TW: Fair warning, some quite fucked up shit implied ahead. Nothing overt, but if you want to know before reading, scroll to the bottom.

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400 Years After the Fall of Valyria.

Black Palace.

The Fading Tiger

Volantis looked glorious and golden, through the terrace's doorway, and from the bed where Grand Triarch Malaquo Maegyr was resisting, wrapped in silk sheets.

It seemed a dream. A waking dream. An Immortal Marvel built on ancient virtues and honored traditions.

Oh, how he loved this sight. How he loved this City. The magnificent vision it made.

He'd loved it as a boy, when he'd first seen it in the far off distance from the window of a carriage.

He'd loved it as a man grown, as he'd fought tooth and nail to preverse and enhance her ethereal beauty.

He loved it now, even as she stood cruelly away from his reach, caged as he was in a jail with silken bars, and confined as he was in a prison of feeble flesh.

All his life, he had spent walking a path of enlighment, piety, and self-betterment. And every moment, he'd spent striving and straining to carry everyone and everything around him, down the same path, even as lesser beings, foolish and misguided, had kicked and screamed and cried the whole way.

And now, too young still to die at the mere age of five-and-sixty, Malaquo couldn't even stand on his own two foot, such was the treachery his body had dealt him.

It's not right, furiously thought the Grand Triarch, for what felt like the hundreth time.

Why was this to be his fate, why should this sudden and disgusting illness claim him, when mild-mannered oafs, cretins like Junior Triarch Nyessos Vhassar and his progeny whole, still walked on green earth and white marble.

Why was this to be his fate, when he'd staunchly followed the will of the True Gods, all his life, unrepentantly and unflinchingly. Why was this to be his end, when the halfwits and dullards who'd been ensnared by tricks of light and plays of flames would go on breathing.

He'd served his people, he'd served his City, he'd served his Gods. He'd done more than enough – he'd done it all! – so why was this his fate, to be reaped by Dark Balerion, too weak to even resist his embrace.

Like a sickly dog. Like a foul heretic. Like a fetid no one.

It's not right! The Grand Triarch raged again, his scrawny hands balling into bony fists.

"Grandfather," A concerned voice, as sweet as that of Fertile Meleys, plucked him out of his fierce reveries, "Do you fell unwell?"

Malaquo's purple eyes turned from the vision of beauty that was Volantis, just to land on an equal one. One breathing, and living, fair cheeked and golden haired, gazing at him with silvery eyes so bright, that even the most lustrous stars must have envied them.

Sitting by his bedside, was the newly nominated Junior Triarch of Great Volantis. The only one, of the three of them, who'd freshly risen to the prestigious position following the last election, the youngest appointee to have ever reach it the history of the First Daughter, with his nine-and-ten years of age.

Laerion Saelarys, his sweet, dear, and favoured nephew.

"Do not worry, child." Malaquo muttered, his temper failing to rise even as his rotten and disloyal throat refused to work as it should have. "I am only contemplating."

His answer failed to ease the gentle worry in the boy's face.

"Are you sure, Grandfather?" He asked, inching closer, "If you are not, Ghogor or Zhalla could fetch the physician."

Maegyr's lip creased in distaste, both at the reminder that the hulking guards were indeed still in his chambers, and at his nephew's lack of wisdom when it came tosuch matters. His eyes darted their way, and he openly sneered.

One had a face that would have better suited a beast, with the physique of a horse-lord savage to match, and the other was a scarred Ghiscari that shared the mongrel features of its filthy ilk, down to the dirty brown of its skin and the hollowness of its black eyes.

They neither needed nor deserved names. They were beneath names.

"I said I am well!" He snapped, or tried to. It came out a more a coughing hiss. Once he'd regained his breath, he continued harshly. "Desist from humouring the cattle in my presence."

Laerion's head bowed, his lips twitching oddly and his pale eyes cast down. "Of course, Grandfather. My apologies."

Malaquo's jaw clunched, and he cursed the boy's naivety and his own fervor. He didn't wish spend what time he had left in a cross silence.

"All is forgiven." He gritted out tiredly. "Understand i just worry for you, Nephew. You are the head of your House, and you sit in the Triarchy. You must shed a child's fantasies, however charming they may be, or they shall be used against you at every turn."

The young Triarch looked up. "I know you worry, and I am thankful you do." He retrieved his glass of wine from the nearby nightstand, and took a small sip. Malaquo squinted at the pink tongue teasing reddened lips. "What were you contemplating, Grandfather?"

"The future." He answered at once. "The unfairness of my state."

The boy's head cocked, baring his long and pale neck. "Unfairness?"

"What is not unfair about this," replied Malaquo, distracted still. "What have I done to warrant the gods' punishment? What have I done to warrant this damned sickness?"

A smooth and soft hand wrapped around his wrinkly and bony one. The Grand Triarch grasped it as tight as he could, until it turned as red as the mouth smiling at him.

"Nothing, Grandfather. You've done nothing at all." Laerion reassured him, firmly and kindly. "And the Gods know your worth. I just know you shall receive what you deserve."

The old man's thumb brushed pale nuckles, somehow comforted. "I hope you are right, my dear."

After a few moments, the boy spoke again. "Might I–," just to stop, his silver eyes bashfully averting Maegyr's purple ones.

"Speak." Malaquo demanded at once, as strongly as he could.

The boy laid the wine back where he'd taken it, and tucked some loose strands of light golden hair behind his ear. "I have a question, but I fear it might be one that could agitate you."

Maegyr took a moment to speak, his eyes roaming. "If you don't ask you shall never know."

When the boy leant closer, then, skittish and conspirational, Malaquo tried and failed to copy him. "It's about the Targaryens."

Maegyr squeezed tighter the hand in his grip, and his face twisted in displeasure, but no more than that. "What about them?"

"Well, not so long ago, we discussed Viserys' demi– "

Malaquo rasped out a laugh. "The Beggar King!"

Pale eyes squinted oddly, unbeknown to him, before they crinkled in a smile. "The Beggar King, yes. Some time ago, you were the one to inform me of his demise, and– "

"He died like a dog!" Another grating chuckle escaped him. "Desperate little fool!"

"Quite." The boy tittered, his nostrils flaring. "But what I was wondering is if, perhaps, you had heard anything of note about the younger one."

Malaquo's lip curled, his only answer.

"The sister?" The youth's fingers casually interwined with the old man's. "Daenerys, I believe is her name. Not terribly impressive as far as Targaryens go, but from what I hear she now seems to have picked some much grander ones for herself."

The Grand Triarch's jaw clenched tightly, something about the boy's words and how he spoke them arousing his temper.

"Unburnt, they call her." Laerion went on. "Mother of–"

"Mother of nothing!" Malaquo finally exploded, trying and failing to push himself up the headboard. "Targaryens have always been nothing more than a dying breed of egotistic buffoons, all too willing to forsake their faith and their lineage to rule over a flock of dogs on the other side of the sea!" He spat, coughing. "Daenerys Targaryen can spit fire from her cunt for all I care! She is nothing more than a savages' whore, a brood mare to their horses! It is the only fitting end for her accursed line!"

As soon as he'd finished, Maegyr went into a coughing fit, and when it had finally passed, and once he'd looked up, he found his Nephew looking at him with a raised brow.

"Sir se va moriot." The boy agreed nonetheless, his valyrian perfect. "We, of the First Daughter, are the last Sons of the Old Freehold. Now and always, we have been."

"Now and always, we have been." Maegyr repeated, on instinct alone. "But let us not speak of barbarians and their woes, not here and not now." Malaquo smiled, squeezing the boy's hand and admiring his face, his cheeks and his brow, his mouth and his lids. Gods, he thought and said aloud. "I am so glade you are here. You look so much like–"

"I know who I look like, Grandfather."

Had he still his strength, Malaquo would have gifted the insolent child with the back of his hand. All he could afford, now, was a withering glare.

"My apologies," Laerion tucked his head and hid his face, something in the motion that the Triarch didn't catch. "Father badly endured whom I resemble, as you know. I do not like being reminded of it."

"Oh, my sweet," Malaquo's fingers brushed the hand beneath them, riveting in the softness of it. "Your Father was a fool to not see the gift he was given."

The boy rewarded him with a half-lidded silver look, his white teeth worrying full lips.

"If only my body wasn't failing me, dearest." The Triarch muttered longingly, uncaring that the slaves could hear. "I would– "

Again, he was interrupted. "Your body isn't failing you."

Malaquo was too flabbergasted to be vexed. "What?"

Laerion smiled a sweet smile, pale eyes shining like the moon. "I poisoned you."

Malaquo was too stunned to be enraged. "What?!"

His nephew's hand softly patted his own once, and then twice, before sliding back to the cup of wine.

"Well, that was just for dramatic flair." The boy spoke, his voice different from before. Lighter. "I haven't poisoned you, per se. I've been, let us say, organizing, the efforts of the people who poisoned you. You'd be surprised how many they are, actually. It seems–" The boy inched forward, voice lowered to a conspirational whisper. "No one likes you, Grandfather."

Malaquo, his bloodshot eyes wide open and his face contorted in fury, willed his arms to move, so that he could strangle this treacherous beast before him.

They didn't.

"You-!" The Grand Triarch hissed, too irate to even shout, "I will have you killed, you treacherous creature! I'll have you trampled! I'll have you drawn and quartered!"

The boy just pouted, his full lips downturned in a perfect show of sadness.

"Don't hang the messenger." The Minor Triarch raised his hands in mock surrender. "Your naughtiness, and the enemies it made you, is no fault of mine, Grandfather. I mean, really, let us look back and reflect on how you even acquired your pos– no, but, wait," he murmured to himself, "i shouldn't say. Not right now. This is so thoughtless of me. Such a good speech i've wrote, and here I am, just leaping ahead."

"Slaves!" Maegyr blew, the veins in his thin neck red and bulging. "Spill this worm's intestines unto the floor!"

A moment passed, and nothing happened.

Then another, and nothing kept.

When Malaquo's head turned to glare at them, the motion sharper and more furious than he knew his poisoned body could manage, the slaves just glared back.

"Ghoghor, Zalla," Laerion said cheerfully, "You may leave now." No sooner had he finished speaking, that the two had began marching away. "And do remember to wait for a bit before you do– well, before you do what we discussed about!" He called to their backs. When his only answer was a shut door, his eyes rolled. "The manners of them."

"Traitors!" Screamed Malaquo, before a dry and painful coughing fit shook his body whole.

"Traitors?" Laerion chided him "You don't own their loyalty, Grandfather, just their whips. And not even that, really!" He laughed, softly clapping his hands a couple times. "I gifted those fine specimen to you myself, if you remember. They didn't come with any whips."

They hadn't, and he had. Malaquo rearrenged his scattered thoughts, tried to recall, and what he found almost turned his anger into shock.

His nephew had given them to him almost a year prior. Before the traitorous beast had even been elected Triarch.

"How long?" Malaquo uttered quietly.

Laerion crossed his legs, his fingers drumming on the glass. "The poisoning, a few months. Ever since I was elected, truly. Tears of Lys, in small doses, take an awful long time to work. Which was the point, I suppose, but still." He frowned dolefully, before he perked pridefully. "The web of intrigue, on the other hand, dates back at least a couple dozens turns of the moon."

"Is this how you repay me?!" The Triarch had wanted to shout. It came out a screech. For how long had he failed to notice the foul treachery of this foul beast, he raged to himself. "You'd be nothing without me! You are nothing without me! I treated you like my own!"

"Come, now." The boy replied, just so. "You did a fair bit more than that."

"Is that what this is about?!" Maegyr screeched. "You would kill me, you would condemn me for– for what?! For being the only one to ever love you, you damned wretch?! For being the only one to ever see some worth in you?! For granting you my att–?!"

"No, Grandfather." The boy interrupted him, something in the curve of his mouth chilling the grim fury coursing through the Grand Triarch's veins. "In fact, I need you to understand, that all those... attentions you've gifted me–"

Laerion's mouth slid shut, all at once, and for a terrible moment his smile slipped, leaving behind only a slack, fleshy mask of dark apathy, incapable of concealing the two white, dull pits of his eyes.

Malaquo shuddered, without his notice, and a charming tilt slithered back on his nephew's lips.

"I need you to understand," The boy continued, as if nothing had happened, "that I am not driven by the same base insincts that drive you. I need you to understand, that my present actions aren't borne from a lowly desire for retaliation, or retribution. My present actions are driven by the same sort of sentiments that led you, and my Father, to conclude that the extermination of the Paenymions was the only affordable way forward, and thus the only acceptable way to proceed."

The Grand Triarch gave a ragged breath. The Paenymions. He'd given the order, and Aelyx had carried it out without question or hesitation, but Malaquo couldn't even remember what false piece of evidence he'd fabricated to accuse them.

They'd been a political threat – the well respected family of the Grand Triarch who'd come before him – and they'd slaughtered them all, he and Aelyx, to the last man, woman, and child. To remove all risks.

And when his most loyal tool had come back, made red by their blood, he'd given him his most precious possession as recompense.

His dear, beautiful, sweet daughter.

The woman whose face and eyes this monster wore.

Malaquo, with a spur of strength, clasped tight his nephew's arm, and, for a moment, the old man allowed himself to believe not all was lost.

Then the boy grinned, and brushed away his wrinkly hand. "Grandfather!" He giggled like a woman. "Not where people can see!"

"Monster!" Malaquo croaked, his bloodshot purple eyes wild and wide.

"Monster?" Laerion mused outloud, seeping a bit of wine. "Yes, monster." He snapped his fingers. "That is indeed the overreaching point of this little speech of mine. I've reharsed it so many times in the last few months and i'd still almost lost the flow, if you can believe it." His hand fell on Malaquo's head, like he was a dog. "Thank you, Grandfather."

"You-!" The Triarch's enraged bark turned to an anagonized gasp, when his nephew swiftly drew his arm back.

"Me!" The boy laughed again, silver hair, bloody at the roots, slipping from his fingers and gliding to the floor. "But truly, Grandfather, I would appreciate it if you tried not to interrupt. The good part is almost upon us, and I fear I'll only have the one chance to get it right."

"Mons-!"

A harsh slap put a stop to the Triarch's words, and eyes like ice, pinning him in place more than his useless body ever had, halted his breath.

His nephew clicked his tongue, and Malaquo, again, couldn't keep a shudder, when he glimpsed through the cracks, the nothingness beneath.

"Now that you have quieted down," Laerion tried, a triumphant smirk worming its way on his lips, when Malaquo remained silent. "As I was saying, before I was so rudely interrupted, what has driven me to slowly kill you during the course of the last few months, and indeed will drive me to kill you this day," Maegyr's breath hitched, "Isn't a desire for revenge. Volantis and its people desperately need... a change." The boy spoke slowly, tasting the word. "And i, unlike you, am simply willing to give it to them." He hummed low, waving his hands. "Now, I won't go into the details, because frankly it's not any of your business, but!"

His nephew leant forward, bright ashen hair falling over his brow, shadowing his terrible eyes but not his wicked smile.

Malaquo tried, and failed, to squirm inside his cushions.

"Going back to my previous point." Laerion went on, his voice having suddenly dropped an octave. "What I will do to Volantis, and its people, is for the greater good. What I will do to your people, well," He chuckled, a mirthless thing. "That, i admit freely, will be intrinsically personal, and wholly intended as a slight on your person."

"They're your family!" Malaquo meant to shout. It came out a pathetic whimper.

"Family?" His nephew echoed him. "My only family is I, Grandfather." Laerion cocked his head, like a bird of prey. "Your sons, your nephews, your brother, any male relation of yours, I will purge from this world with the same ruthlessness you purged the Paenymions with. Your wife, your daughters, your nieces, any other whore sharing your name, I will turn into precisely that. Whores. To be used and abused by any and all." He leant closer still. Malaquo squeezed further back. "Anything and everything thas has ever had the misfortune of being touched by you, I will take, and ravish, and burn to cinders, and I shall not stop until Maegyr turns into a curse, and Malaquo into an omen."

The old man, wide-eyed and trembling, tried raising unmoving arms. "Y-y-you c-can't."

"Y-y-you c-can't." The monster mocked him. "I can everything, for I will everything, for I want everything. You should be proud I remember. I learned it from you."

Malaquo didn't answer, he couldn't. His heart was beating so hard and so fast in his chest that it felt like it would break through flesh and bone at any moment.

"I will confess, I did not think this situation would feel quite as... invigorating as it does." The boy inhaled and closed his eyes, for a moment, a smile on his lips. "Which is why, just to pour salt into the proverbial wound, if you will, I shall reveal to you the very first little point of my much larger, and bolder strategy to change this hereby beautiful, and stagnat shithole."

When fingers snapped infront of Malaquo's vacant gaze, the old man didn't have time to uselessly try shying away from them, before a claw closed around his sagging cheeks, and he was forced to gaze into a pale nothingness.

"You and all you've done in your life, and all those before you have done in theirs, all of you will not even be my stepping stones." The monster spoke slowly, carefully. "I will burn Volantis to the ground, and from the ashes I will remake it by my design, and in my image." Its lips curled into a honeyed smile. "And now, to the part that might just harden you, you old war monger you, to make ashes, as we've enstablished, we need things to burn." Its cold eyes rolled. "Well, wood, houses, palaces, troubling people, and so on, and so forth. But let's just go by 'things', for simplicity's sake. So, tell me, Grandfather, what do we need to make 'things' burn?"

Malaquo didn't answer, he couldn't. It must have been all a horrible nightmare. One he would wake up from. Surely. What he'd done to deserve this.

"Fire." The monster chirped. "And where do we find fire, Grandfather?" The monster chuckled. "Well, that's simple. I'm told women spit it out of their cunts these days."

And then, right, before Malaquo Maegyr, Grand Triarch of Volants, could shout in outrage, or whimper in sorrow, something soft and heavy swallowed him whole into a pit of darkness.

"Your stuttering is a fine enough last memory of you, for me. No need to ruin it."

298 Years After Aegon's Conquest.

Black Palace.

The Rising Flame

"Now," Laerion looked away from the pillow, and turned his gaze to the open terrace, where stood Volantis, glorious and golden. "If you concentrate," He tuned out the weak and frantic trashing of a dying worm. "Maybe, before you depart, you'll manage hearing–"

Two things interrupted him at once, and his lids slowly slid shut.

"The Grand Triarch is Dead." He murmured like a prayer, savouring both the stillness beneath him, and the toll of the bells above him.

In his mind, the great city was up in smoke, a great destruction before a great restoration.

A smile, as true as it was ugly, twisted his lips.

In his vision, he was the one commanding the flames, atop a mighty Dragon.

"Long Live the King."

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TW: Implied child abuse.

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Well, I can explain. This little psycopath has been a long-standing character of mine in Crusader's King 2, like Maric Mudd and Cieran Hill from my other fics. The other day I just happened to play a bit, then listen to 'Viva la Vida', and this came out. My muse is on a roll or something.

But, talking about real stuff, if you're worried about the gross stuff being a big part of this, don't be too much. It's part of Laerion's backstory, and why he's a psycho, but from now on it's just murder and other such things. Plus, as you'll see, he's way too much of a narcissist to think overly much about anything that makes him feel weak (which is why his relationship with Dany's gonna be pretty fun, and filled with lots of mental slurs).

Anyway. Hopefully I didn't freak/gross out anyone too much, but let me know if I did, and let me know if you're interested in reading this, too.

Cya.