished to never see apart from crushing Casterly Rock forever and never seeing them again. His jaw ticked repeatedly with every single second that he passed watching that flag flowing proudly in the wind.

He knew what it meant. He had discussed it with Kinvara. She knew what to do if someone from Westeros were to investigate the seemingly vanished Valyrian population of Volantis. But he never expected it to come from Ser Barristan Selmy and a Lannister. He just had to wait for which one.

He saw from the corner of his eye as a blur of flowing black hair and olive skin barreled down the road towards the harbor, and he would have chuckled at the sight, if he had the mind to it.

Right now, he would simply watch, and wait to see which Lannister the Old Lion had sent towards them. He had the Palantir in his solar with him, but the mental exercise was still great on him, and would never lessen. The power to see no matter the distance was not something that you could use without cost. A cost that would never lessen over time.

So, all he could do for now was wait and see which lion would grace his lands, and what he could do with them, should they prove to be  a threat to his realm. The Ring and the Nazgûls had many ideas about how to best torture a man for long periods of time.

The Sun Dragon

She was running towards the harbor faster than she ever had before. Her breath was labored and her steps echoed with the force with which she struck the paved roads of the Capital.

She had seen the Lannister flag along with the Selmy’s above the ship that Kinvara and Aunt Shiera had boarded two weeks ago. She knew what it meant, having been a part of the discussion between Aenar and Kinvara, about raising certain flags, should Westerosis reach them before the time was right. And given the two flags flowing above the harbor, there was only one possibility, in her mind at least, as to who those were.

She could still remember the kind smiles of Ser Barristan, how he always seemed to have a little candy for her, and the way he would laugh on command, the mission she imposed herself every day. To make others laugh.

Ser Jaime was a bit different. He had been distant at first, had mostly refused to smile, even when she told him to, and would carry himself with some kind of mighty, pompous, arrogant behavior. She had only learned later on what it meant for him, that protection he carried, a shield around his heart. All to make sure that he couldn’t get hurt by others the way his father Tywin had hurt him.

But even if he had been the one to kill her grandfather, she couldn’t hate him. After all, without him, without his actions, she would probably be dead. She could only thank him for this. He had lied to Ser Lorch, and then carried her to the cove beneath the Red Keep, where her uncle Oberyn had been present, in a little ship that had carried her to another, much bigger ship. From there, her memory was more fuzzy, she had been sleepy, tired, hungry, and didn’t understand why uncle Oby had been crying so much. She had hugged him so much at the time, and while he always hugged her back, the cries never seemed to stop.

She shook her head at the memories. Now was not the time to remember. She had made her peace with Egg and Muna’s passing long ago. And while she would never forget them, nor the pain they had suffered at the hands of the mountain before dying, she could not afford herself to cry anymore. She was a princess of Houses Martell and Targaryen, she had a great-great uncle that loved her, two aunts who loved her as well, an uncle who was very kind and gentle, and who acted more like an older brother. 

And then, she had him. He was the quietest of the Targaryen family, the one who stayed silent the most. And though she sometimes saw her kepa in his actions, in his features, or in the way he brooded, Aenar was much easier to make laugh or smile than kepa had been. She just had to hug him and press a little kiss to his cheek, making him blush a pretty red.

It was cute and funny, and she loved to do it. Both her and Daenerys did, actually. It was way cuter on Aenar than on Vis or Uncle Aemon. And Shiera never blushed, she would just kiss them back immediately, and her lips were so soft and smooth the two mischieving girls would quickly find themselves blushing scarlet red. Much to her beautiful laugh.

Her thought pattern was broken by the sound of the gangplank being lowered, and she found her right hand being taken by another, smaller one. She raised her head to look at the smiling face of her aunt, her long silver hair flowing in the sea wind behind her. The way her purple eyes sparkled as she watched the ship, and heard the voices of Valyrian finally coming back home. Aenar had personally greeted the very first arrival, but since then, he only did it when his schedule allowed him to. And right now, based from what he had told her, he was busy reading ledgers from his predecessors. Bo-ring.

The first figure to walk down the gangplank and onto the harbor was Kinvara, quickly followed by Shiera, who had taken off her black and white robe, wearing the blue and green one instead, along with her heavy necklace and her Valyrian earrings, a gift from Aenar. Why couldn’t she have earring like that too ?

Following Kinvara, there marched several guards armed in Valyrian Steel, and in black armor. Based on what Aenar told them, he wished to work later on an armor made of Valyrian Steel, that would be carried by those who proved themselves worthy of it. Viserys would probably be the first one to own one, given how he was the oldest one, apart from Aemon, who had no wish whatsoever to go on the battlefield. He was a scholar, not a soldier.

Then, after the guards, came the Valyrians, their silver hair, pale skin and purple eyes seemed to glow as they stepped on the soil of Valyria, their blood roaring in approval at finally returning home.

After the men and women of dragonblood, four other guards came, and one held two swords in his hands, along with two white cloaks. Two others carried armors, and the last one had a hand on the hilt of his sword, ready to draw at a moment’s notice.

But it was the sight of the two men surrounded by the four guards that took Rhaenys’s breath away.

The first one was old, his long white hair flowing in the wind, and his eyes were still piercing, no matter how old he was. Rhaenys noticed how he seemed to favor one leg above the other. Wound, or old age catching up, she knew not. And even old, he remained a formidable opponent and a true swordsmaster. Compared to men, at least. A Nazgûl… Not so much.

The other man had shorter, shoulder-length golden hair, and bright green eyes, akin to a cat. She knew both those men. She had laughed with them, had played with them, and Balerion had been her greatest aid in playing with them. Sometimes, she wondered where her old cat was. Was he happy ? Was he safe ? Was he alive ?

But all those thoughts ended when Ser Barristan looked around him, and his eyes fell on her. In an instant, he stopped walking, his steps frozen and his jaw laid agape. Jaime looked at him confused, then at where he was looking. Only for him too, to look at them like a fish out of water.

“By the Seven…” Was the first thing to come out of Ser Barristan’s mouth, his eyes blinking rapidly, as though he wished to rid himself of a nightmare. But seeing them here, in front of him, a girl that he knew from what felt like a lifetime ago, and the seemingly reincarnation of Queen Rhaella, there was no denying it. Same thing for Jaime.

Jaime was the first one to gather his thoughts together, and did not even think twice before taking a step forward and falling to a knee before them, his head bowed low.

“Princesses. I… Words cannot express my relief at seeing you here.” His words were heavy with intent, and she knew he still regretted being unable to save Egg and Muna. But Rhaenys would not let him in that state. Though Barristan moved faster, as he knelt besides Jaime, his head bowed low and his body rocking with barely held back sobs.

Rhaenys couldn’t stop herself, as she stepped forward and fell to her knees before the two knights, hugging them both and holding strong, no matter what. It took but two seconds before Daenerys joined her in the hug, and the two knights fell apart.

They cried together for what felt like hours, but was probably more like a few minutes. Jaime had his arms around Rhaenys, and Barristan held both Rhaenys and Daenerys, his broader chest a refuge for them both.

“ How ? ” Finally came the question, on Barristan’s side. She pulled back slightly to look at him, his eyes red from crying, and his cheeks littered with tears.

“Ser Jaime saved me from Amory Lorch. He took me to my uncle Oberyn, and I lived in Dorne with my cousins for years.” At that, he smiled a bit, and then frowned. Then, he turned to Jaime and struck him on the head.

“ YOU KNEW SHE WAS ALIVE, AND YOU DIDN’T TELL ME !!! ” He yelled at him, while trying to strike him with increasingly weakening blows, his sobs coming back, all the while Jaime only seeked to shield himself from Barristan, but never struck back. 

“I… I didn’t know. I thought she was still in Dorne, and you hated me for years, and-”

“ I DON’T CARE !!! ” He yelled again, though this time, his blows were weak enough so that a puppy would not be harmed. Al the while, Jaime held Barristan close to him, his head tucked in his chest. A heartwarming scene for Rhaenys, who had lived for years with the thought of what Jaime could have suffered if his actions ever came to light.

“Barristan. Please. Look at me.” Jaime implored the older man, who still kept his head low.

“I had no choice. The Red Keep has too many eyes and ears, and I do not believe for a second that Littlefinger and Varys did not send spies after us. And in the ship, I was just so lost in my memories I could not speak.” Jaime’s voice broke with every word, but he kept on going.

“If I had to go back in time, and do it all again, I would. I do not care what others think of me, their sneers behind my back, or the hate they feel for actions they would have killed to do themselves. I do not care. She is alive, and that is all that matters. Princess Rhaenys is alive.”

Barristan finally raised his head to look at Jaime, his green eyes narrow and even more cat-like than before. He looked at him like one would an old friend that had been lost for years, and he only found him now.

“...Never lie to me again, Jaime. Never.” He finally said. Jaime nodded once, and that was enough for the old Kingsguard, who finally rose up to his feet.

Barristan looked at Daenerys, and smiled gently at her, and he almost gasped at the smile he got in return.

“You are the picture of your mother, Princess. I am sure you will grow to be as beautiful as her, if not more.” He said, and she smiled even more.

“Will you tell me of my mother, Ser ?” And Barristan smiled at that, already thinking of the time he had helped the then-princess Rhaella scurry into the kitchen to find a few treats, during the night. They had been nearly confronted by Prince Lewyn Martell, but Rhaella had played the perfect Princess, and the knight had eventually left. Probably to go back to his paramour, the open secret of the Dornishman in the Kingsguard, back when that word held meaning.

“I will tell you everything that you wish, Princess. Both of you. On my word as a knight, I do so swear.” He said, as he put his open palm over his heart.

At his words, the two Princesses shared a look and a smile, as Daenerys took Barristan’s hand into her own smaller one, and Rhaenys offered hers to Jaime, who smiled as he took it. The last time he had held her, she was crying and small. Now, her smile was as bright as a child, and she was bigger than last time. There was no doubt she would grow to be a woman as beautiful as her mother, and perhaps more like Lady Ashara Dayne than Elia. Her purple eyes and the slight curves she already had was a proof that she would grow as a great woman.

Rhaenys could hear Daenerys talking excitedly with Barristan, as they almost raced towards the castle, while Rhaenys relished in the silence she shared with Jaime. Comfortable and profound, the kind she knew he could enjoy when surrounded by those he cared about. She would ask him about his family when they had time together, once Aenar had met them properly, along with the rest of their family.

As they reached the castle, she saw Aenar standing there, the Ring on his finger glittering in the light and his purple eyes narrow. The way he looked at Jaime made her fear for her golden knight a little, and she squeezed his hand harder, and cast her own look at her Valonqar, who seemed to accept, with slight reluctance, that he was perhaps not a threat.

When they reached him, Jaime lowered himself on one knee before Aenar, who said nothing.

“Your Grace. I wish to expy my faults and redeem myself from the sins I have committed towards your family, and your House.” It seemed rehearsed, yet honest. He believed what he was saying. 

“You have committed few sins worthy of notes, ser. My grandfather was a mad man, and his death is not yours to bear on your shoulder. But do not mistake my mercy for weakness. You thread on thin ice, ser. And the last thing you want is to slip.” And with that, he turned around and left, his form vanishing in the shadows of the castle, as Jaime slowly rose.

Rhaenys offered her hand once more to her knight, and she led him to an available room, on the guest wing. Perhaps she would move him closer to hers, one day. She wanted to know more about her mother and Egg, and what better person to talk to, apart from her uncles, than the man that had guarded them himself every day, along with her great-uncle Lewyn.

She could only hope that Aenar would accept Barristan and Jaime. If not for his sake of mind, then for hers and Daenerys’s, who seemed to love the stories Barristan had about her mother.

Thank you, Jaime. For the chance you gave me. I would not be here, without you.

Chapter Text

The Silver Dragon.

She had been talking with Ser Barristan for the past three hours, and she could not stop asking questions for the life of her.

How was her mother ? What did she like ? What she looked like, what she loved doing and everything she wanted to know.

And not once had Ser Barristan stopped her, or grunted, or even looked bored with her. Instead, he smiled and laughed with her, as he reminisced every little thing he had done when he was guarding her mother, both as a Princess and as a Queen. She had been kind and gentle to everyone, though the last thing anyone desired was to be her enemy.

But then, her father happened. He had clipped her mother’s wings, so to speak. He took everything she was and chained it to him. Ser Barristan told her about how her father had been a promising king, once. When he was young and strong, when he could look at his people without seeing threats and plots and shadows everywhere. Back then, he was capable.

But after her mother lost her first child in a miscarriage, her father slowly began to turn from her. He listened to his advisors more and more. The Grand Maester Pycelle, who told him the Queen was frail and weak. The Spider, who whispered of the Queen cuckolding him, of sleeping with other men, squires and knights and Lords alike.

With every babe lost, every whisper he heard, her father fell deeper and deeper into madness. He began to look at other women with lust, and even at Lord Tywin’s wife, the Lady Joanna Lannister, and the greatest friend of the Queen. They had even talked of possible betrothals between Jaime and the Queen’s first daughter.

But the King had broken everything. One day, after the most horrendous cries the old knight had ever listened to, his hand barely restraining from entering the room and severing the head of the mad man he served, Lady Joanna stopped crying.

The next day, Lord Tywin Lannister left King’s Landing, no longer wishing to serve the monster he once called friend and a truer brother than his own ones. And nine months later, Lady Joanna died in childbirth, while Tywin honored his wife’s dying wish, to see her son raised. To let him live, and not punish him for the sins of his father.

Her eyes were red by the time he ended his tale. She cried into his arms as he held her close to his chest and whispered words of comfort. But even with all the love in the world, she could not stop the thoughts. The monster that her father had been, the things he had done to her mother, to his family. When he forced her brother Rhaegar to marry a woman he didn’t know, nor love. And though she would never hate Elia, for she was Rhaenys’s mother, and apparently one of the kindest women to have ever walked the Seven Kingdoms, it was still a forced wedding.

The old knight looked at her like he was guilty. Like he had been the one to hurt others. She had to wipe the tears that fell on her cheeks, and then hug him so strong she feared he would choke, for the fear in his eyes to recede. Instead, only guilt remained. Guilt for not having done what Jaime had many years ago. Guilt for allowing the Mad King to hurt so many women.

Daenerys could scarcely believe her father was such a monster. She begged Ser Barristan to tell her if she would ever become like him. His eyes narrowed to impossible degrees, and he looked in fear, not of her becoming a monster, but of her thinking she could ever be.

“Look at me, Princess. You are your mother’s picture, kind, gentle and strong-willed. What your father did to her was nothing more than an act of pure villainy. He was too far gone for anyone to help him, and the Spider pushed him even deeper into this horrendous display of twisted hatred and fear. But when I look at you, all I see is a kind and strong Dragon Princess.” 

He smiled as he looked at her, as he held her close to his chest. She hugged him back with the strength of a thousand men in one death grip. Well, that’s how she saw it.

The gentle rocking of her body as he held her close made her sleepy. She was angry, sad, tired, and high on so many emotions she felt like half of them didn’t even exist except in her mind. But the knight held her through all of it, whispered sweet words into her ear and kept her safe from the thoughts that sought their minds into breaking her apart. The fear of becoming a mad woman like her father made her head spin, her lungs contract into shrivelled grapes, and her vision began to get blurry with tears, all the while as Ser Barristan never relented in holding her as close as humanly possible. It was to the point she would fear choking in normal circumstances.

And all the while she heard Ser Barristan whisper gentle, comforting words.

Her head felt sleepy, her limbs grew heavier with every passing second, and even her eyelashes fluttered mightily, struggling to keep her awake. She tried to move, to get the blood running in her body and keep her up to hear good stories about her mother.

But it was too hard, the emotions that had barreled through her made her sleepy and she wanted to curl up into his chest and never wake up for at least two forever. Perhaps three. It depended on Aens and if he wanted to give her another gift, like Shiera’s earrings. She and Rhaenys both wanted to have such jewelry. They were so pretty and shiny it was definitely one of her favorites. And perhaps she could even get him to make a few shiny rings. Not ones like her own Ring, the one who gave her all those powers, to control fire and make it bend to her will like their ancestors.

No, she just wanted a few shiny rings to wear so that she could feel pretty and even more like a Princess. After all, she was one. Same thing with Rhaenys, even if she wanted more a spear and bracelets than rings, the two girls wanted Aens to make things for them.

But all of this would have to wait after she woke up, because right now, with so many emotions passing through her head, she just needed to go to sleep.

The last thing she felt as she fell into the deep parts of sleep, was Ser Barristan holding her close and crying softly. She heard him whisper to a woman, praying for her forgiveness, and that he would never fail her daughter. Never would he allow anyone else to hurt her.

She slept soundly that day, and a smile was on her face the entire time, as she dreamed of little feet running through the castle of Valyria, many dragons flying overhead, as she held the hand of a man who stood above everyone, yet walked in the streets every day to see his, their , people.

Nazgûl Akhôrzîr. The Lord of Death.

He was polishing his sword in the training ground, his back bent as he watched two of his brothers sparring in their private yard. The Witch-King was currently trying to defeat Morgazar, though it was definitely not going in the direction he wanted.

Morgazar was basically playing with their Lord, as he flowed from one strike to the next in an unending pattern of watery power. It was beautiful and maddening. And Akhôrzîr had fought Morgazar enough times to know that the last thing any one wanted was for Morgazar to figure out your attack pattern. Because from there, you would lose in two or three strikes. And that was being generous. Normal men wouldn’t even see the last blow coming.

The clash of swords had been going on for nearly thirty minutes, a record for the Witch-King, by all accounts. He had never held so long against Morgazar, even back in Middle-Earth, when they served under Sauron and were trapped in Minas Morgul, fated to do nothing but wait and train. So, seeing him train and hold for so long, he wondered what was going on in his Lord’s mind.

And though it was no true matter of his, after all the Nazgûls had lived millennia without bothering to ask each other ‘ how are you doing ?’ Akhôrzîr could not help but wonder the reason behind the extensive training session that was happening. The Witch-King had never one to push himself so hard when they already knew they were beyond mortals.

It was only after Morgazar twisted himself into a position to make a whore blush and the sword of the Witch-King flew from his hand that he understood.

On the other side of the yard, dressed in light garments of red and black, with a few golden threads on the sides of his shirt, his golden hair tied in a knot at the back of his head and his green eyes, so similar to a cat, stood Jaime Lannister.

Apparently, his Lord had wished to make a display of power to the Lion Knight, and even if he lost, the message was still given. Don’t fuck with the Nazgûls. A message made evident by the strength that Morgazar had put behind his blows.

Akhôrzîr was almost impressed by the Lion. The fact he could look at them without wetting his pants or fleeing like a coward was a sight unto its own. Few other men could manage such a feat. And even his Master’s family had had a few troubles with them at the beginning, the two Princesses more than the others. The only one who had no such trouble was Lady Seastar. And that was more related to her past experiences in dark magic more than anything else, really. By his humble opinion, of course.

“An impressive display, my Lord. I have never seen anyone move that way. Even an old friend of mine would be mightily impressed by your skillset and technique.” Jaime said, as he slowly stepped forward. And though, at any other moment, Akhrôzîr would have questioned his presence in their private training ground, there was something at the back of his mind, a whisper almost inaudible, that told him he was allowed there.

“Why don’t you come and train with me, Ser ? I am eager to cross blades with one of the finest swordsmen of Westeros.” Morgazar said, no trace of arrogance in his voice. There was only the thrill of fighting a man of renown. And the three Nazgûls present in the yard saw the glimmer that passed in Jaime’s eyes, the tension in his limbs as he questioned whether or not it was a smart thing to do. But eventually, the wish to fight won over the wish to flight. Jaime stepped forward, but before he could reach for his own sword, the Witch-King pressed his own sword to Jaime’s chest, who barely had the time to catch it before he was already leaving, returning to their Master’s side most probably.

Jaime got in the yard and looked the blade over, obviously impressed with the craftsmanship of it. And if Akhôrzîr was honest with himself, he had been as well the first few times he wielded his sword.

On the other side, Morgazar already stood in his duel stance, his sword raised low and his feet apart, back bent slightly and two hands wrapped over the hilt of his sword. If he had a mouth, Morgazar would be grinning right now, something that taunted every accomplished swordsman, no matter what. There was just something about having your pride and skill questioned by a man you did not know.

Jaime tapped the ground twice with his sword before raising it towards Morgazar, as he looked at him with the focus of a warrior who knew very well how strong his opponent was. The Golden Lion was not here to play games, not against Morgazar of the Nazgûls. And it was proof enough of just how much of a threat Jaime saw Morgazar as. Quite the compliment, for a man who believes himself on top of the food chain of the swordsmasters.

Akhôrzîr looked with eagerness at the sight of the two men just standing a dozen feet away from each other, neither making the first move. And while Morgazar was not trembling in the slightest, it was obvious that Jaime was getting nervous at the idea of fighting him, especially seeing how patient he could be.

But eventually, whether he simply grew annoyed, or wished to fight just so much, Jaime lunged forward without a word. The first thing that Akhôrzîr noticed was his speed. Jaime Lannister had not bought or threatened his way into mastering the sword in such a way. For it was obvious to the trained eye just how much of a natural talented swordsman Jaime was. His moves were elegant, but lightning quick and precise as a surgeon’s knife from Numenor. His footwork was excellent, and there was great strength in his muscles, especially his upper body. Though his lower body was nothing short of a marvel of muscle.

Morgazar deflected and parried and sidestepped every one of Jaime’s strikes, but he did not attack. Akhôrzîr wondered why, for Morgazar had never been a coward who let others think they had the upper hand. He hated making others lower their guard, for how could you truly defeat a man, if he did not fight at one hundred percent ?

It was after the seventeen strike that he noticed it.

Morgazar simply could not find an opening.

Jaime was simply, undoubtedly, extremely, literally, philosophically, too fast.

They had heard from their brother Balôkhâr that he had bested Jaime in a duel. But Balôkhâr was the antithesis of Jaime. He was powerful to an unearthly degree, even for a Nazgûl. Every one of his strikes was a thunderbolt falling on your shoulders, and his massive stature belied his own speed, something he used against every opponent he fought.

But right now, seeing Jaime fight against his brother and not only hold his own, but actually stop Morgazar from fighting back was an incredible sight. It was something they hadn’t seen ever apart from themselves sparring against each other, and their Master, who would often mix his magic with his sword fighting to throw them off. It worked pretty well, though there was room for improvement. Much room.

The strikes did not relent, and Jaime moved even faster, if that was possible. Morgazar never got hit once, though one was a close-by, who almost cut a part of his cloak. They kept on fighting for several minutes, neither one giving away a single inch on the other.

But then, whether by a stroke of fate, or sheer bad luck, a glint of sunlight reflected from a nearby window…

Straight into Jaime’s eyes.

He blinked twice, his face shifting a bit too far, a bit too much.

And that was enough for Morgazar.

With a swift step, quick as the wind and twice as cruel, he stepped into Jaime’s blinded guard, and knocked the air out of his lungs with a double tap from his pommel into Jaime’s chest and gut.

The Lion gasped for air, as he let go of the sword and fell to a knee. He took deep breaths, as Morgazar put his sword to his neck, the blade a hairwidth away from taking a drop of blood. And though there was no mouth on his hidden face, if Morgazar could smile or grin, Akhôrzîr knew he would right now.

“A wonderful fight, Jaime. It has been too long since I fought a man of your talent.”

“HEY” came out of Akhôrzîr quicker than he liked. He had barely noticed he screamed until Morgazar turned to face him.

“Oh, don’t be like that, brother. I meant someone I had never faced before. Jaime was excellent… for a man. ” He said the last part while looking back at the still kneeling knight, who was rubbing his chest with a pained look on his face. It was obvious Morgazar struck with a lot of strength.

“You… You are the best fighter I have ever faced, Ser.” Jaime managed to wheeze out between breaths.

Morgazar pulled hip upwards with a single hand in a swift motion, before patting him slightly on the back.

“Don’t worry about losing, Ser Jaime. Few men have ever bested me. And one of them was quite literally a dragon-slayer.”

“And another one was an eight year old child with anger issues, brother.” Akhôrzîr couldn’t help himself from reminding Morgazar about losing to their Master after only two months. But to be fair, at that point, even Morgazar was not fighting at full capacity, and he had not expected in the slightest for Aenar to fall on one knee and twist to trip him up. A masterful move, too. Well done, Master.

If he could, Morgazar would be blushing right now. Instead, he only threw a concealed dagger near Akhôrzîr’s head, as he bent it to the side so that he wouldn’t get hit right between where his eyes should be.

“Sorry, my hand slipped.” And Morgazar turned on his heels and left the yard, probably off to sulk alone about being embarrassed that way after trying to make himself look strong to Jaime. 

Show-off.

Braavos.

The door opened with the same slight creak it had been doing for what would be nearly ten years in five moons now. The man stepped in with the same quick step he had had for over twenty years now. The sword on his back still glinted like the first time he had drawn it as it spilled the blood of criminals.

He barely had the time to take off his cloak that two sets of strong steps resonated in the house, and four arms surrounded him quickly at his throat, as two pairs of legs wrapped themselves around his waist. His hands flew to their hips to hold them and stop them from falling, and making him fall with them.

“NUNCLE !!!” They yelled to the top of their lungs, their little voices bringing a smile to his face, the same he wore every time he heard them. Even if he could have gone without the boy looking so much like his father.

“What are you doing here without your mother, my little scalliwags ? I was sure I had left her with you, last time I checked.”

“Don’t worry, brother. I’m in the kitchen. They heard you entering and flew faster than a raven.” A beautiful voice came from the inside of the house. He lowered the two children from his arms, and they hugged his legs for exactly six seconds, before already running back to the kitchen.

He followed them quickly, but not before setting his sword and the rest of his travel clothes, remaining in a light trouser and shirt that did not hide the lean muscles he had developed over the last fifteen years. More or less. When he entered the kitchen, he was greeted by the sight of his sister standing in front of the cooking pot, making her special stew. Her olive skin glittered with sweat from the combined heat of the outside air and the fire under the pot.

“Well, there you are, sweet sister.” He said as he gave her a little kiss on the cheek. She hummed at him as he did so. “I hope they weren’t too… troublesome. ” At that, she turned to look at him fully, and swiftly struck him on the arm with her spoon.

“Don’t even try, brother. He was wild, yes, but that does not mean you can speak about him like that.” 

“Me ? Dishonor the father of my niece and nephew ? How could I ?” He said with an exaggerated gasp and a hand over his heart. She only sighed at his display, while the two children laughed behind their hands.

“I know you weren’t his greatest fan-”

“That’s a way of saying it.”

“BUT. I loved him with all my heart. And he gave me the most precious of gifts, brother. So, for my sake, for their sake , please do not insult his memory like that.” She finished her speech with a small tremble in her lip, one she knew very well he knew was practiced. But it still worked nonetheless, for no man ever wishes to make his sister cry.

He approached her and kissed the top of her head, conveying his excuses in this small proof of affection. While he had never been the overly affectionate type, the events that followed the Rebellion gave him a new outlook on life, especially after he discovered his sister’s pregnancy. At least, she had loved the man, and she had repeatedly assured him their relationship was fully consensual. Otherwise, he might have killed the man himself, or at least pissed on his tomb.

“I’m sorry, sweet sister. How can I redeem myself ?” She hummed at his question, patting the side of her cheek with a painted purple nail.

“Hmmmm… You can read a story for Cregan and Alys until they fall asleep.” He groaned at that, knowing full well it took more than one story to get them to sleep.

“OR. You can investigate the rumors about Volantis.” He stopped moving at that, confused. It was apparently more visible than he thought it was on his face, because she grinned, her full lips parting to show her perfectly white teeth, a twinkle in her eyes.

“Didn’t you hear the rumors ?”

“No. What rumors ?”

“Descendants of Old Valyria leave Volantis almost every two weeks, embarking on a ship with a Red Priestess. And rumor has it that two very famous knights embarked on the last one.”

When he looked at her in full-blown confusion, she stepped forward until her breath tickled the hair at the back of his neck.

“An old man with long white hair, very courageous, very bold. And a younger man with golden hair and cat eyes that shine like emeralds.”

His eyes narrowed down to an impossible degree, as his teeth clenched and grinded against each other, turning them into powder, while his nails dug deep into his palms and nearly drew blood. Behind them, the man could hear his niece and nephew speaking in a hushed tone, trying to listen in on their conversation. He would have said something, if he wasn’t close to drawing his milky white sword and go to Volantis to kill those two fuckers.

“But I know you don’t like to leave us so soon after coming back, especially after having been gone for two moons. Ah, what to do ?”

“You planned this, didn’t you ? How long have you known about these rumors ?” She grinned at him and he still saw in it the little girl she had been back home, as she danced in silks and blushed when the father of her children had looked at her with that wolfish grin of his. Okay, he could understand the appeal in the man, but he would have preferred if he had at least married her in public, instead of that half-assed wedding in the godswood of Harrenhal, with only a Septon and himself as witnesses.

“A few moons, now. So, here you have a choice, brother. You can leave alone to Volantis and take the risk of never coming back. Or, we come with you.”

He was about to say something about that when she raised her hand in the same way their mother used to when they tried to speak up against her.

“I have been cooped up in this house for far too long, Art. I need to get out. We need to get out. Cregan and Alysanne barely spend any time outside, and as much as they love your stories, it’s not enough.” Now, he was stuck in quite the predicament.

He knew very well how dangerous  Essos was, and that was the reason he had hid his sister and her children in Braavos, easily the least dangerous Free City of the eastern continent. But he knew very well that, if he did leave alone, they would never forgive him. That was the thing with Dornishwomen. They never forgot a sight, and their patience ran deep. Especially hers.

“ Sooo ? What are you going to do, Art ?” He groaned at her, knowing full well he was defeated.

“... Fine. You and the children can come. BUT, you have to perfectly follow my orders. I will not have you risk your lives just for some flight of fancy. If I say to run, you run. If I say to swim, you swim. If I say you leave me behind…” He left the last part unsaid, and she nodded at him, suddenly very serious. She knew he was only like that when it was of utmost importance.

“I promise you, Arthur. We will do as you say.”

“Thank you, Ash. I just- I can’t bear the thought of seeing you pained.”

“Don’t worry so much about me, brother. I may not bear the blood, but I am still a wolf, aren’t I ?”

“Don’t remind me.” He muttered under his breath, as she gave a very unladylike snort at him. Then, she served the stew she had been preparing to her children, who looked so hungry they were about to start eating the table.

“Now, for your pleasure, Dornish stew with spice and a hint of winter rose to sweeten it all.” At that, Cregan’s mouth watered while Alysanne grinned like she was about to dump her head into the pot and lick it all bottoms-up.

Arthur sat down with his niece and nephew.

While Cregan took almost everything after his father, from the black curly hair, the broad shoulders and strong build to the same grin, his eyes were entirely like Ash, the violet glint making it ever so beautiful, especially when the sunlight reflected in it.

Alysanne on the other hand, was the perfect Dornish noblewoman. Tall and cute for a child, Arthur knew she would grow up to be one of the most beautiful women in the world as she got older. In a few years, he would have to beat suitors back with his sword if he wanted to keep her safe.

As Arthur began to eat his stew, he listened to his niece and nephew blabber about everything they got up to since he left. Training with swords whenever they had the time, learning about the history of both of their families and the regions they resided in.

As dinner passed and he sat in the yard with his sword unsheathed and he began to sharpen it with his whetstone, though that was more of a ritual for him than an actual necessary thing to do, considering his sword would never lose its edge, no matter what.

As the sunlight glittered on the blade, making it shine like a million diamonds all huddled together, Arthur wondered just how everything could have been different, had his Prince allowed him to come with him on the Trident. Had he been there, the Usurper would have fallen to Dawn without a single problem. Instead, he had been left to the Tower to protect the pregnant Queen. And he had lost almost everything there. His two brothers in white, and his Queen. At least, last he heard, the boy was safe and sound with his uncle and cousins.

When the Crannogman had saved him, the poison on his knife having slowed his bleeding, he had promised him to leave, as long as the Crannogman promised him to call him home the moment he heard about the Prince moving to take back what was his. The Wolf had promised to tell everything to his nephew when he was of age. And there had never been a Stark who had  broken an oath. Well, apart from the one who tried to usurp his nephew. What was his name again ? Bennard ? Yeah, Bennard Stark.

When Dawn was taken care off, Arthur sheathed it back into his scabbard, stood up with a groan and turned to go to sleep. After all, the Sword of the Morning was not a man of the night.

He almost fell into bed, his boots still on, and the silky smooth sheets helped him dream of home as a child, of the highest tower of Starfall, and the feeling of taking Dawn for the first time, of donning the white cloak and becoming a Kingsguard to a once promising king.

Arthur Dayne slept soundly that night. And so did Lady Ashara Dayne Stark. Cregan and Alysanne Stark, on the other hand, always were a bit more loud at night. Still, they slept without making too much noise.

And deep in a castle of blood, where dragons lived and slept, sitting at a desk that had seen the mightiest Targaryen Lords and Ladies of old, Aenar Targaryen worked tirelessly to ensure the future of his new found home. Old Valyria was a memory better left forgotten.

New Valyria, on the other hand…

New Valyria was the future of Essos.

Chapter Text

Sword of the Morning.

Volantis was most definitely not the Free City he wished to live in. Everywhere he looked, it was either slavery, fire priests rambling about ‘the Will of R’hllor’, or men and women fatter than the combined weight of Ash and her children. So, really, Arthur did not want to be here. The only good point was how Cregan and Alysanne seemed to love everything there was to love in this City, which was not a lot, but satisfied his rambling niece and nephew. Wolf-blooded, indeed. Godsdamn you, Stark.

Every step he took in this city, every breath he drew, all he could see, was his Prince, over and over again. But all were flawed. One man had his hair too short, another was kept to a braid, and not free in the wind, while there was a girl who had his shade of violet eyes, but the hair was not the right color.

Arthur hated it.

Meanwhile, Ashara and her children were having a better time than he. She had not spent so much time with Rhaegar, and much more with Elia. The two had been the greatest of friends at a point, and he could still remember how Elia had once joked about Rhaenys marrying Ash’s first son and their child becoming the next Sword of the Morning. A beautiful fantasy, stolen from them by a whoremonger and drunk.

They were walking around the city, searching for one of the two traitors. But no matter what, no one had the golden hair of the Lions, or the white hair of an old man. Arthur’s hair was slightly graying, but most of it remained the raven dark it had always been. Ash had more luck than he, the years only increasing her beauty, giving her a more womanly and motherly form, her pregnancy having widened her hips and made her chest a tad bigger. Not that Arthur had ever commented on it. He liked to live, thank you very much.

The harbor smelled of sea water and spice, many people working on it day and night, some wearing normal clothes, others wearing tattered ones, showcasing tattoos of ownership. Slavery was a vile thing, and though Westeros was backwards in many things, at least they understood that much. One point for them.

“Ash, are you sure about your intel ?” He asked his sister, a hood drawn over her face, more a habit than a true need to conceal her identity.

“Too many rumors have travelled by now, Art. We need only to wait.”

He couldn’t, though. Too many thoughts passed in his mind whenever the face of the two traitors flashed before him. One who knelt to an usurper, and another who betrayed his oath and stabbed his king in the back. Arthur would make sure those two would feel Dawn should he ever meet them again.

“-this way, Ser. Let’s go this way !” A child screamed in excitement to his left. The voice was young and the pitch was high. A young girl.

“As you desire, Princess.” The other voice was lower in pitch, slower and less excited, as though the one who spoke was wary. An older man.

“Faster, Ser ! We need to catch up !” Another girl, a bit older, with a southern accent… Dornish ?

“Don’t worry, Princess. They shan’t escape !” The voice was that of a man who had seen horrors. There was something in it, a tone Arthur knew all too well. It was rich, and felt like gold poured over a head.

Ashara turned her head to look at the two girls and the older men, and the gasp of shock that came out of her immediately put Arthur on edge, his hand already to his sword.

“I would keep that sword sheathed, ser.” A dark voice came from behind him. Chills fell down Arthur’s spine, sweat dripping down his brow. Arthur’s hand trembled as he let go of the hilt, shivering all the while. Ashara was lost in her own mind, looking at the children and the men. But Arthur couldn’t move or turn. He was scared. For the first time in ten years, he was scared.

Cregan and Alysanne were looking at their mother and uncle with wide, confused eyes. They didn’t understand why their mother was so shocked because there were two children playing with older men. One was small and had silver-blonde hair, and she was holding the hand of an older man with long white hair, as her shrieks of laughter resonated around the street. The other girl was taller and older, her long dark hair caught the sunlight and made it gleam like obsidian, as she ran with another man, whose blonde hair flew in the air like wheat on a field.

But now, when they turned to look at the men who were surrounding their uncle, the two children knew what fear was. A presence that weighed a thousand stones fell onto their souls like a hawk over a rabbit. No sound came from them, silently hoping it would stop the men from seeing them. A foolish hope, but hope nonetheless.

“Leave them alone, Morgazar. They didn’t ask for anything.” A younger voice spoke, a strong pitch in it that spoke of nobility and high bearing. Young, but already familiar with the world and its dangers.

Arthur turned his head, the fear rescinding as the men stepped away, and his eyes fell on the boy. 

No. No. No, no no no !!!! NO !!! IMPOSSIBLE !!! WHY IS HE HERE ?? HOW IS HE HERE ?? WHAT THE FUCK ??

Too many thoughts swirled, too fast, too strong. A flood of fear entered his system, as Arthur looked at the face of his Prince and Queen. The eyes, so much like Queen Rhaella, the soft look of Rhaegar in his face, and the gentle smile that only Lyanna wore. It was all too much, and it hurt him. His breath came in quick, labored gasps, his hand shot to his heart, as it beat for too fast. Or perhaps too slow. Arthur couldn’t tell.

The boy looked confused at him, and when the two girls arrived from the other side, with the older men, Arthur nearly had a heart attack on the spot. There, standing in front of him, was none other than the reincarnation of Queen Rhaella, for there was no other word to explain her. The long silver hair worn to her waist, her big wide purple eyes that shone with a light of pure innocence, a girl who knew both kindness and misery. The smile on her face lessened when she saw the fear and confusion on his own. The hand she held was wrinkled and led to an old man with long white hair, and the sharp eyes of a man he never wished to see again, were it but to plant Dawn in his chest.

And yet, the other girl was somehow worse and better. The long dark hair and the dark purple eyes, the telltale smile of her father, the dark olive skin of her mother, the lean strength that resided in her body. But the man who stood right beside her made Arthur see red. The shock on his feminine face, the long blond hair tied in a knot and the black armor, so many things that made Arthur’s mind reel back to nearly a decade ago, when he heard that asshole’s betrayal. But now, seeing him here, holding the hand of the Princess he swore to protect, his blood boiled to a level that Arthur had never felt possible.

His hand trembled near the hilt of his sword, and when the traitor’s eyes widened as he his jaw fell open, while the Princess gasped audibly, the Kneeler looked at him and Ash, and he almost passed out in surprise. It was only because of the fear in his veins from the presence of the monsters dressed in black that he couldn’t cut down the traitors immediately and protect the Princesses. They were here to bring them to the Usurper, he knew it. Same thing with his Prince. They wanted to kill them. They wanted the Usurper to kill them for sins never committed, all because a drunk whoremonger thought he deserved a woman who did not love him.

“Ar- Arthur ?” Came from the traitor, backstabbing son of a whore. Sorry, Lady Joanna.

“It’s- It’s not… You’re dead.” Came from the Kneeler, who put himself in front of the Princess, as though he feared what he would do to her. As if. Arthur would take care of her, give her a home and a family.

His hand flew to the hilt of his sword, and he barely had the time to unsheath it that a blow came to the back of his neck, as he fell to his knees. His vision became blurry, blinding flashes of white light exploded behind his eyelids and he felt his strength leave his body. The last thing he heard was Ash screaming his name, before the darkness took hold of him.

Aenar.

“...Jaime. Who is this ?” He said, slowly, dragging the words, his jaw tightened to a near painful degree. From his place, Jaime shook his head off the gutter he was currently in.

“That’s- This is Ser Arthur Dayne, the Sword of the Morning.” Aenar’s head made a turn so fast he nearly cracked his neck, or at least heard a snap. His eyes widened considerably as he shifted his gaze from the passed out knight, to the blond knight, to the woman who held her two children behind her. And though there was fear in her purple gaze, she was also determined to fight. Her arms were outstretched over her children and she looked at all of them with a mix of fear and anger.

Aenar facepalmed as he groaned, quite unhappy with the way their little vacation had turned out. Seriously, it wasn’t that hard to go on a vacation for five days, was it ? All he wanted was a little peace and quiet, and someplace nice for Rhae and Dany to spend time together. Vis said he wanted to stay in Valyria, Aemon and Shiera waved them off and ran back to the library, having found a common love for Dragon lore.

And now, instead, they found themselves standing over the passed out Sword of the Morning, while his sister, probably, olive skin and purple eyes are not common in Westeros or Essos , looked at them as though they were monsters. Aenar stepped forward ever so slightly, his hands visible as he slowly raised them in a parody of surrender.

“My apologies, my Lady. We have no grim intentions towards you or your family. We are merely on a.. vacation of some kind.”

“Who are you to be with them ? Do not lie to me, boy. I have spent enough time in the Red Keep to know Rhaella Targaryen and Elia Martell. Why are the two traitors of the guard with them ?” She all but snarled at him, a cornered wolf ready to kill her way out. He did not cow away from her, but knew she was not a woman to be messed with.

“I am Aenar. Son of Rhaegar Targaryen and Lyanna Stark. As you have already guessed, this is my aunt Daenerys and my sister Rhaenys.” He said, pointing at them respectively. Her eyes widened while her arms trembled. The two children peeked out from behind her and Aenar’s breath caught in his throat. The boy. He knew the look of the boy. He had grown up with a man that shared it. That was a Stark look. She caught his gaze and saw what he was looking at. At that, her mouth twisted into a snarl and Aenar understood that a Dornishwoman, especially a Dayne of Starfall, for there was no other possibility, would kill to protect her children, no matter what.

“I seek no conflict with you, my Lady. My family and I are on vacation, as I explained. Though I can’t help but wonder what you are doing in Volantis of all places, Lady Dayne.” She did not respond immediately, but instead looked at him with the eyes of a cornered predator.

“...We heard the rumors of Valyrians leaving Volantis. That, and the two traitors behind you. Arthur wished for revenge.” She spoke the words slowly, dragging them out, trying to drive a wedge between them. 

“I recommend telling the truth, Master. This Lady is a predator. Show the slightest amount of fear or hesitation, and she will not hesitate to risk her life for her children. A mother’s spirit is a work of raw power.” The Ring’s voice echoed in his mind, advice plain and simple to follow. A counselor older than the Seven Kingdoms themselves.

“Allow me to explain, my Lady.” She did not say anything for a few seconds, before finally nodding once.

“I have only recently found out about my true identity, Eddard Stark having claimed me as his bastard son for eight years.” At that, she sneered, her beautiful face twisted by a small smirk of disdain, the name of Ned Stark apparently a bitter pill to swallow.

“When I found out, I decided to find my family, and to work together on reclaiming House Targaryen’s rightful place. Our uncle Aemon, Aegon’s V older brother, is in Valyria, along with the Lady Shiera Seastar.” At that, her eyes widened to a degree that would have made Aenar laughed, were the situation less dire. All around them, the Nazgûls made sure that no one got close enough to listen in on their conversation, using a few illusion spells to make sure no one noticed them.

“Following those events, I found my sister Rhaenys in Sunspear, where she lived under the name of Rhya Sand, the bastard daughter of Prince Oberyn.” At that, his sister gave a slight smile, remembering with fondness the moments she spent with her family, though the pain of losing her parents and brothers had never disappeared, merely lessened. Aenar’s appearance in her life truly brought her back from a time she thought she would never let go.

“Then, we went to Pentos, in the manse of Illyrio Mopatis, who was hiding our aunt Daenerys and our uncle Viserys. Following all of this, we went to Valyria, which we have been rebuilding ever since.” He had vaguely summarized everything, leaving a few details out of it, such as their Rings and powers and what they found in Mopatis’s manse, like the Conqueror’s crown and the sword Blackfyre, which currently resided in Aenar’s solar. He just did not feel like he deserved to wield it, still being too young for it.

“...I- I can’t…. I can’t believe it.” Was Lady Dayne’s only reaction. Aenar almost smirked. Almost.

“I understand your reaction, my Lady. Jaime and I had a similar-”

“We cried, Barristan.”

“BUT. Lord Aenar is telling nothing but the truth. My honor may not mean anything to you, but I do swear on it that everything he said is the absolute truth.” Barristan said, a hand over his heart, looking apologetic. Jaime nodded, while Daenerys and Rhaenys both looked at the Dornish Lady with their puppy eyes. That was a cruel move from them. No one could resist those eyes.

“There are many more things I could explain, my Lady. But the open streets of Volantis are not the perfect place. Should you choose to come with us, I will need your oath that you will listen to everything we have to say.” Aenar would not take any chance with her, especially seeing her reaction towards Jaime and Barristan. Understandable, considering how Aenar himself had reacted first. But now, he kinda trusted them. Kinda.

Lady Dayne did not move for a few seconds. Her eyes travelled from the still passed out form of her brother, to Aenar who still had his hands raised in surrender, to the girls and their puppy eyes, finally to her children, who looked in awe of Aenar. 

“...Very well. You have my oath on this. But I want you to swear that my family and I are safe.”

“You are, my Lady. I swear it on the Old Gods and the Valyrian Ones.” Aenar said, a hand over his heart, a serious look on his face, one that spoke of true nobility. The one born of hardship and strength, not birth.

Lady Ashara Dayne nodded once, and they slowly moved towards the fallen knight, as Morgazar hoisted him up on his shoulder like a timber log, carrying him towards their ship, having been ready all morning. After all, today was Aenar's last day in Volantis. There was merely too much work in Valyria to be done.

“Thank you for your trust, my Lady. I can assure you that your family and yourself shall be well taken care of.” He swore. No one would suffer under his guard, for as long as he drew breath. That was his personal oath. His personal justice.

The two children behind her stood entranced by the figure that looked like the boy, except for the clothes. Their eyes even had the same color though the shade was different. Aenar had brighter eyes, while the boy had dark ones, almost grey. He could see how the taller boy was so similar to him. So strange. Cregan had never met someone that looked so much like him.

He wanted to say something, to question the stranger who seemed to know his mom and nuncle, but the way mom held him and Alys, he knew he shouldn’t do anything. It would be too dangerous. She had always warned them about keeping their identities secret. Something about an ugly Trout that would come to eat them in their sleep for being born of a wolf and a falling star. Scary.

As the large group moved towards the ship, Aenar let his mind drift to the possible future. Arthur Dayne. Sword of the Morning. Ashara Dayne, Lady of Starfall. The Tourney of Harrenhal, where she danced with both Brandon and Ned Stark.  Her two children had the Stark look. Obviously, one of them was the father. But who ? That was the question he had to ask himself. Who could possibly be the father ?

Ned Stark was famous for his honor, his reputation as a man who had done no fault. Sleeping with a noble woman unmarried was not something he would do.

Brandon Stark, on the other hand. His reputation was on his side this time. Wolf-blooded, they called him. Wild and true to himself. Even his betrothal with Catelyn Tully was something he had never been in favor of, having apparently favored Lady Dustin of Barrowtown.

Aenar would not ask her. He would let her come to him on her own terms, and when she deemed it would be time to share her story, then she would.

Chapter Text

Sixth moon of 292 AC. The Forge

Aenar stood in the First Flame of Valyria, the sweltering heat making sweat drip down his brow as his hammer repeatedly struck the metal with dwarven-like precision, the Ring guiding him through the process. Every hit, every move, every pulse of the steel beneath his hammer was calculated with pure mathematics and logic.

He lifted the steel and plunged it deep into the flowing lava of the forge. One, two, three, and he rose it again. He then struck it twice on the hilt, and scraped off the remains of lava that did not enter the sword with another tool. Everything he did was purely based on efficiency, the economy of movement so as to not exhaust yourself during such an exercise.

Following the instructions the Ring gave him, almost letting it take control over his body, merely doing whatever he told him to, Aenar felt a sense of calm spread through him at the feeling of building something with his own two hands. The other Rings of Power he made with the help of the One Ring were still his masterpiece, but back then, he had the incredible knowledge of his Ring who knew exactly how to forge one, being one himself.

But now, forging a Valyrian Steel sword, something neither truly knew how to, because Aenar had never forged swords before, and the Ring had never worked with metal such as Valyrian Steel. Even the legendary Mithril of the Dwarves of Khazad-Dum had never reached the claws of his former master. It was exhilarating. 

The final step crept forward with every second that passed, the sword being repeatedly shaped with each hit into a weapon made purely to kill. There was no flair, it was no ceremonial weapon, nor a blade made to be wielded by arrogant children playing at battles and war, who dreamed of glory and blood-kissed sands. It was a weapon. Plain and pure. Made to kill. Forged to destroy. Built with the sole purpose of bathing in blood.

Each stroke would strengthen it. Each kill would make it sing in grace. Each slaughter would make its wielder feel ten feet tall. Each battle won would be a celebration of war. Each conquest would be a festival. And each war would see their names written in the halls of Eternity Itself.

He pulled the sword one last time into the flowing lava of the Flame, and let it shape the blade of it for fourteen more seconds. One for each of the Valyrian Gods.

When fourteen seconds passed, Aenar pulled the sword back from the lava, watching it drip down the blade and fall to the ground slowly, each drop a testament of the power that lingered beneath a simple process. He had hit the blade nine hundred and ninety nine times. Pulling a dagger from his belt, and slashing his palm open, barely feeling the slice with the blade so sharp, he let the blood drip onto the blade, each drop lingering for but a short moment before disappearing, absorbed by it.

“Perzys Ānogār” He whispered as the blood stopped. Pulling a small bandage from the pocket of his trousers, he stopped the bleeding, letting the cut scar. In a few weeks, there would not even be a white line left to show that the palm was cut.

Then, he raised his hammer one last time. Breathe in. Breathe out. Let the fire swirl, let the blood swim, and let the two come to rest together in the blade.

Bang

And the sword became whole.

Fire and Blood united together into the blade, as Aenar watched with no small wonder the creation of a sword that had not seen breath in over four centuries.

For the first time since the Doom… Valyrian Steel had been forged anew in the true process of it. Not the one used to forge the weapon Aenar had gifted his cousin Robb. Not the one used to make the jewelry for Shiera and Kinvara and Rhaenys and Daenerys.

This was true Fire and Blood, mixed together into a weapon.

And he was proud of it.

Aenar let the sword rest on a rack, and whipped the sweat from his brow with the back of his gloved hand, before turning to look at the forge, who still ran hot from his earlier ministrations. A smile crept onto his face without any idea as to where it came from, and Aenar found himself too happy to care.

For the first time since he arrived, Valyrian Steel was true. Valyrian Steel was back. He had brought fire and blood into the recipe three times before, but it had never worked. 

Now, he had integrated the words themselves into the forging, and it worked. Why ? He knew not. And frankly ? Part of him cared not.

No, the only thing that mattered was that it worked. The steel had been produced. Now, he could teach blacksmiths how to work Valyrian Steel. From there, it would only be a matter of teaching more and more people to work with it, to produce swords, ingots and armors, until they had a steady production of it.

What would he do with so much Valyrian Steel ? Easy. He would trade. He knew not of any Free City in Essos that would deny a steady supply of Valyrian Steel for gold, gems, or, in the case of Volantis and Lys, to serve. The First Daughter of Valyria would be more than happy to, her population still believing in the might of the Dragonlords of old, and the whispers that Kinvara would spread through the city about the renewal of Valyria could ensure the city would follow without a shed of blood.

In the case of Lys, it was perhaps a bit trickier. But the Ring was not a mastermind for no reason.

“Lys is a rich, but weak city. Their worth lies in their gold, their gems and their women. They remain in need of basic resources : wood, stone, steel, marble. Bring it to them, along with the means to defend themselves from pirates and raiders, and they will remember the prosperity of Valyria. Though a proper display of power would help with their loyalty. Loyalty bought is not worth half as much as loyalty freely given.”

Aenar smiled at the whisper of the Ring in his mind. Not for the first time, he wondered what would have happened if he had never found the Ring. Or if he had not listened to him in the beginning. Would he still live a lie in Winterfell ? Would he have never found his true family ? How much different would Viserys be ?

So many questions, so many hypothetical, so many things he wondered when the Ring was silent and he was alone.

But none had to be really thought about. After all, he listened to the Ring. He escaped the lies, he reunited House Targaryen, and he was working on the renewal of the greatest civilization in the world.

“What should we do, now that I finally know the final recipe of Valyrian Steel ?” He asked the Ring.

“Establishing a steady supply of it will be your main focus. I would recommend ten blacksmiths, all taught by yourself to learn the secrets of Valyrian Steel. From there, they will teach the methods themselves, freeing up your schedule to work on other important matters, such as trade establishment and Euron’s fleet.”

Aenar nodded once, already thinking of the future. Every step they took, he felt as though it was a new part of Valyria that awoke once again. Euron had found the old shipwrights of Valyria, and he had almost cried in joy before them.

The plans had been drawn in a parchment that had been enchanted to never tear or break, not even to time. They were as fresh as the day they had been made, and perfectly readable. And even though the instructions were in Valyrian, it was a very visual process of learning. Euron was spending his entire evenings reading them, understanding them. But it was weird, apparently. According to Euron, the ships did not use any normal means of transportation, such as oars and large sails. Instead, the ships were built in an elongated shape, with multiple decks, including a high one at the rear of the ship, where a wooden shape larger than a man, but smaller, stood. Aenar and Euron were both confused by it.

There were hundreds of ropes all linked to one another over the entirety of the ship, and they were connected to the sails, apparently allowing them to fold open or closed. But the strangest part was on the sides. He could see dozens of squared openings, each equally distant from the other. There were three ranges of squares, and he could count forty openings on each side of the ship. They were there for a reason. But why ? That would require more work on clearing the old shipwrights. And that was huge work.

The Ring had memorized the plans, and now showed them to him through their telepathic bond. Aenar could not feel better than right now, sharing in the knowledge that could pour from the Ring for centuries and still not run out of things to say. He was an astonishing pool of knowledge. Aenar felt he could just listen to the Ring speak for years and never get bored. The Ring wasn’t just talking or teaching like Maester Luwin did.

No, instead, the Ring made sure that Aenar felt as though everything he learned could be used. When he taught him blacksmithing, he made sure that Aenar understood how a lord who could relate to his people would always strive for their betterment, for he knew the harshness of their lives.

Aenar could not lie and say that his life had been horrible as a child. He was fed, clothed and housed. And though he wasn’t always happy or cared for, sometimes he lived in the shadows of Winterfell or between two hallways. Yet, he knew other bastards could easily have worse lives. They could be discarded, hated or forced into near-slavery for their half-siblings by a hateful stepmother, a fate he evaded.

Today, he was merely happy that his hard work had finally paid off. And now, all he wanted to do was get a good rest. Perhaps he could even get Rhae and Dany to have a nice nap in the gardens. It was so fucking comfortable, and gods knew how much they also needed rest.

3 moons later. The Docks.

Tears. That was new for him.

Joy. Also new. Feels weird, if he was honest.

Honesty. Now, THAT, that was really strange.

 Happy ? Well, perhaps. He couldn’t really tell. How could you know what a feeling was, the first time you felt it ?

His heart was beating fast, his face was twisted by a large smile that he never carried usually. He couldn’t even remember a time he did. Then, there were the shaking legs and the wide eyes as he looked at what could only be described as a marvel of shipwright.

Standing, or rather floating in front of the gathered assembly, stood the grandest ship Euron Greyjoy had ever seen in his lifetime.

The ship was over 200 feet long, and 50 feet wide. There were three decks below the main ones, and one more that could be used as storage even below the water line. The ship weighed almost 400 tons of wood, sails and ropes. Three masts rose at equal intervals of the main deck, right in the middle so as to not completely hide the view from the captain, who would hold a steering bar at the back of the magnificent vessel.

But the most beautiful sight, for him at least, were the ‘cannons’. A most strange weapon, he found, but one that held no rival save dragonfire. A long barrel of steel, large enough to fit a huge coconut, and a small rope was put on the other end. The ‘gunner’ would light the rope, and the ‘cannon’ would roar and shoot an exploding ball that did huge damage and could even light fire if it touched an inflammable surface. It was like a scorpion, except it shot way farther and faster, and the damages were even more powerful. 

He loved it, there was no other word. He loved the feeling of power that came when he would fire one of those ‘cannons’. He loved the smell of burnt powder and the sight of utter destruction that came with using those weapons. A single shot could destroy a ship if the mast or the water line were to be hit. And when all of them were fired at the same time… That was a sight to behold.

Thunder would roar everywhere around them, fire would fly in a deadly dance consorted with the damned, the sea would claim all the lost souls that would find themselves prey to the depths, and he would laugh all the while, for those fools who dared challenge the might of Valyria were unworthy of the new world that Aenar was building.

Speaking of Aenar…

“You look happy, Euron. It suits you.” The boy said. He was finely dressed in his black doublet and midnight trousers. A new sword laid at his hip, and his black hair, normally well combed, was tousled by the wind of the sea. There was a gentle smile playing at the curves of his mouth, and his head was lightly cocked to the side, as his eyes wandered everywhere the ship laid before them.

“I am, boy. Or at least, I think I am. Can’t really tell, to be true. I just- I have no words.” He breathed out the last part in a dreamy voice, already thinking about sailing straight to Lys and finding comfort between the thighs of a beautiful woman. It had been almost two years since he last slept with a woman, and every time he saw Kinvara and Aemon, it reminded him of what he could have. But Euron did not desire to give his being to another person. Only Aenar could hold most of him. He held his body and mind, but his heart remained in Euron’s own hands. And he refused to let it see broken or hurt.

Aenar turned to look at him. “What do you want to name her ?”

“What ?” Came from Euron, confused. Aenar only grinned that telltale smirk of his, that showed he played you and played you well.

“It is your ship, Euron. I wouldn’t dare name her myself.” Euron could hear the blood pumping in his ears, his heartbeat increasing to an alarming degree. He did not care.

Euron turned back to look at the ship. The large black sails were tied back into the masts, and the anchor was dropped so as to keep the ship in his designed place. He turned his eyes to the front, where the wooden maiden stood. A beautiful symbol made to inspire friends, for the sight of it meant that the first Valyrian ship in four centuries would sail alongside you.

He let his mind wander to who would be worthy of the name of such a beautiful ship. It was grand and powerful. It was mighty and strong. It was fast and durable. It was the ship of a Princess. Of a Queen.

“...The Queen Alysanne’s Revenge. That. That is her name.” He said, every word backed by his will. His blue eyes twirled with light, like twin sapphires. King’s eyes, Kinvara said. The King of the Seas.

And aye. That was what he was. The King of the Seas, servant only to the Lord of Dragons. To the one who rode the one once known as the Cannibal. The one who held a Ring of pure power in his grasp and knew the secret of Valyrian Steel forging. 

Aenar Targaryen.

And Aenar smiled at the name of the ship, oblivious to the swirl of thoughts that Euron felt, his loyalty to the Dragonlord renewed once again by his greatness. For without Aenar, never would Euron be the Captain of this grand ship. Of the Queen Alysanne’s Revenge.

A week later. The Three Knights.

The song of steel had become a normal occurrence in the inner courtyard of the Targaryen Keep. The first, third, fifth and seventh day of each week were given to the Nazgûls, who trained relentlessly against each other, each one spurned by the thought of possibly claiming Morgazar’s title as Swordmaster. Morgazar laughed inwardly at their attempts, though. There was a reason he was the best, and having trained in every sword style under the sun and moon was one of them.

But today was not a day for the Nazgûls. Today, two knights of Westeros faced each other in a spar, while the third one was cleaning his sword and his wounded pride at having been bested by his old friend.

Arthur Dayne was a vision of excellence and raw talent honed by years of training. There was no other word for it. He was a perfect warrior in every way. From his speed to his skill with two blades to the strength he could put behind each strike, Arthur Dayne was a monster of war. His current opponent, Jaime, could not be happier to spar against Arthur right now.

Mending their relationship had been a work of almost two years, and it was only thanks to Princess Rhaenys and Lady Ashara that Arthur accepted to listen to Jaime’s story without trying to stab him. And so, Jaime had told him everything.

The murder of Aerys, the one he regretted not having done sooner. Saving Princess Rhaenys from Amory Lorch and taking her to Oberyn Martell. Keeping this a secret from every single person in King’s Landing for years on end, and eventually meeting Aenar by complete chance during a visit to Winterfell after the Greyjoy Rebellion with Barristan. None of it had been planned, and it was most probably one of the weirdest events that had ever happened in this century. They sometimes wondered what would have happened to them if they had never seen Aenar the first time.

Most probably still lost in their thoughts of despair and mutual dislike and hatred for each other. Barristan would still be in service to a king he hated, and Jaime would still be a dog on a leash for Cersei. As of now, he was more than happy to have broken the leash.

Barristan looked on, a smile on his face at seeing his two brothers in arms training together, fighting with every inch of their soul in order to topple the other one. Arthur was as good as ever, but he had not improved much since Robert’s Rebellion. Jaime, on the other hand, had. He had kept up with his training, and ever since he got his ass handed to him by two different Nazgûls, he had trained even harder than before.

Arthur, meanwhile, was too focused on the fight to let his mind drift to the past events ever since he arrived here, almost two years ago. Such a strange turn of events, entirely based on his King taking a fucking five day vacation. The sheer luck of them for seeing him and his family was almost otherworldly. And Ashara herself had rarely been happier since she arrived here.

He flew with every motion of his swords, striking at Jaime’s sword with his left sword before bringing down the right one in order to try and knock his sword out of his hand. Jaime twisted with feline grace, bouncing back until a few feet separated him from Arthur. The two knights fell back into their own stance of holding each other at bay, ready to attack.

And sitting on a bench, legs lazily kicking in the air, Alysanne Stark was smiling like a little butterfly as she watched her uncle Art fight a Lion. He always said that the Lion was a bad man, and she should never trust a Lion. But Jaime had never been mean to her or Creg, and the two Princesses said that he was a good man now. Even her cousin Aens said that Jaime could be trusted. And if Aens said something, then it was true. The men in black said so, and they never lied. Not to her or anyone else.

She was humming an old tune her mother taught her, telling her it was about a big man from the North who saw a beautiful woman and sought her as his own. She said it reminded her of her and Creg’s father. Apparently, Creg was like a kiddy version of her father.

That was stupid. Creg was Creg and Father was Father. You couldn’t be a kiddy version of someone else, cause you are your own person. And she was right. Because she was a Stark of Winterfell and a Dayne of Starfall, so that means that she was incapable of lying. And if you can’t lie, then everything you say is true.

Aens would smile and ruffle her hair while laughing, but Dany and Rhae would agree with her. She was closer to her girl cousins, but Aens was still a super cousin who made her jewels whenever she asked for one. She had a chest filled with nothing but gifts from Aens. Creg had said it was because she loved Aens, and she had almost punched him.

She couldn’t love Aens, because Aens was her cousin. It was weird, and besides, Dany and Rhae would no longer be her friends if she said she loved Aens. Her cousins were very protective of Aens, and Rhae even stopped Auntie Shiera from telling a story about her and Nuncle Brynden. Mother had told Alysanne that the story was not meant for kiddy ears, and that they were too young to listen to it. Alysanne trusted her mother with her life, and she knew that she would never lie to her or Creg. But perhaps she should try and listen in on one of those stories for once, because every time Auntie Shiera told one, Mother would lock her door and make those weird noises that looked like she was in pain, but the next morning she would smile and have a small skip to her feet.

Aens didn’t understand either, and that was why she knew that only grown ups could understand. Because Aens was the smartest boy she knew, and if he didn’t understand, then only grown ups could.

And so, with those thoughts on family and love, Alysanne Stark let the song of steel lull her into a noise-induced sleep.

Somewhere else.

Far from Valyria, in a cold crypt where the dead rested and their bones turned to dust, the shadows curled around one of the newest tombs of the old Crypts of Winterfell. And the ghosts of old Kings of Winter began to whisper. The children of Star and Wolf are strong. She will need guidance and love. He will need teaching and friendship.

The Old Gods condemn the Usurpers, blood of our blood, flesh of our flesh. You knew of them, but you let your pride blind you to the truth of the North.

Brandon Stark was no Lordly material, indeed, but his wife was. She was the water to the fire of his forge. The sheath to his sword. The calm that his wolf-blood called for.

Rest shall not come for you, Eddard Stark. None of us shall allow it. 

Even farther North, beyond the Ice and the Cursed Woods, in a place where Winter never rested, buried in the roots of the first Weirwood, the Three-Eyed Raven smiled as he listened to the Starks of Old. He smiled at their anger, smirked at their outrage and laughed at their fury.

The Starks had good reason to be angry. And the Three-Eyed Raven couldn’t help but agree with them. The shift in the body he shared with the other man told him enough to know this was one of the few times the two of them agreed on something. Apart from the renewal of Magic and the coming back of dragons, few matters had seen the both of them agreeing.

The Raven was shook off the head of Brynden Rivers, as he fought against the old that the fallen God held on his mind. He could feel himself growing weaker with every year. The Children’s potion was weakening in its effects, and in five or six years, he would have completely lost the fight against the Raven. It was sad, but he knew what he was getting into when he made the deal with the Raven to warn the Targaryens of the threat of the White Walkers.

But the Defiance of Duskendale happened, and what should have been helpful sessions to help Aerys keep his sanity became a traumatic experience only made worse by the potions he was force-fed by the Essosi bitch, Lady Darklin.

And then, the whole debacle happened. Aerys lost touch with reality, the Spider known as Varys and the leech Pycelle both whispered poison in his ears for years on end, and turned the once-promising King against his own blood.

And in that attempt to warn the South of the threat of the White Walkers, the Raven having tried to fix his mistake for the last eight thousand years, they lost every connection with the Targaryens for nine years. They knew not where to look. Until the Ring appeared.

Oh, the Ring. Beautiful, perfect piece of magic from a far away Realm beyond the Stars of their world.

The Ring brought Magic back to their world, brought dragons back to their world, and reunited almost every living Targaryen in the world.

And now, Valyria was living better than before. Much better. They could only try and help from far away. Perhaps the boy should learn an instrument. The harp is a beautiful instrument after all.

Chapter Text

The Sun Dragon. Seventh moon of 294 AC.

She was a monster. She was a freak. She was a failure. She was an abomination. She should leave. Forever. She should disappear from this world and never come back. Her thoughts were too horrendous. Too monstrous. They were the reason as to why her grandfather was so mad. The blood of siblings should never intermingle, it made for abominations such as her.

She was currently running around in her room, trying to put as many things in a single bag as possible. Just a few clothes, light and without any characteristics, she should be able to blend easily in the streets. There were many people like her, with olive skin and purple eyes in the streets of Valyria, no one would notice her. Besides, he wouldn’t send anyone after her. Not after what she did.

She ruffled between dresses, choosing only one in black with red threads. A normal style in the capital. After all, many loved her brother for what he did. She did too. And that was why she had to leave. She couldn’t remain here. Not after what she did. It was too horrible a crime to speak, too grand a sin to utter, too much heresy to even think of it.

The floor of her room quickly found itself hidden beneath the mountain of clothes she discarded one after another. One was too red and visible in a crowd, the gift he made her for her twelfth nameday. Another was light around her chest, a gift from Shiera when she started developing her breasts. She had smiled and gave her a wink when Rhaenys had flushed upon seeing it for the first time. A third dress was littered with suns and vipers at the hems, and it would draw the attention of the crowd on her, the sister of the Dragonlord, the girl who rode upon Elianix, the sand-colored dragon.

Her eyes fell upon the bracelet he made her for her last nameday. It was a silver and obsidian contraption, made to resemble a viper and a dragon intertwined together, in a passionate embrace of love and passion. He said it was for Kepa and Muna Elia. She had smiled and hugged him tight, kissed his cheek and showed it off to everyone. Viserys had found it very well made, Daenerys had pouted because she wanted something similar, Aemon had smiled at her and told her a few things about House Martell. Things even her uncle Oberyn didn’t know. And Shiera and Kinvara had shared a look of a thousand words in a single second, and they whispered behind their hands. They talked of many, many things. Things not meant for kiddy ears, Alysanne would say.

It hurt her, having to leave like that. Like she was a common thief, leaving through the night. But she was a thief. She stole something from him.

Eventually, she settled for a pair of brown trousers and a blue tunic. It was light and would help her against the heat of the capital. The Lands of the Long Summers, indeed. The temperature never fell below 10 degrees, even when it rained.

Putting it on quickly, making sure it was slightly crinkled, for it would help her look even more of a common girl running through the streets, she prepared her bag. A few bracelets, a pouch of iron coins of the Iron Bank, a few coins from Volantis and even from Lys. All of it would help her disappear, going from one city to another, until she could vanish from his spies. Oh, it would be hard, for his eyes were everywhere and his ears listened to everything that mattered.

And worst of all, he had the Palantir. Should he wish to find her again, to punish her for her sins, it would take nothing more than a glimpse in the Palantir. Even her Ring couldn’t hide her from the Palantir’s magic.

But why would he search for her ? She was a monster, better to let her leave and never come back. She didn’t want to hurt him anymore than she already had. What she had done was too much. She shouldn’t have. Gods, the look in his eyes when he realized what she did. So much shock, so much pain.

Looking around her room, she searched for her daggers. Quickly strapping two to her thighs, one to her belt, one to her chest, one to her left arm and two small ones in her high boots, she huffed, for she was ready to leave. She would never hurt her family or anyone else again. Perhaps she should go back to her uncles in Dorne. They would understand. They would be disappointed in her, yes, but they would understand. Martells protect each other, even when one is guilty.

Having readied to the fullest, she took her bag and put it over her shoulder. She cast one last look around the room that had been her chambers for over four years. Almost five. Then, she opened the door.

Only to close it immediately again. Or well, she tried to.

Shiera quickly stepped inside the room, using her greater stature against Rhaenys, her gown whispering around her long legs, showing off her skin without being improper. Rhaenys tried to leave, but Shiera muttered a few words and the door closed itself, as the lock turned and twisted, until nothing could open the door short of breaking it completely. Her eyes fell on Shiera’s smiling face, anger at being denied her right to leave, to flee from her crime.

“What are you doing here, Shiera ?”

“Not even a smile ? My, my, I thought you were ashamed, not planning on running away.” Rhaenys blushed once, but fought back. She had to leave. She had to.

“I can’t stay. Not anymore. I… It’s not natural.” Shiera’s smile became softer, gentler. No longer the courtly curve of her lips she always wore, but something more natural, familial. Something private. She slowly crossed the room, until her hands rested on Rhaenys’s head, gently pulling her closer, until Rhaenys’s head rested on her chest. She didn’t say anything for a few seconds, before she let go of the bag and brought her arms around Shiera’s waist, squeezing for all she was worth. She would not, could not, let go. It had been so long since she was last hugged that way. Like there was nothing else in the world but her and the person she hugged.

Shiera said nothing, only threading her long dainty fingers through Rhaenys’s soft black hair, the silky feeling of it smoother than baby skin. Shiera feared for Rhaenys. Whatever she must have suffered today was something that could break a young girl’s heart. Aenar told her that something happened, but when she pressed him for answers, he blushed and left.

Rhaenys felt her eyelids growing heavier, and that was enough for her to almost jump out of Shiera’s gentle embrace.

“No. No, I- I have to leave. I can’t stay in Valyria, not anymore. I… I’m a monster.” She whispered the last word, but Shiera would have none of it. With two fingers, she tilted Rhaenys’s chin up until her mismatched eyes bore into her purple ones.

“Tell me, Rhaenys. Am I a monster ?”

“N-nn-No. No, of course not. How- How can you think that ?” She was surprised by her aunt’s words, but didn’t understand her point.

“Do you think Brynden is a monster ? Not the Three-Eyed Raven that inhabits his body, not the Bloodraven persona he used in court. But Brynden.”

“I… I- I don’t think so. Uncle Aemon never said he was bad.” Shiera smiled at that.

“Then, why are you a monster ? How are you any worse than us ?” Rhaenys’s mind blanked at that, no possible answer or explanation came. She was a monster, Shiera wasn’t. That was the only thing that mattered. Why did she need an explanation ?

“You know, the first time I spent the night with Brynden, I was barely any older than you are right now.” Shiera said lightly, as though discussing the weather. Rhaenys did a double take, the shock of what she just heard written on her face. Shiera laughed softly at that, seeing the face of her gentle niece, twisted in such a confusing way.

“So, tell me, what have you done ? What could possibly push you to leave like a common thief ? Aenar wouldn’t tell me, the poor boy.” Though he is becoming a man. Shiera thought.

Rhaenys blushed up a storm, feeling the strange coil of her belly coming back. But along it, came the shame and the fear of what she had done. Shiera may say it’s nothing, but Rhaenys knew better. She knew it was horrible. She had to leave, even if Shiera said she had done nothing bad.

“...” She kept quiet at Shiera’s question. She couldn’t answer it, for it was too horrible. She averted her eyes, but Shiera forced Rhaenys to look at her green and blue eyes. They bore into her with power, and Rhaenys shuddered beneath the weight of them. She was caught between her sin, and the heavy gaze of her aunt as she all but forced her to confess.

“Rhaenys. What happened between you and Aenar ?”

“I…I… I kissed him.” Rhaenys tried to flee as soon as she said the horrible word, but Shiera’s grasp on her arm was stronger than expected. Rhaenys whimpered when the nails of her aunt slightly dug into her skin, but Shiera made sure not to truly hurt her.

“What else ?” Shiera asked with a sweet voice. Rhaenys did not answer. Not because she was scared, absolutely not. But because there was nothing else.

“...nothing.”

“So, you kissed Aenar, then you decided you were a monster and had to disappear. Am I right in my current assessment of the situation ?” Shiera asked, and Rhaenys tried to hide her face in her aunt’s large breasts. Shiera sighed. She couldn’t believe it. That was the reason her little niece tried to flee ? A kiss ? Oh, my poor girl. I have so much to teach you. She thought with a small grin. But now, she had to reassure her.

“Rhaenys, look at me, please.” Rhaenys raised her eyes ever so slightly, her cheeks still pressed to her breasts, a puppy look in her beautiful purple eyes. Shiera recognized the fear of rejection in them. She had had the same look, once. Many, many years ago.

“Do you love Aenar ?” Rhaenys’s brain short-circuited at the question, drawing a blank look on her face. 

“Do you love him ?”

“I- I…”

“Then, I must assume, given your lack of response, no-”

“I DO !! I LOVE MY VALONQAR !! YOU WON’T TAKE HIM AWAY FROM ME !!” She screamed at Shiera, separating herself from her body. Rhaenys understood her plan. She wanted her to leave so that Shiera could take her Valonqar for herself. Daenerys would not stand against her, seeing Shiera as a mother figure, she would perhaps even help her, the little bitch. She would protect her Valonqar against Shiera and Daenerys, she would never let them use him. He was smart, but starved for love. She had thought that kissing him would help, but it had only made him look at her as though she was crazy. As though she was a failure. His eyes had widened, the black of his pupils expanded considerably, and a slight red had begun to creep onto his neck and he blinked repeatedly, looking so confused and hurt by her.

But no matter what, Rhaenys would not leave now that she understood Shiera’s intentions. Aenar would never allow her to sit beside him again, to eat together in his solar, or wander in the streets with his silly smile on his face, or when he would sit in the fields, her fingers intertwined with his, or the way she leaned on his shoulder with Daenerys as the three of them would watch the sunset. Or the heat she felt when his fingers dwelt a bit lower than propriety allowed. But it made her feel so good, and made him so happy. And so, she never stopped his hands, and neither did Daenerys, who always flushed that pretty red of hers, trademark of pure Valyrian blood.

Shiera smiled at the thought process of her niece. A simple nudge was all it took, and Rhaenys was on that slippery slope of admitting everything she felt for her brother. She could see it in the tension of her limbs, the tightness of her jaw, the fire that roared in her eyes, and the nudges of her magic rising in her veins. Shiera was not scared, she was already ready to vanish in the shadows of the room. She doubted she would have to do it, though.

Rhaenys suddenly felt Shiera pull her in a bone-crushing hug, almost cutting off her air supply. She was lost in the sensation of pure love that radiated from her aunt. Where she believed that she was safe. Where no one could hurt her. Somehow, she could feel it. She tried to summon her anger at Shiera, having discovered her plans to use her Valonqar and-

“I am proud of you, Rhaenys. There is no shame in loving Aenar. He is a sweet young boy, and he needs all the love you and Dany can give him. I can still remember the first time I kissed Brynden. I locked myself in my room for days, and when he saw me again, do you know what was the first thing he did ?” Rhaenys shook her head, the words her aunt was telling her made sense, somehow.

“He pulled me into his arms, and kissed me so hard I almost passed out from the lack of air. When he stopped, he looked in my eyes and told me I was his, and he never let go of his possessions.” Rhaenys listened intently, her anger all but forgotten. Instead, a different kind of fire rose in her loins, and she shifted ever so slightly, trying to apply a hint of pressure to ease the tightness between her thighs. Shiera noticed, but did not comment on it.

“When you all but left Aenar; running like a bat right out of the Seven Hells, he asked me to talk to you. He was worried he did something wrong. Has he done anything wrong ?” And Rhaenys shook her head. Aenar had been perfect. Clumsy, taken aback, and quite frankly, shocked. But he had been perfect. Rhaenys had been the one to hurt him. She should have known that kissing him would only make everything worse. She had misunderstood everything. She thought he loved her the same way she loved him. Not just as her brother, but even more. She saw in him the fire of her Kepa, the cold fury of Muna Lya, and it had been enough to make her fall for him head first, like a little fool.

Today, she was reaping the seeds she had sown, the stupidity of her actions, thrown back to her face a hundred times stronger. And yet, for all the pain she caused Aenar, she understood not why he had not yet sent a Nazgûl after her. They had never been unkind to her, and Morgazar had been the kindest with her, teaching her how to fight with a spear, just like her uncle Oberyn. But in the end, they were servants of her brother, loyal to him first and foremost. They would never deny his orders. So the fact that Shiera was the one in her room, instead of a Nazgûl, both confused and reassured her. Perhaps he didn’t want her to leave.

“Rhaenys ? You didn’t answer. Has Aenar done something wrong ?”

“N- No. Nothing at all. It’s all my own fault. I- I shouldn’t have kissed him.” She mumbled the last part, but Shiera heard it all the same. With two fingers to her chin, her aunt raised Rhaenys’s face towards her.

“I understand the confusion of your heart, Rhaenys, but you cannot let it fester. Love comes in all kinds of shapes, and Targaryens are above Gods and men. Who can deny your love for Aenar ? Tywin Lannister ? The fat Usurper ? Your uncles in Dorne ? They do not understand the love of dragons. You are a dragon, Rhaenys. Be a dragon. Claim Aenar as yours, or you will never know the warmth that a dragon can bring into a cold bed.” Rhaenys’s breath caught in her throat, and she clenched her thighs together, fighting against the pressure building up in her core. Every word that her aunt said ignited a fire that made her head swim with thoughts she knew she shouldn’t entertain. Thoughts of her Valonqar above her, his shirtless chest glistening with sweat, his purple eyes completely dark with lust, his hands roughened from sword training and blacksmithing, trailing over her flat stomach, passing by her small waist and large hips, before finally resting on her muscled thighs. He would part them open like she was his prize, and conquer her like the true dragon he is.

She lost herself so much she did not notice Shiera looking at her with the pride of a Targaryen mother, who saw the kind of love only a dragon could give another dragon. She was happy, seeing her little niece becoming enamored with her little brother, for who could care about the whims and words of sheep and lions and stags ? She had counted more than a hundred marriages between nieces and uncles, nephews and aunts, cousins and even twelve between brothers and sister ever since she arrived here. The blood of Old Valyria ran stronger than ever, and the purity of it needed to remain. Rhaenys was realizing it as well, but the fear of hurting Aenar had been stronger than the love she knew resided in her heart.

Rhaenys couldn’t really tell when she began to love Aenar as more than her little brother. Perhaps it was during one of the many adventures they had in the fields, where she would talk about her life in Dorne, and he in Winterfell. Perhaps it was when she began to become a woman, when her body grew into the forms she now had. She was not blind to the looks men and women alike cast her way. Men looked at her with lust and desire, women with envy (and sometimes lust), but Aenar had always been the kind and proper brother she had known for almost five years. He never did anything she disliked, and that was something her young and foolish heart convinced itself was the love of dragons. And yet, the words that Shiera whispered, the quiet nothings and the simple reassurances, made Rhaenys wonder if she had indeed reacted too strongly.

Perhaps she should talk with Aenar. Part of her was scared he would perhaps be truly hurt by her actions, and another tried to convince her that Aenar would never hurt her, no matter what. That simply wasn’t Aenar.

“Do… Do you think he is mad ?” She quietly whispered to Shiera, and the look she got almost made her giggle. Her aunt looked at her as though she was half-mad.

“Rhaenys… There are many words I could use to describe how Aenar is feeling right now. Mad, is not one of them. Truthfully, I would say he is either blushing up like a little girl in his solar, or having the hardest erection of his life.” She winked at the last part, and Rhaenys blushed at the thought of her brother being hard for her. She didn’t really know why, but the idea her brother’s body yielded so quickly for her made her wonder exactly how far she could take it even now. The thought made her giddy with anticipation at being beautiful enough to make even her brother lose his self-control.

It was thrilling, and she barely realized the fear she had but a few minutes before left her, leaving in its stead only the barely-restrained anticipation of showering her brother with all her love. Now, she only had to go to him and show exactly how much she loved him.

And as Rhaenys unpacked her bag, humming along a little Valyrian lullaby, Shiera watched with a smirk, happy to see her little niece embrace the bond of dragons. You were right, Brynden. Love truly is the eternal bond.

In his solar, Aenar Targaryen was indeed blushing like a little girl with his hands covering his face as he fought against the hardest erection of his life.

The First Magister. Seventh moon of 294 AC.

He woke up with a slight groan, two warm bodies next to him, limbs all tangled together in a show of pure, unbridled passion and lust. The first body, the one on the right, moved slightly when he shifted his legs to try and untangle himself. Her arms wrapped tighter around his waist, and the Magister wondered whether or not it was safe of mind to move. He knew the passion she held, and how she was when she woke up and couldn’t satisfy her oral fetish (not that he minded, mind you very much. He quite enjoyed it, truly).

So, he waited a few more minutes, as she began to stir out of her sleep, and the smile she held as she saw him still between her and her friend, but most of all, his hard-on, she slowly lowered her hand towards it, making a show out of it as her nails trickled down his toned stomach and abs, taking her time until they wrapped around his length. Her small hand barely wrapped around his girth, and though she was far from the biggest woman he ever bedded, it always made his cock jump up when his companions couldn’t completely wrap around him.

“Hmmmm, so hard and big for me… Does my Lord wish for me to take care of your little problem ?” She said with a teasing voice, making him slightly growl. She giggled as she began to slowly pump his length, her other hand coming to rest under his shaft, playing with his balls with the care of a woman who knew what she wanted. And was not scared to take it.

“So big and full for me… How do you want it, my Lord ? Do you want to fill my little hand with your warm seed ? Perhaps you want to paint my face white, or make me swallow everything. I am yours, my Lord. Yours to use, yours to bed, yours to do whatever you desire.” Her every word made him gasp as she twisted her wrist at the head of his cock, multiplying the pleasure she brought him to great lengths. She giggled at his face, as he forced himself to hold back from spilling like a green boy. No matter how many times she did this to him, no matter how many times she brought him pleasure, he surrendered to her every time.

“I- I… I want you to swallow it all.” He said between gasps. She smiled at him and lowered her head to his length, licking the shaft all the way up, before popping the head between her full, red lips. He moaned at the warm, wet feeling of her tight mouth and her warm throat, but she did not stop. With a show born of experience and natural talent, she worked his length through her mouth, until her nose pressed against the hairs of his hips. She giggled against his shaft when his eyes crossed, the vibrations making him almost spill inside her without a warning. Instead, he forced himself to hold back, conjuring images that repelled him. His grandmother bathing, the Unsullied naked (eww), those weird black men that surrounded his Lord, being cooked alive by the great black one, or eaten by the three smaller ones. Though calling them small was an insult. Fuck, they were bigger than a dozen horses.

Those thoughts helped him hold out his peak against the unrelenting assault of his favorite concubine, until she realized what he was doing. With a smirk, she hollowed out her cheeks, before quite literally fucking her throat with his dick, and she relished in the loud moan he let out as she felt his balls tightening in her grasp, until he came with a roar and spilled all inside her waiting mouth. She gladly swallowed everything, taking her time in coaxing as much of his seed as she could, milking him dry for all he was worth. Before long, he put his hands on her head, lifting her from his dick. She left it with an audible ‘pop’ as she made a show of the remnants of his cum in her mouth.

He watched, wide-eyed, as she played with it in her mouth, before swallowing it all in a flash. She flashed a pearly white teeth smile at him, as she slowly crawled up towards his face, nuzzling in the crook of his neck. He wrapped his arms around her small waist and wide hips, a hand already trailing upwards to rest on her breasts that sat high and full on her chest, almost defying gravity. She moaned quietly when he began to knead the flesh, and before soon, she began to grind her wet pussy on his already hardening cock, silently begging him to fill her once more.

And he did. Twice more.

When he finally walked out of his chamber, the sun was high in the sky, and he knew that the other Magisters would have been very unhappy a year ago. Now, they were most probably all still in bed with their own concubines.

The First Magister of Lys watched with a smile from his palace on top of the Lady’s Hill, the one who housed the greatest temple of the Lady of Lys, goddess of pleasure and passion in their city.

His eyes wandered all across the city, the sight of the men in black had become a mundane thing as the year passed. Where they once were sights of a return to dreaded times for the inhabitants of Lys, having never forgotten the pain of being under Valyria’s chains, now they were a welcome and gentle sight. Instead of brutes in cloaks who thought themselves above everyone and who regularly hurt their citizens, or worse, they had men who deserved the cloaks they wore, who helped any and every citizen they came across in their patrols, whether a drunk man needed to be carried off to their home, a merchant whose cartwheels broke, or simply a beggar who needed a warm meal and a roof for a night. They helped everywhere they could, and the Magister couldn't be happier about it.

He let his mind drift back to a year ago, when he woke up like usual, only to have three men in dark cloaks standing around his bed, and a masked figure sitting in a chair that was not here the night before.

“Wh- What ? Who are you ? And what are you doing in my bedchambers ?” He tried to yell, but a mere glance from one of the black men almost made him puke. The stench of death that clinged to his cloak was akin to death glaring him into submission. The Magister had never felt so small, so delicate before.

“My name does not matter to you, Magister. I am much more interested in a deal we might make.” The voice was young, but carried the weight of centuries at a point that almost made him cower. He tried to rise from his bed but felt his legs give out under him. He sat in his bed with great effort, fear rising in his guts for the first time since his naming of First Magister.

“I- I don’t understand. What do you want from me ?”

“As I said, I wish to make a deal. I would offer a steady supply of Valyrian Steel, and a complete protection from any Ironborn raiders or other pirates. In exchange, of course, for Lys to accept our land’s return and a certain… taxation.” The boy-not-a-boy said, as the Magister’s eyes almost popped out of his eyes. Not only was this intruder talking of things he clearly did not understand, but he dared speak as though the proud and Free City of Lys would cower before a child for some so-called Valyrian Steel. As if, he scoffed. And the masked man simply nodded to one of the three men in black, as he lowered a chest on the Magister’s bed. Opening it, he felt as though his heart would explode.

A dozen Valyrian Steel swords lay in the chest, along with more ingots that seemed ripe for forging. They were shining as though they had been forged but a few weeks ago, and when he picked one up, not even noticing when his hand moved towards the chest, he marveled at the lightweight feel of it in his hand. His mind refused to believe what his eyes were seeing, what his hands were feeling. It was impossible, yet true.

But then, two more chests were laid on his bed, as big as the first one. The first one had been filled with swords and ingots, the second one had thrice as more ingots, enough to forge over three dozen swords. But it was the third chest that made him gasp audibly.

Inside, lies a chestplate of Valyrian Steel, along with the breeches, gauntlets and boots. He marveled at the masterpiece of craftsmanship that resided in his hand, for it was more beautiful than any other armor he had ever seen. A creation that would make any blacksmith weep in envy of it.

“Now that your attention has been caught, might we discuss more of Lys’s part in this trade ?” His head snapped back up as the voice spoke again. The greed in his mind settled down when the voice spoke with the weight of ages long past and forgotten. The First Magister of Lys was many things, and had been many things throughout his life. A fool was never one of them. He knew that, whoever this man was, the power he wielded was enough to change any war. Just the thought of his guards, of Lys’s guards wearing Valyrian Steel swords, clad in Valyrian Steel armor, patrolling through the city or for their corsairs to fight against pirates.

“What do you want in exchange for this steel, my Lord ?” He asked, almost giddily

“Your and the rest of the Magister’s oath of fealty, a fifteen percent tax on Lyseny trade, and the right of harbor for our ships.” The Magister’s eyes widened, his heart began to thumb inside of his chest, and the pride of the Lyseny people faced off against the fear he felt for the men dressed in black cloaks, their faces remaining hidden from everyone. Even the young man before him did not speak like one. He did not grovel nor beg before him for scraps. He demanded, he ordered, and the Magister felt like saying no would be a mistake even bigger than insulting every Free City at the same time.

“...Do you realize the weight of your words, my Lord ? Lys is a proud city, proud of its legacy, of its wealth and power. We do not bend to the whims of lesser men. The only realm strong enough to make us bow is long dead and gone, buried beneath the ashes of their own endless greed.” His speech was passionate and fiery, he knew he was right, he knew how strong Lys was. He knew he would nev-

And then the roar.

The mightiest sound he ever heard resonated around the entire city, and before he knew it, he jumped up from his bed and ran to the balcony of his room.

Looking up into the clear starry sky, he felt a small tear of joy dripping down his cheek at the wonderful sight. A second, third and fourth roar made themselves known just as well as the first one, though less powerful. He felt his chest burn with a strange pride, his legs shaking as he looked in wonder and the slightest amount of fear, at the four dragons that flew overhead. One was larger than life, scales black as midnight and green eyes that burned like wildfire. The second one had black and red scales, and the largest of the smaller ones. The third one was green of scales, and the swiftest. The last one was sand-colored, and seemed a bit more aggressive, snapping at the green one when it flew too close to him, or her. Whatever the gender was.

He turned back to the masked man, and he could sense a grin behind the mask. Without thinking much, he fell to one knee, his head bowed low, as he swore the undying fealty of Lys to the might of the dragons. He did not know why he did it so easily, but something in his mind, a whisper smoother than silk, spoke of the possible gains to ally themselves with such power. He didn’t know why, but it merely was.

“In exchange for your fealty, Magister, I will personally ensure, over the course of five years, that every member of the City Watch of Lys will be armed with a Valyrian Steel sword and a dagger. The officers will carry a chestplate made of Valyrian Steel, and the high-ranking members will be clad in full Valyrian Steel. I hope you will find this an agreeable trade.” And the Magister quickly nodded, his eyes twinkling with greed and hope for his people. Finally, they would never fear criminals and pirates again.

The groaning of the door took him out of this memory, and he watched the Captain entering the room, looking a bit worn-down.

“You look like you had a fun night, Captain.”

“Aye, I did. The things she could do with those legs, Magister, you wouldn’t believe.” The Captain of the Queen Alysanne’s Revenge, Euron Greyjoy himself, the Crow’s Eye, answered. The reputation of the Mad Man they said he was was extremely overrated, in the Magister’s opinion. Sure, he was crazy in battle, and drank more than anyone else, but he wasn’t mad per say.

“I believe I can imagine, Captain. But apart from that, do you have a reason to come to our beautiful city, apart from our women ?” 

“Yeah, the Lord sent me with a message. “Be wary of the Spider’s birds. They have been trying to crawl in your city for a year now.” But with his efforts to expand the Valyrian Steel trade with the Iron Bank, he cannot use as much spies as before to get rid of them. You’ll have to do some lifting as well, now.” The Magister nodded, understanding the message quite well.

“Well, I think I’ll visit your beautiful city a bit. Can’t stay cooped up in bed with my woman, now, can I ? He laughed at his own joke, and the Magister raised a hand at his mouth, lightly snickering in it. Crude and rough, the Captain was, but his words rang truer than most of the merchants and Lord’s flowery speeches.

Euron made a mock bow and turned on his heel, leaving the room in a few steps. The Magister turned back to look at the sky, quite happy with how his decision to accept the Dragonlord’s offer turned out. Lys no longer feared pirates, Ironborns and the like. Their walls were protected by those strange ‘canons’ Euron had brought, though the Magister did not understand anything about how they were made. And quite frankly, he didn’t want to inquire the wrath of his Lord by trying to learn himself.

The raven croaked twice, and the Magister smiled.

The Old Lion. Eighth moon of 294 AC.

Three hundred seventy-two thousand golden dragons. Not a single whisper. Not a single spotting. Not a single person even glimpsed him.

Tywin had spent a fortune on trying to find his fool of a son, who all but disappeared four years ago, and nothing whatsoever. The last time he was seen was almost four years ago, in Volantis, along with Barristan. They were seen boarding a ship with two women, a priestess of the ‘Lord of Light’ and a masked woman. And ever since, fucking nothing.

He had sent his greatest spies. All came back with naught but fake whispers and dead-end tracks. He once spent twenty two thousand, three hundred and ninety-five golden dragons on a single track that lasted seven moons, until it all blew away when he found out they were trying to cheat him out of his gold. He had gotten it all back, with plenty of interests.

But nothing had brought him any closer to finding Jaime. Only more and more desperation as time passed. He had turned every rock, every forest, every leaf in the Seven Kingdoms, and nothing. He had scoured through every Free City in Essos, sending enough spies to poison the King ten times over, and nothing whatsoever. No one had seen him.

When he learned that Jaime had gone to Volantis with Ser Barristan to find out the reason as to why so many Valyrians were leaving the Free City, he was only annoyed that Jaime had gone. Then, a moon passed. And a second. And a third.

And before he even realized it, it had been four years, and nothing. Not a single sighting of him, no matter how much gold he spent, how many spies he hired, how many people he threatened. Nothing. Nothing came out. It was maddening. It wa s impossible, no one could escape his sight, no one. He knew everything there was to know about everyone of importance in Westeros, he had enough intel on everyone to damn them all to the Seven Hells thrice over. He knew everything about Baelish’s little schemes, his brothels merely cover-ups for the real business of blackmailing.

Seriously, how fucking embarrassing. Lowering oneself so much a noble goes to the brothel. The brothel comes to you, that’s the way of the world. Especially for nobles, or the whores might start thinking of themselves as above their station.

But his network, as grand and wealthy as it was, had proved itself completely unable to track down his son, who just up and vanished on a ship with Barristan. He hated how weak he seemed, how everyone was just completely incapable.

One. Man. How hard was it to find One. Single. Man ?

But somehow, he wasn’t the worst one.

No, his daughter was worse.

She had completely lost her mind when she learned that Jaime disappeared. She began to rage against every single person that existed in King’s Landing.

First, she accused the citizens of Volantis of kidnapping him. Then, she accused the red priests of R’hllor for turning him against her. After that, she accused Ser Barristan of having killed him and brought his head to the children of the Mad King (Tywin refused to even entertain such a thought, for it would have reached him by now). And then, she began to accuse every person that even dared to bring up Jaime’s name in front of her, no matter who they were. She went as far as yelling at the Lord Hand, bringing the wrath of the King upon her. Now, Tywin was regretting granting his daughter so much leeway when she was a child. She turned out a spoiled little brat, who thought herself too grand and perfect for the world she walked in. Tywin had never regretted things before.

But no matter what, he could not stop. He had spent too much gold to give up, he had spent too much time searching for tracks, he had gone as far as offering the King a cut on the debt the Crown owed him, if the Spider used his little birds to find Jaime.

Six moons later, and not a damned whisper. The only thing worth a copper was the fact that the Spider could no longer reach Lys. Apparently, his little birds were caught each time. When he had sent his own spies, the last report he had of them was the day before they were set to arrive in Lys, claiming that they heard the thunder boom a hundred times, yet it never rained. They feared sorcery, but Tywin had dismissed everything on the count of raving sailors and mad men’s tales. Now, he thought that perhaps they spoke the truth. But how could he find out ? When not a single spy could reach Lys ?? IT WAS DAMNING !!!

Tywin never noticed the raven looking at him from outside his opened window, letting the chill inside and helping him remain focused on the task at hand. He did not see how its eyes turned milky white as he spent too much time (though he would deny it) on trying to find his fool of a son.

For the first time, Tywin let the terrible thought enter his mind. He wondered if perhaps, just perhaps, he needed a new heir. He needed a new son. 

The Young Wolf. Eight moon of 294 AC. Two days after Arya’s 7th nameday.

He had long stopped wondering when Jon would come back. He only knew he would, one day. The Nazgûls promised it every time, and they had never broken their words before. They could only tell him and his siblings that Jon was busy on super important work, and needed to stay where he was for now. Well, as long as he eventually came back, Robb would bide his time.

Arya, on the other hand…

“But I want to see him NOW !” She yelled at the tall, cloaked figure he had come to associate with sword mastery. If Robb was right, that one was Morgazar, the best fighter of the eight men he had seen in Winterfell around the years. He knew there was a ninth one, but he had never seen him bring any gifts in Winterfell over the years.

“I understand your… passions, my Lady-”

“I’M NOT A LADY !”

“Nevertheless. My master is working on a most intricate project. These things take time, little wolf. You can trust me when I say he eagerly awaits for the time he will be able to see you once more.” Arya glared at him for a few more seconds, before taking out the little sword she had received for her nameday. No, Robb was not jealous. He still had Snow Fang, and it had never failed him before.

“You’ll take me to my brother now, or-”

“Or what, little wolf ? Will you strike me down with all your fury ? Will you bury me beneath the weight of your rage ? Will you smother me under the power of your anger ? Will you asphyxiate me using nothing but the chill of the North ? Will you choke me to death by the might of your most grandish height ?” He said the last words with a teasing voice, bringing a flush to Arya’s cheeks and ears, until she yelled out a sharp war cry between a howl and a scream, and lunged forward. Only for Morgazar to sidestep her, trip her with his left foot, making her tumble in the snow.

Robb would have laughed, if he did not care for his manhood. His father, on the other hand…

“Arya. How many times have I told you not to attack them ?” His father came from almost nowhere, and though Arya did not cower before him, she still sheathed her sword back, looking at the ground. Robb grinned, amused by his sister’s rebuttal from their father.

“I apologize for my daughter’s actions, Morgazar.”

“There is nothing to forgive, Lord Stark. She is a fierce little thing, wild and strong. She will grow up to be a true She-Wolf of Winterfell, if given the space to develop.” His father reddened slightly at the ears, but he kept his head high and his chin pointed toward Morgazar. Whatever words passed unspoken between the two, Robb knew none of them. He would love to know, but never would Father or Morgazar tell him. They never did.

“Now, I promised young Lord Robb to teach him a trick or two with his sword. If you please, young lord, follow me. You are going to like it, I believe.”

Robb quickly followed Morgazar to the yard, Snow Fang at his hip. He was excited for it, for every time they came, Robb learned something new. He couldn’t wait until Jon came back, so that he could spar with him again. Jon would surely be an accomplished fighter now, and Robb refused to let his brother get too ahead of him. Robb would be sure to show Jon a real fight. And when it would be over, he would hug him like a true brother and the two of them would spend the best time of their lives, laughing all the while.

He just knew it.

The Cannibal. Ancalagon. 6th moon of 294 AC.

He was enjoying this flight. It was not often his rider came to him with the only purpose of flying around. Usually, they were making trips from Valyria to Lys or far beyond any eyes could see, hidden by the shadows of the night and the covers of the clouds, before wrecking the Fiery Hell over a lone Dothraki horde.

His rider abhorred the idea of slavery, of owning someone. And quite frankly, so did he. It was why he fought against the Valyrians of old and their twisted magic. The rituals they performed on him granted him a bond, weak and slight, but present nonetheless. He could hear the gods, sometimes. They would whisper in his sleep, showing him visions of the world as he spent his time in Rak Essaria, many decades ago. Then, when he left, the vision followed him all the way to Dragonstone. It was only two decades after his arrival there they almost stopped, and the arrival of House Targaryen upon them.

But today, Ancalagon could feel something pressing on the corner of his rider’s mind. There was something he should talk about, but was either too angry, or too embarrassed to bring up. So, Ancalagon did the only sensible thing anyone could do when someone did not wish to talk. Truly, he did.

“What troubles your mind, young boy ?” He felt him try to block out the bond, but without the Ring’s support, who knew that his rider needed to talk as well, Ancalagon’s mind proved itself mightier. Of course it did.

“I don’t want to talk about it. Especially with you, I doubt you know anything about this.”

“You underestimate my wisdom, boy. There are no topics I cannot cover, no words that could possibly cloud my heart.”

“It’s about Rhaenys. She kissed me.” Oh… Okay, that was easy then. Truly, Ancalagon thought it would be a much harder thing to talk about. He shivered at the thought of his rider wondering where dragons came from. THAT was a thought he would not entertain in a lifetime. No, thank you.

“Well, claim her then.”

“WHAT ??”

“She obviously fancies you. As dragon-blooded, the two of you are quite literally perfect for each other. I might even go above that and say that the youngest cub would be a perfect addition to your pack.” Ancalagon felt the confusion and some hint of fear spread through his rider’s thought process, but he paid no mind to it. He knew he was right, for he had never been wrong before, and he would never be wrong on pack matters. Never. 

Well, apart from the time with his siblings on Dragonstone, the two other Wild Ones. He truly thought he could protect them both, but he had proven himself too weak, too slow to save Grey Ghost. When he felt him scream in pain, Ancalagon had flown faster than ever before. But he had been too slow. And when he arrived, he only saw his little brother’s broken body.

That had been the only mistake Ancalagon had ever made. He allowed his pack to be too far from him.

Never again.

He would never allow this to happen again.

Now if only his rider could stop thinking so much and just enjoy the flight. Its not like he had any big decision. It’s just claiming two females for himself. His ancestors used to claim more. Way more.

Seriously, one of them literally claimed his entire brethren, eight sisters. He died of exhaustion on his wedding night.

Chapter Text

The Silver Dragon. 10th moon of 294 AC.

She was stealing him away.

Every time she went to his solar to ‘talk of politics’, she knew what she was really doing. She was trying to use him and have him marry her. The little slut.

Daenerys was angry beyond words as she marched forward to her nephew’s solar, where she knew the two were currently in. Every step forward was a heavy weight settling on her soul, every breath made her see red in the corner of her eyes, every pump of her heart made her blood boil hotter than dragonfire. Oh, she would burn the skank with her dragon, and then Aenar would claim her as the dragon he was.

The door of his solar was in her vision, the carved dragons and the intricate designs meant nothing to her today. Not when her heart burned so hot, not when her mind screamed, not when her steps made booms in her head.

A Nazgûl stood before the entrance, his arms folded behind his back, hood drawn over where his face should be. Daenerys glared at him as she approached, but he made no move whatsoever. Even her mighty glare didn’t make him move. On the other side of the door, she knew the little slut was already seducing her beloved nephew so that she would be his wife and bear his children, the cubs that should be hers. She was the one who loved Aenar. That slut just wanted the privilege of being his Queen.

“Is my nephew in there ?” She asked with her hands on her hips, though it was the farthest thing from a question when she knew for a fact that he was, and the slut was manipulating him.

“He is, princess. Along with your niece Rhaenys.” She scowled at hearing her name. She didn’t want to hear her name. It made her hands clench and her frown deepen. She had to free Aenar of her clutches. And if, in the meanwhile, he recognized her love for him, then she would gladly give herself to him. For she was his, and had been since he saved her and Viserys. It just took her a long time to realize her feelings for him. It took until Rhaenys began to seduce him for her to realize the depth of her feelings for the one man she could possibly ever love.

“I want to speak to him. Now.” The Nazgûl said nothing, only moving to the side and letting Daenerys pass. She opened the great double doors with her arms outstretched, already prepared to burn the little skank to the ground. Her magic was strong enough to, and she had the advantage of surprise. Well, until she saw it.

For the sight she was faced with left her with her jaw to the floor and unable to pick it up.

She couldn’t tell what was more important for her to look at. That the little slut was in the solar. Or that she was lying on her back on the desk while her nephew was leaning over her, his mouth pressed to her neck as she moaned like the cheapest of whores. Except those moans sounded genuine. 

Daenerys could see how Rhaenys’s arms were locked around Aenar’s neck, beckoning him even closer to her, while he was already pressed so much against her that there were barely any inch of her skin that he was not touching. The dress she was wearing was barely worth the name of it. Silk softer than whispers, and leaving nothing but her most private of parts to the imaginations. Its high slits crawled all the way up to her mid-thigh, showing off her long, shapely legs. Her arms were uncovered and Daenerys could see the muscle-toned limbs wrapped around her nephew’s neck. 

All in all, Rhaenys Targaryen was, much to Daenerys’s dismay, a great beauty that few could dare reach. She was the perfect combination of the grace of Old Valyria and the beauty of the deserts of Dorne. Olive skin that glistened with sweat when she trained, long and thick raven dark hair, full and heavy breasts that sat high on her chest, defying gravity, a flat stomach with muscled abs, and a narrow waist that accentuated the width of her hips.

Daenerys hated that Rhaenys was so beautiful. She already looked like a woman, and it showed whenever the two of them travelled through the city. Men and women alike would sometimes look at her niece with desire, though none ever dared act upon it. For they knew that none could possibly defy the great Dragonlord should harm befall his kin. 

“Fuck, Rhae… You don’t know what you do to me.” The growl that left her nephew’s throat made her thighs press against each other as she tried to relieve the pressure building up in her core. His hands travelled all over Rhaenys’s body, as though he couldn’t get enough of it. She could see the veins in his arms clear as day, almost like they were about to pop. The blood that travelled through it all was the same that ran in her and in Rhaenys.

“I’m yours, Aens. Whatever you want to do to me, I will take it all with a smile.” Rhaenys said in a low whisper, meant only for Aenar’s ears, though Daenerys heard it as well.

She knew she should move. She knew she had to do, say something. But her body was locked. She couldn’t move. It was like being trapped in a full body cell that limited her every movement. Her breath was slow in her throat and her eyes were unable to move from the sight of debauchery that she could see. She should be offended, she should hate her. And yet.

Wasn’t it natural for the Dragon-blooded to mix with each other ?

Daenerys Targaryen felt a heat unlike anything crawling into her entire self. It was so unlike the power of her Ring that granted her the power to rule over Fire. It was as though only her heart and loins burned. Her skin felt like being cooked alive and her entire body was akin to a furnace of passion.

Somewhere, in the depths of her mind, she could feel her connection to her own dragon. It spoke to her, rationalized what she was seeing, by convincing her it wasn’t merely normal, it was meant to be. So why was she so annoyed by it ? For it made no sense.

She didn’t know why. She couldn’t tell why. She only knew that there was something wrong with this scene. Something wrong with seeing Rhaenys and Aenar locked in this passion together.

And then, he spoke again.

“Should have claimed you sooner. Should claim you and Dany both. Wouldn’t you like that ?” Daenerys’s breath caught in her throat, eyes wide and disbelieving at the words she just heard. Her nephew wanted her ? He wanted to claim her ?

“Yeeeeess. Do it. Claim us both like the dragon you are. Please, Aens.” Her throaty moans were genuine, as she arched her back off the desk, her eyes dark with lust and desire both mingling together into a show of stars. Her head threw back as Aenar bit into her neck, marking her as his. 

And her eyes, purple dark, locked with Daenerys’s own violet ones.

…
…
…

Several seconds passed, and Daenerys expected a scream. A move. Something. Anything.

Instead, Rhaenys merely smiled at her. Not the smirk of a woman who had won. Nor the poisonous kind that nobles threw at each other during court.

It was the smile of coming home.

Daenerys was locked in place. Incapable of moving a single limb as she watched her niece being marked by her nephew. The one man she loved. The only one she could ever love. And she watched as he and her niece were lost in their mutual passion, she froze when her niece looked at her, and her eyes couldn’t believe the smile she wore. It was kind, gentle, smooth as silk.

For the first time in her life, Daenerys Targaryen did not know whether she had to run towards, or from what she was seeing.

But the choice was never hers to make…

Chapter Text

Rhaenys Targaryen. 10th moon of 294 AC, a few minutes before Daenerys’s arrival.

Rhaenys could scarcely believe her luck.

The one man she loved, the one man who made her feel anything, was leaning over her, his awe-inspiring form that made the citizens of Valyria fall to their feet, and his violet eyes that burned like wildfire. All of it was locked onto her as she felt his lips brushing and bruising her neck, marking it with hundreds of small bites and licks of his tongue. She couldn’t be happier, was the only thought running through her mind.

“You taste like spice and fire, mandia.” Aenar said, his voice low and rough, his northern accent slipping through, and her thighs clenched together. The lessons she had been given by Shiera on how to seduce a man, especially one such as Aenar, slipped through her mind. She desperately tried to connect herself to one of them, but no matter what, they slipped like grains of sand in her hand. Her world was reducing itself to only her and him, locked together in his solar. Every touch of his fingers on her exposed skin felt like lava poured onto it, and then cooled immediately by the ice running through his veins.

“I should keep you here, all beautiful and mine… You’d like that, wouldn’t you ? Mmmmhh.” Gods, yes. She would adore this. She would love everything he would do to her. It was strange, letting anyone have such power over her. And yet, she knew in the deepest parts of her soul that she should accept it. His body pressed to hers made every sensation burn a thousand times hotter. The increase of temperature in the air, the sweat rolling off her brow and down the navel of her neck, before crawling through the valley of her full breasts. She watched with anticipation Aenar’s hungry gaze that travelled over her body, following the drop of sweat. He absent-mindedly licked his lips, and lunged forward, his tongue mapping her skin like he would die without it.

She moaned loudly, letting him know just how much she adored his lavish attention on her skin. Every sound that left her lips made him growl even more than before. Every whimper was a declaration of her subservience to him. For she was his, and had been since he saved their family from being lost to history books.

Aenar lapped at her skin like a man who had found an oasis after days of traveling through the deserts of Dorne. She adored the attention he provided her with. She was like a cat who had gotten the best cream in the world. 

A soft click sound was heard through the room, but Rhaenys did not care for it. Her thoughts were only on Aenar and the affection he gave her. She felt on top of the world, being the object of such deliberate worship from the mightiest man she knew. He bit her neck, making her arms fly to his own neck, pulling him closer to her body, seeking to have every inch of her skin covered by his own. Her dress slipped from her form, the straps falling off her shoulder as the high slits rose up all the way to her thighs, showing off her long legs.

“Fuck, Rhae… You don’t know what you do to me.” Aenar all but growled into her neck with deliberate pleasure. His hands travelled all over her body, making her shiver and gasp every time he passed over a sensitive part. His veins looked like they were about to burst, with so much blood flowing through them. She could feel the proof of his arousal, clear as day, pressed against her core, separated only by the thin silk of her dress and the lace of her smallclothes.

With the slightest push to the side, he could claim her as his, make her his bitch in heat, perpetually horny for his dragon cock tearing through her, rearranging her guts every time he would decide to claim her again and again, leaving her a sobbing, ruined mess on his sheets. And she loved the thought.

“I’m yours, Aens. Whatever you want to do to me, I will take it all with a smile.” She said in a low whisper, meant to make him break every chain of foolish honor still holding him back. 

It was natural of her to want to mix with her brother. She was taught those lessons by Shiera, on the natural attraction the Targaryens felt for their family. She taught her how to use her body to manipulate men and women alike, so often ruled by their desires. Rhaenys learned how to sway her hips from side to side when leaving a room. She found out that, by leaning a bit more over the table while discussing with the Lynesy and the Volantese ambassadors, they would accept Aenar’s words to be far more agreeable. When she savored her strawberries during dinner, taking time to lick every inch of it, Aenar’s gaze would turn nearly completely dark with lust as he watched her display.

She wished him to take her, conquer her, for him to spill his seed inside of her and breed her again, and again, and again. She wanted him to build a legacy in her womb.

But not alone.

No. 

She wanted her dear aunt to be with her for every step of the way.

Aenar’s voice broke her out of this near-trance state.

“Should have claimed you sooner. Should claim you and Dany both. Wouldn’t you like that ?” Yes. Rhaenys would like that. She would love to be with her aunt in Aenar’s bed as he ravaged their tight little holes with purpose and determination. Every night spent in his bed would be a further proof of their shared devotion for the love they held to Aenar.

Rhaenys was far from a fool, and as much as Aenar was intelligent, he was also absurdly stupid when it came to recognizing when he was loved as more than a brother or a nephew. She had to kiss him herself and all but throw herself in his lap for him to understand the depths of her love for him. He bit her neck, making her shudder and realize she hadn’t answered his question.

“Yeeeeess. Do it. Claim us both like the dragon you are. Please, Aens.” She moaned loudly when his cock pressed against her tight hole, his breeches distorted by the tent hard as Valyrian Steel. She threw her head back and arched her back at the feeling of pure desire radiating from Aenar’s body. Her eyes wide open were nearly glazed over from the pleasure that threatened to burst free from her core.

And her eyes locked to the sight of her aunt, disheveled and clearly aroused.

…
…
…

Several seconds passed, and Rhaenys expected Daenerys to make a move, a word, anything. Instead, she stood frozen like a deer caught in a blinding light. Her breath caught in her throat when Rhaenys decided to smile.

Not the smirk of a woman who had taken something that belonged to another, nor the poison smiles that hid many blades that were thrown around in court whenever her brother was holding a council.

It was the smile of invitation.

She wanted Daenerys to join her in Aenar’s bed. For the two of them to be his Queens, his wives, his whores in private.

Rhaenys could see the conflict in Daenerys’s eyes and body. She was locked in a fight-or-flight instinct. And Rhaenys knew very well what she wanted her aunt to choose. So, raising her arms to Aenar’s cheeks, she raised his head for him to kiss her, adoring the feeling of his tongue on her own, the soft touch of his lips brushing her full ones. She grinded her hips on his still-clothed  cock, eliciting a moan out of him, one that she was quick to swallow with another swipe of her tongue.

Then, with a grin, she slowly raised his head until his eyes fell on the lust-filled shape of their aunt. The sharp intake of breath he made did not go unnoticed by her ears, as she smiled at the thought of her Valonqar finally laying claim to what was rightfully his. His big sister and his little aunt, offering themselves to him like prizes of war. Rhaenys could almost feel the mix of fear and lust that travelled in his body, rewiring his mind in the most beautiful of ways. She wanted nothing more than for Aenar to act like the dragon he was, to stop thinking of honor, to stop following the Old Gods, and embrace the traditions of his House. He was halfway across, having already accepted her love and returning it.

And now, she just needed him to take the final step. To accept both her and Daenerys as his Queens, now and forever more. They would give him as many children as he wanted. Strong sons that would rise to conquer the world, and beautiful daughters that would rather die than bend the knee to anyone else.

The choice was his, now…

Chapter Text

The Dragonlord. 10th moon of 294 AC. 

The first thought that travelled through his mind when he saw Daenerys was, without the slightest doubt : fuck.

The second was a tie between : why is she here ? And why does she look aroused ?

He tried to have a third thought, but Rhaenys grinded her hips onto his still-clothed erection, snapping his mind back to the present.  He let out a noise between a growl and a moan at the wonderful feeling, and he watched with disbelieving eyes as his sweet aunt rubbed her thighs together in a clear show of arousal. Aenar could scarcely believe the situation he currently found himself in.

His sister lied on his desk, her dress of dornish style now serving only in hiding her most private of parts, shamelessly grinding her hips on his cock and moaning wantonly like the cheapest of whores, while his aunt watched the two of them, eyes dark with lust, skin flushed crimson and her thighs clenched together, as she fisted her hands so hard her knuckles turned white. Aenar didn’t know what to do, or say. And luckily for him, he did not have to speak first.

“Will you join me, sweet aunt ? I find that worshiping the dragon is a harder task than I first thought.” Rhaenys said, looking at Daenerys while still lying on her back, her raven dark hair sprawled across his desk like a halo of shadows. Her olive skin was shining with the sweat of their arousal and a most delightful blush crept over her neck and tainting her ears. Her breath was hot and heavy against his neck, and she smiled at him and Daenerys like she was not offering his- THEIR aunt to join them in this.

And yet, despite the absurdity of the situation, Aenar’s cock only grew harder at the thought of his sister and aunt sharing him together. And when Rhaenys gasped as she felt the proof of his arousal twitching against her covered core, Daenerys looked at their waists, red creeping up her face when she saw the tent he sported in his breeches. Her left hand travelled up and down her flat stomach, reaching her beautiful breasts and she slowly began to massage them. Aenar wasn’t sure if she was even conscious of her actions at the moment. He only knew that the sight made his blood boil to unearthly degrees as his vision narrowed to only the two women that stood in his solar. His own blood. His sister and his aunt both.

The sight would make the High Septon die on the spot from a heart attack. Same thing with his uncle.

Aenar felt Rhaenys slowly push him away. Not really thinking yet, he fell back into his chair, as she slowly rose from the desk. She made no move whatsoever to fix her dress as she turned her back to him and strode towards Daenerys. His aunt made a sharp intake of breath at the sight of pure incestuous desire and lust, two siblings lost in each other’s bodies. Rhaenys’s hips swayed with each step, her breasts threatening to spill free from her bodice with each step and the flesh of her wide hips just begging to be pulled and used. Aenar couldn’t tear his eyes from her, even if it would kill him.

Rhaenys stood before Daenerys, and without wasting a single more moment, she leaned down to her and kissed her square on the lips, her hands tangling in Daenerys’s long silver-blonde hair. Daenerys made a noise of shock, and then a moan as she let her niece take charge of the kiss. Her hands slowly rose up to hug the small waist of Rhaenys as the two began their display to make a whore blush. Aenar’s cock grew harder than Valyrian Steel, the blood pumping through it so much he felt that less and less blood reached his brain. The moans had him gripping the edge of his chair so hard his knuckles turned white and the wood threatened to splinter beneath his hands.

“Hmmm… You taste like moonlight and fire, sweet aunt.” Rhaenys said in a low, husky voice. Aenar felt his cock throb at the sound as he remembered how she had moaned his name just a few minutes before in that same voice.

Daenerys blushed at the words but said nothing. She let Rhaenys guide her into the kiss, showing her how to use her tongue against her own, being careful not to clash her teeth. It was a lesson, a teasing display made to grow Aenar’s lust. And by the Gods, was it working.

“Join us, Dany. Join me and Aens in this love we share. Stop denying the heat of your heart. We are dragons, sweet aunt, and dragons care not for the opinions of sheep.” Daenerys’s eyes widened slightly at that, the lust in them clear as day to Rhaenys, who smiled gently at seeing it. With another kiss to her full red lips, she took Daenerys’s hands in her own, as she led her towards Aenar, whose breathing had gone ragged from the lust clouding his mind and thoughts. The deepest part of him wished nothing more than to claim them both, and his self-control was visibly crumbling against the restless assault of his deepest desires. He could feel Ancalagon in the back of his mind, grumbling approvingly in his sleep.,The Ring was silent, for once, but Aenar did not know that it was approving as well. For the Ring, incest meant nothing. What he saw was the joining of magic in the most primal of ways, a pleasurable means to bring strong children into the world, children that would wield the power of their parents.

Rhaenys and Daenerys both stood before Aenar, who remained seated in his chair. The smirk of his sister and the curve of his aunt’s lips, whether in shock or lust, made his mind melt to only one thought. Mine.

Rhaenys slowly raised her hands to the clips of her dress at her left shoulder. She enjoyed the attention of Aenar’s eyes on her as she teased him in revealing her body. With a gentle, slow move, she unclasped it, the gown dropping down her body and revealing her in all of her naked glory, the silk pooling at her feet like liquid dornish sunlight. His eyes darkened with lust and his chest heaved under the arousal that rose to a burning inferno.

Daenerys, not one to let her niece defeat her before the competition even began, also raised her hands to the threads that kept her gown from spilling. With deliberately slow movements, she pulled on them, and the silver gown gave way to a feast for the eyes that none but the two of them would ever witness. 

Her breasts, while not as big as her niece, were a perfect handful and sat high on her chest. Her stomach was perfectly flat and without a single hint of fat. Where her niece had abs and a muscled toned body that kept its feminine edge, Daenerys’s body was akin to a temple to fertility and motherhood. Every curve was a testament of her Valyrian heritage. Her waist was narrow enough that Aenar’s hands could wrap around it, and showcased the contrast of her wide hips, hips that led to what was without a doubt the most beautiful arse that Aenar would ever see. Not that he planned on seeing any other.

Her thighs were thick with meat and almost begging for his touch. His gaze couldn’t settle over a single sight, everything made his head spin with arousal. Her calves looked to be carved from marble, trained with years of walking miles every day and were white as milk. His breath grew so heavy both Rhaenys and Daenerys almost blushed at the idea of arousing him so much. Without thinking, he snapped upright, his arms encircling both women by the waist and clutching them close to him, their breasts pressed against his chest in obvious desire. Their nipples, hard as glass, made them shiver at the sheer sensitivity of them against the silk of his shirt. Aenar leaned towards Daenerys. He knew what Rhaenys wanted, but he wanted, no, needed Daenerys to say it.

“Tell me you want it, Dany. Tell me and I will show you just how much I love you. If you ask me to stop, I will stop, no matter what.” The sheer weight of his promise made her heart burst a thousand times for her nephew, whom she adored more than life. He was her heart, her life, her world, her everything. She looked up at him, eyes wide and full of adoration.

“Love me, Aenar. Show me, please. Show me how much you love me. I am yours, from this day until my last. None shall ever take me away from you.” Her hands gripped the edge of his silk shirt, almost tearing a hole into it from the strength she put in showing him her love and adoration. Aenar smiled gently at her, raising his hand from her waist, his fingers crawling upwards and making her shiver and lean into his touch as he reached the back of her head. With a tilt upwards, he leaned his head forward, eyes half-lidded, giving her one last time to retreat. For he knew that if as soon as he tasted her, nothing would tear her away from him.

And as Daenerys made no move whatsoever to tear herself away from Aenar’s grasp, he took her lips against his. Hot as fire and soft as silk, full and red against his thinner, colder ones. They both shivered at the sensation crawling through their spines. Her knuckles turned white from the strength of her grasp, as she moaned wantonly in Aenar’s mouth, and he swallowed her every moan with the love and desire only he could show her. The two lost themselves in each other, and Rhaenys watched it all with pride. She had been the one to orchestrate this, she knew how her aunt would react. And she knew the love she had for Aenar. All that had been needed was merely a spark to light the wildfire.

The two pulled away after what felt like a lifetime too long and too short both. Their breaths came short and ragged, their eyes wide, blown open from their lust. Aenar’s hand at Daenerys’s head gripped her hair tight, though it did not hurt her. She leaned into it, a soft and easy smile curving her lips. Rhaenys moved then, her hands crawling on Jon’s chest and dipping lower, tugging at the waistband of his breeches. He looked at her, but kept his other hand on her waist, unmoving.

When she pulled them down along with his smallclothes, she made an audible gasp at the sight of her brother’s hard cock. The sheer length of it made her mouth water with lust and desire both. Without thinking, she knelt on the soft Myrish rugs that littered the solar, taking Daenerys with her. The two of them stared lustfully at Aenar’s cock, the head swollen and purple from his arousal. It throbbed once at the sight before his eyes, part of him almost disbelieving of it, the other roaring in approval. Both were wrestling and one was clearly losing.

When Rhaenys reached a hand forward and gave an experimental tug, she marvelled at the way her fingers didn’t properly touch and at the moan that left Aenar’s trembling lips. Her hand covered perhaps a bit more than half the shaft, and her cunt weeped at the thought of it stretching her open, claiming both her maidenhead and her body forever. At her side, Daenerys raised her own hand at the part that Rhaenys’s hand did not cover. The two of them held Aenar’s shaft in their hands and they never felt closer than right now, sharing their love to the only man that deserved them both. 

Without hesitation, she leaned forward, pressing a slight kiss to the purple head, collecting the little pearl of precum that came out of it. Her tongue swiped across it and captured it into her willing mouth. 

“Fuuuuck. Gods. I- More, please.” Aenar pleaded above them, his eyes closed at the feeling of pure ecstasy that spread through him, a bolt of lighting hit his spine when he felt her kiss it again. And when Daenerys leaned forward and kissed the underside of his shaft, licking it like an ice cream, he almost cried out their names in pleasure. He put his hands on their heads, not to press them, but only to have support against their dual assault on his every sense. His vision troubled, his ears drummed from the strength of his heartbeat, his nostrils were filled with the heady scent of their shared arousal, the wet musk of their cunt combined with his own, and the mere feeling of their hands and tongues on his shaft made him nearly weep in pleasure.

The two girls were more than willing to listen to his command, taking him in with more force. Rhaenys, remembering how her aunt Ellaria Sand had once told her cousins of Dorne about the pleasure a woman could show her man to ensure his loyalty, though she never noticed Rhaenys’s lingering presence, opened her jaw and took the head in her mouth. She was careful not to scrape it with her teeth, having listened to Shiera’s advice about it, when she told her how it could hurt. She moaned wantonly at the feeling of it on her tongue, full and heavy. She could only imagine the torrent of dragon seed that would leave his shaft and fill her mouth. The thought of it made her cunt clench around nothing, as she imagined the shaft currently filling her mouth stretching her open, granting her pleasure beyond what her fingers could do.

Aenar grunted when he felt their assault growing more restless, and when Daenerys took one of his balls into her mouth and sucked it eagerly, he moaned out loud, his knees nearly buckling under him from the pleasure. She made a show out of sucking it and moaning her approval at the taste. She popped it as she let her mouth open and the ball escaped it, only for her to lunge to the other one, already wanting for more. Aenar threw his head back in pure pleasure, a knot forming in his loins that he knew was telltale of an orgasm. And by the sheer pressure of it, Aenar knew it would be the biggest one he ever had. 

His sister had her lips wrapped around his cock, as she bobbed her head up and down the shaft, her tongue playing with the head and teasing him every time she reached it. The tight, wet heat was nearly unbearable for Aenar, and the suction of his balls by his aunt did not help whatsoever. The two women seemed almost possessed by lust and desire, and Aenar was not complaining.

When his sister seemed almost offended by how long it was taking him to cum, she took a deep breath and lunged forward, his shaft disappearing completely in her mouth as her nose pressed against his stomach and abs. His eyes went cross-eyed and his mouth opened in a silent scream at the feeling of it. One, two, three seconds passed before she pulled away.

“Gods, you fill me so much. Your cock tastes like fire and power all at once. I love it.” She said in a low voice before diving back down. She no longer tried to take him all the way down her throat, but kept on going farther with every suction. He felt the knot tightening to incredible degrees.

“Rhae, I’m- I’m gonna cum.” He tried to warn her. He knew she heard him, but she did not relent. She kept on sucking him completely, taking every inch she possibly could without hurting her throat. When he came, it was with a strangled noise that came from the deepest part of his soul, as he filled her hot, tight mouth with his seed. She made a loud moan at the feeling of it filling her mouth. She sucked eagerly, taking in every last drop like it was her lifeline. Daenerys kept on sucking and nuzzling his balls, forcing him to spill even more seed inside of his sister’s mouth.

When at last, the flood stopped, he almost fell back as he pulled his cock away from Rhaenys’s mouth. She looked utterly debauched, her mouth open and full of her brother’s seed, his seed. She turned to look at Daenerys and, with a twinkle in her eyes, she lunged forward and kissed her deeply, pushing his cum into her mouth. The sight made Jon’s cock harden again, even more than before. When the two girls saw it, they couldn’t help but giggle.

“You loved the display so much, little brother ? You love seeing your sister kiss our aunt, sharing your seed like it’s the sweetest prize in the world ?” She teased him, but Aenar was already too far in his lust to react. He took her by the arm and lifted her, before spinning her around and bending her over his desk. The laugh she was making turned to a yelp and then a moan when she felt his hard dick between her arse cheeks.

“Continue to tease me, sweet sister, and I will show you why one doesn’t annoy a dragon.”

“Hmm, I’m scared, little brother. Whatever will you do to MEEEEE-” Her words turned to a shriek of pain and then pleasure, white and blinding, as Aenar inserted his cock into her hot, tight, weeping cunt. She felt completely stuffed, her little brother’s cock piercing her insides and stretching her more than she ever thought it possible. Somewhere in the back of her mind, her Ring worked overtime to remove the pain of losing her maidenhead by replacing it with a sense of belonging and pleasure. She never knew it. She would never wonder why it felt so good, despite having been told countless times the first time always hurt.

Aenar grunted at the scorching hot cunt of his sister. His cock felt like it had just been plunged into a silk glove made of pure lava. The tight walls of her cunt would have made him cum, had he not already spilled inside of her mouth a few moments before. His hips had simply driven forward when she teased him. He feared hurting her, but her moans of pure pleasure made him smile. He leaned over her, his mouth next to her ear.

“Ready ?” 

“Huu- ?” She said, not really comprehending what was happening. Aenar bit her earlobe and pulled back his hips, before diving back in. The shriek of pleasure she let out made him grin from ear to ear, as he began a near-punishing speed, his hips a blur as he plunged his cock inside of her hot, willing heat with every second that passed. She moaned and shrieked and sobbed at the pleasure she felt. The knot of her loins tightened with every thrust forward, and she couldn’t be happier.

Aenar looked to his left, where his aunt watched, enthralled by the sight of the proud Rhaenys Targaryen, bent over a desk and being fucked into oblivion by Aenar. Well, that’s how he was thinking he was doing. The moans of his sister were not lying after all.

“Come here, sweet aunt. Get on the desk and lie down on your back.” Daenerys scrambled at his words, eager to obey his order. She crawled over the desk and spread her thighs towards him. Aenar watched with a hunger so unlike anything he had ever felt before as he saw the lust of his aunt on her face, and the glistening of her cunt as it weeped for him to touch it. He leaned forward to Rhaenys and spoke quietly in her ear.

Daenerys did not hear the words he said, and the thought of asking left her mind when Rhaenys leaned forward and began to kiss her cunt. Daenerys shrieked in pure pleasure, a lightning bolt of ecstasy shooting from her spine and her back arching as her niece began to eat out her cunt. She swiped her tongue from left to right and from the bottom near her arse to the top, where she encircled her engorged clit with her full lips and began to suck it. Daenerys never felt pleasure such as this, and she quickly felt the knot in her belly, a feeling so unfamiliar she never dared do anything to try and relieve herself from it.

“OH FUCK !! OH FUCK !! OHHH FUUUUUCK!! I- IM GONNA PIIIISSS” She cried out in bliss as an orgasm sped through her so fast she felt almost embarrassed by the quickness of it. Rhaenys smirked at her, happy to know her tongue was talented enough to make her hypersensitive body orgasm so quickly. But Rhaenys was far from over.

Almost as soon as Daenerys got back down to earth from her first ever orgasm, her niece immediately began to eat her out again, already forcing Daenerys to climb back up the mountain of orgasm. Aenar’s hips snapped back forcefully against Rhaenys’s arse, making her moan against Daenerys’s cunt and making Daenerys moan out to her heart’s content. Aenar felt pride in his heart at the debauched sight unraveling before his very eyes. His cock plunged in and out of Rhaenys’s willing cunt, the wet noises a symphony to his ears. He felt the knot again, and with a few more pumps that grew increasingly forceful and breaking his rhythm, he plunged himself as deep as he possibly could, his cock battering against her cervix, as he spilled his seed inside of her, the feeling of his seed spilling inside her willing cunt made her cum again.

“YEEEESSS !! FILL ME UP !! FUCKIN BREED ME !!” She screamed at the top of her lungs. Aenar felt a boil in his heart at her words, a desire to see her become big and round with his child. He kept his cock as deep inside her as he possibly could, his hands gripping her hips so tight he knew he would leave bruises, yet he did not care. The only thing that Aenar cared about was making sure that the woman- women he loved would bear his children. He would ensure the survival of House Targaryen through them, and would love and cherish them for as long as he would live.

Rhaenys fell on the desk head first, her body still shivering from the aftershocks of her orgasm. Slowly, carefully, Jon pulled back from her cunt, making her moan in disapproval at how empty she felt as he left, though the heat of his seed kept her warm and feeling full.

“Hmmm… You filled me to the brim, Valonqar. You wanted to breed your big sister that much ?” He did not answer, only hugging her from behind and nuzzling her neck with his face.

“I love you, Rhaenys. No matter what happens, no matter what comes our way, the enemies we face, the challenges we overcome, the difficulties that lay ahead, I will never stop loving you. You are mine, now, Mandia. And I never let go of what is mine.” He gently bit her neck and Rhaenys’s heart nearly exploded into happiness from the declaration he made. She could see Daenerys looking at them with longing and expectation, and Rhaenys had no desire to hurt her sweet aunt. She turned her head to Aenar with a smile.

“I think it’s time you show some love to our little aunt. Don’t you ?” His eyes passed from her to Daenerys, a smirk widening on his lips. Daenerys moved forward, crawling over the desk on all fours, her breasts hanging in the air as Aenar grabbed her by the back of her head and kissed her with force. Daenerys moaned even louder than before, submitting entirely to her nephew’s ministrations on her body. His hands, rough and calloused from training with the sword against the Nazgûls, Euron, Jaime, Barristan and Arthur, felt incredible on her sensitive skin. He slowly went lower, making sure to map every inch of her pale skin, until he reached her breasts.

She moaned in approval as he squeezed and pawed at them, the feeling of it was utterly delightful. She absolutely adored being the object of her nephew’s love and desire, of his lust and passions. She would gladly spend her entire life being in his orbit constantly, if he loved her the way he did right now. And somehow, she knew he would.

His hands reached her hips and he pulled her forward, until she was sitting on the edge of the desk, her legs dangling in the air. She squealed and wrapped her legs around his strong waist, as his hands squeezed her large ass. Moaning wantonly at the feeling, she slowly spread her thighs to allow Aenar to enter her without problem. 

Aenar looked at her, eyes glazed over by lust, and he slowly cupped her face.

“Tell me you want it, Dany. Tell me you want this and I swear to you I will show you just how much I love you.” She beamed and nodded enthusiastically up and down several times. He smiled as he peppered her with kisses all over her face and body. She loved the feeling of being pampered by him, every kiss lit her skin on fire, every trail of his fingers over her body made her shiver for more. She wanted- No, she needed more.

“Please, Aens. More. Please.” She begged shamelessly, hungry and dizzy for more pleasure. Slowly, carefully, taking his time, Aenar lined himself up with her weeping entrance. She was so wet she was sure he couldn’t hurt her upon entering her. And when he did, taking his time and letting her breathe at the foreign feeling of being stretched and filled to the brim, he continued to kiss every inch of her skin his mouth and tongue could reach from his position between her legs. He bit her neck and lapped the bruise already forming, making her moan again and again at the feeling.

When he tore through her maidenhead, she felt the sting of it and her eyes watered from the pain. He immediately stopped moving and began to kiss her cheekbones, taking the tears that spilled from her eyes against her will and lapping them up into his mouth. The salty taste did not disturb him, for only the pleasure he could bring her was on his mind at the moment.

He was partly aware of Rhaenys’s presence beside them, her fingers slowly working her clit with chirurgical precision. She made sure to keep Aenar’s seed deep into her womb. She did not waste a single drop, for she wanted him to breed her full. She wanted to give him a child. And though she knew she was perhaps a bit young, being six and ten namedays old, she was far from alone.

Daenerys stopped crying after perhaps ten more seconds, the pain having dulled to a minimal ache between her thighs. Now, she wanted Aenar to take her, to have his pleasure with her and breed her just like Rhaenys. She pressed the heels of her feet to his ass in a signal for him to start moving. He took it with eagerness and began to retreat his hips slowly before moving back in. Her nails racked down his shirt, tearing it open as every thrust went farther than the last one. 

“Gods, I- I can feel you in my fucking stomach.” She swore, half mad with pleasure. Aenar smirked, proud of being the one that made her feel like this, and continued his relentless assault. His cock battered against her cervix with every thrust forward. He was determined to show her just how much he loved her. And that’s what he did.

Every kiss he pressed to her skin, every thrust into her tight cunt, every moan she let out, it only made Aenar’s passion rise again and again. He knew he was about to come, the knot in his loins so tight it almost hurt. By that point, he had already felt Daenerys cum twice on his cock, trying her hardest to squeeze his seed out of him. His thrusts became increasingly wild and erratic as he neared the breaking point.

“I’m- I’m gonna cum. Gonna pump you full, fill you till you’re pregnant with our little cubs”. Daenerys should have been scared or frightened by the prospect of it. She should be worried by the idea of being a mother at only three and ten. Aenar’s mom had died in childbirth at four and ten.

So why did the idea make her clench even tighter on Aenar’s cock ?

No matter, she thought, I want it. I want his seed, his cubs.

When he spilled inside her with a roar loud enough to wake up the entire castle, her own orgasm crashed through her at the feeling of his seed entering her womb, and she was half-convinced that he already began his work on breeding her. With so much seed leaving his cock and filling her womb, there was no doubt she wasn’t already pregnant.

When Daenerys entered the solar, she had never expected this to happen. And yet, she did not regret a single moment.

Soon enough, the three of them were cuddling on the couch near the hearth of the solar, the fire lit up and warmed them, though Aenar’s presence with them under the covers he had taken was more than enough.

His arms held them by the waist, the three of them naked as the day they were born and none willing to move. Rhaenys could still feel his seed inside of her, and Daenerys knew she would walk with a limp for a day or two. Gods she could still feel him battering the entrance to her womb.

Aenar knew what he needed to do, now. For him, there was no other possibility, no other choice. No one else could possibly replace them in his heart.

“Rhae, Dany…” The two women turned their heads to look at them, their eyes half-lidded from exhaustion. His hands trembled at the weight of the question that lingered at the top of his tongue. He took a deep breat, his eyes closed as he thought and threw away a thousand million speeches he could make. He was not good with words, that was the Ring’s thing. Aenar was honest, almost brutally so. And today, it was his honesty he wanted to use to speak what were probably the most important words of his love.

“Will- Will you marry me ?”

.
..

…

….

For too long, no noise was heard in the room, and the three young Targaryens stood frozen. Then, like a charm was broken, the two women lunged at his mouth, almost duelling each other to kiss him.

“Yes, yes. Gods, yes a thousand times.” They both said together. Aenar’s heart nearly exploded from the relief he felt, his arms locking at their waist, refusing to move. Rhaenys and Daenerys both settled against his broad chest, sharing his warmth.

“Good night, husband.”

“Good night, my love.”

It was those words that the union of the three Dragons was accomplished.

For the first time since the time of the Conqueror, three Targaryens stood united by more than the bonds of blood. The love they shared was the kind that burned but once a century. No duty, no match, no betrothal.

Just them.

Just love.

Just truth.

And that was enough.