Chapter One
A/N
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The Dothraki Sea, 120 AC
Aenar I
Beauty held many forms, from a pristine landscape with tumbling falls and swaying trees, to the smile of a lover as she lay in your arms, the sun dipping into the horizon, casting rays of light across the landscape.
For most of Aenar's life, however, nothing could compare to riding atop a dragon, the world laid bare below you, men and women alike, scurrying like ants beneath your feet. Even the Titan of Braavos appearing to be no bigger than a small hovel. On dragonback, the world was his playground. On dragonback, he could see why his ancestors had thought themselves, Gods, as they watched the ants in the mud scrambling away, fleeing their indomitable power.
It was a feeling like nothing else. Unlimited power. Godlike power. The likes of which he had never tasted before. But a distant voice at the back of his mind always reminded him that he was but a man, and a stray arrow or a knife in the dark could kill him as easily as anyone else.
Shaking his head, thoughts of divinity escaped him. Only madness lay in the direction of ascendance beyond humanity. He was only human, a unique human certainly, for few had lived more lives than one, but still only mortal. Yet as he looked beneath him, he remember, he was a mortal with a fucking dragon.
A barked command had his dragon turning swiftly, aiming to strafe down another row of archers. His closest friend let out a bellowing roar as they dove back down to the battlefield. The wind buffeted his face and the stench of blood, piss and shit filled his nostrils as he neared the battlefield. The enemy archers saw his approach. Some panicked, some fled and a few fools even fired, their arrows bouncing off his friend's scales like toothpicks in a futile attempt to pierce stone. Their efforts were for nought, as a gout of flame consumed them, standing and fleeing alike.
Another command and they were soaring far above the battlefield again. The wind cut through his hair and with a practised eye, he scanned the battlefield, keenly searching for his next target.
His enemy had become cunning. Over the years, they had adapted and evolved, learning how to fight against the Cannibal's firepower and manoeuvrability. Unlike the battles of the past, this one was not fought in the plains, but in a valley surrounded by hills and dotted with caves.
Yet Aenar had not left himself idle. For he too had adapted his tactics, learning from his mistakes and understanding the mind of his enemy.
In a previous life, years had been dedicated to the study of war to receive his degree. A lifetime had passed since those days, yet whilst the memories faded along with the principles and morality accompanying them, his knowledge still persisted.
Knowledge that had been turned into a sword to wield against his enemies. And the last dregs of the same enemies now lay burning on the battlefield below. His men were doing an admirable job, as always, holding the line. Two attempts to rally by the Dothraki had already been crushed, the black dragon's fire sweeping away any stragglers left behind.
The fire burned across the battlefield and horses wavered, shedding their riders in the instinctive need to flee. A grim smile appeared on Aenar's face, horse lords no longer. His campaign had been brutal, but effective.
This particular Khalasar had been troubling him for some time, markedly different from the ones they had faced in the early years of his war, the Khals of the Dothraki Sea had realised that a pitched battle against an army trained and equipped to counter them, backed up by a dragon the size of a cargo ship, was a doomed affair. Instead over the years, adopting guerilla tactics similar to that of Dorne a century ago when the Conqueror and Queen Visenya had laid waste to their desert in their lust for vengeance.
To the far end of the valley, he spotted some of the Dothraki attempting to flee, perhaps realising that the battle had been lost. He rummaged through the pack that hung from his saddle and extracted a horn, bringing it to his lips and letting out three short bursts, signalling to his men to draw back. A few survivors to spread the word of another victory would be a blow to the morale of what was left of the once proud Dothraki nation.
He took another round of the battlefield, diving a couple more times to burn a few pockets of defenders who were attempting to rally as his men returned to their formation, the valley, which had once been home to three thousand Dothraki screamers, becoming just one more conquest to add to his name.
"That's it for today, old friend," said Aenar as he leaned forward, softly patting the Cannibal's outstretched neck.
Command Tent
The silver-haired commander dismounted Cannibal, jumping off the Black Dragon's neck to land gracefully upon the sun-baked earth. This well-practised act was met with a cheer from the Sons of the Dragon. Years ago they'd be founded, since then becoming the most well-respected and fearsome company of swords in Essos. Even after the battle, most still bore their arms and armour and he couldn't help the grin when seeing his personal sigil displayed proudly on their chests.
The Dragonlord approached and they parted, raucous laughter and roars of pride echoing around him. The morale of an army after a victory was always infectious and he was far from immune, his bloodlust receding in the face of their overwhelming pride.
Aenar made his way through the camp, greeting his men, taking part in the merriment and receiving brief reports from his captains until he reached his tent, an ostentatious thing, red and black like his sigil. The two guards stood at the entrance bowed as he approached, pushing the tent's flaps apart to allow him entry.
Inside, resided the two men he trusted most.
The tent was not how he'd left it. Before the battle, a sombre mood had presided over him and the Company. Thoughts of those who would be led to their deaths ruled both him and his most trusted. Now, however, with victory at hand, he entered his tent to find his friends engaged in what had once, perhaps, been an interesting game of Cyvasse.
He smiled as he saw them at his table, already a few cups in. He cleared his throat, startling them both to attention, "I'm glad to see you both still living."
"It is hard to die a mile from the battle, Ser," barked his Quartermaster with his distinctive accent.
The Bastard boomed a laugh, "I suppose it would be, Morelos," he turned to his right hand, "and how did you survive?"
Ser Harrold Darke spoke next with a grin, "No cowardice to save me, Ser, I'm just smart enough not to die."
"I'll show you a coward," grumbled Morelos, a scuffle ensuing. The Dragonlord sat down at the head of his table, pouring himself a healthy dose of lightly watered-down wine from the full pitcher. His friend Harrold had the tendency to open his mouth when he really rather shouldn't and this was but the most recent occurrence of punishment.
This was proven as Morelos got him in a headlock, causing the angry knight to tap out, "Fucking Essosi savage."
Aenar raised a brow and chimed in, "Well maybe next time you can both try to mount Cannibal while I sit back in the tent to play cyvasse."
The Knight and the Quartermaster grumbled and settled back in their seats, content to forget their momentary breach of decorum. The Black Dragon idly wondered if his brother's council acted the same as this. He snorted lightly at that. The idea of Lyonel Strong capturing Corlys Velaryon in a headlock was nigh on ridiculous.
Morelos broke the silence, gulping down another cup of wine, "So, the Dothraki have been purged once more."
"After two and thirty engagements no less. Certainly an impressive count of victories to your name, Commander. And that too in just under a decade."
The Valyrian hummed in satisfaction, it had not been an easy victory, "I cannot claim all the credit. The men are certainly responsible for a fair share of the kills."
And that they were. A decade ago, the Sons of the Dragon had numbered a mere two-hundred. All fresh-faced green boys with a few veterans of war who had followed Aenar across the Narrow Sea.
Morelos spoke next, "True, though it is easy to see that they alone would not have bested them. The Cannibal is a boon to every engagement."
Darke nodded, "No matter how fierce the enemy, all flee before a dragon's might."
"They made use of their fleeing though, their tactics evolved much over the past few years. Gone are the days when whole hosts would meet us in battle," the dragonlord grimaced. There was little in life more frustrating than hunting a cowardly enemy.
"Indeed, it is impossible to say I've enjoyed following them around this past year," spoke the dark-skinned former slave.
Aenar had freed many during his crusade against the Dothraki. Freed slaves numbering in the tens of thousands had been released to return home or to find new lives elsewhere. Though he was certain a number were merely recaptured by other slavers near the cities. Others had decided to stay and form a not-insignificant part of his current forces. Morelos being chief among them.
A highly competent and intelligent man, he had quickly risen through the ranks and had been named Quartermaster of the Sons of the Dragon a few years ago. Aenar trusted him above almost everyone else. And in turn, Morelos's loyalty to Aenar was more than absolute.
Ser Darke hummed his agreement, "Regardless, there are few enough of them now that a threat to the Free Cities is unlikely for several generations, perhaps ever."
There was nought to do but nod at a job well done, "Indeed, we have accomplished much in these lands. Hundreds of thousands can rest easier without imminent slavery and death waiting to ruin them," Aenar spoke with pride.
"Indeed. How many slaves did we liberate this time?" asked the Westerosi knight.
"A couple hundred. The Septons are attending to them. I'll see to it that they are well cared for. Some will undoubtedly wish to return with us to Braavos. The rest we will give feed and clothe and see them off with some provisions for their journey."
Septon Adam and his coterie of Septons, Septas, Silent Sisters and attendants had linked up with Aenar a couple of years ago. Apparently, word of Aenar's exploits had gotten back to Westeros and the Faith had lauded him for his 'Crusade against Slavery.'
And while Aenar had initially been annoyed by the loud Septon's constant preaching to his men, he could not deny the benefit of having the Faith's support. The Septons were excellent at caring for the liberated slaves and Aenar generously supplied them with gold to see to their rehabilitation. Far too many of those that he liberated ended up back in chains. And while the modern man who had reincarnated in this world may have lost much of that which had made him modern, Aenar still hated slavery with a passion. If gold was what was needed to help a few, he'd see it done.
"And how many men did we lose in the fighting?" asked Aenar.
"Three scores dead. A hundred or so more injured. A couple dozen or so among those may not survive the night. The healers are caring for them. The report for today's battle will be on your desk by tomorrow," responded the Quartermaster.
Aenar nodded solemnly, "See to it that the dead receive their last rites and that their payment is remitted to their next of kin along with a little extra for their loss."
Morelos just nodded and noted down Aenar's instructions in his diary.
"Then what's next?" asked Harrold eventually.
His counsellors were eager to hear his plans, but in truth, he didn't really have any. With the Dothraki purged there was little use hovering around and they would be better served to return to Braavos or make their way to the disputed lands.
He hummed before responding, "For now, we return to Braavos. I'll have to knock on some doors and hit up some friends for new work but I'm sure that we will come up with something."
He received joint nods at his words before Harrold spoke once more, "The men will be happy to hear it, and so will the whores. Three thousand itches to scratch will be a boon for them."
Aenar took another deep gulp from his cup, a single drop of wine staining his closely trimmed beard.
Harrold continued after a moment, "Been a while since we were in Braavos. I wonder if The Crooked House still has that Lyseni," he finished with a grin, chuckling to himself, much to the consternation of Morelos.
The Quartermaster barked a laugh, "Perhaps she should be warned you're coming."
"Good idea, that way she can dream of my approach," Harrold spoke with a cocky grin.
"Mayhaps I can write to your uncle informing him of your lusts and my belief that it's high time we got you married and settled," taunted Aenar.
Raucous laughter escaped Morelos at that as Harry turned slightly green at the idea of marriage. The three continued trading barbs for some time whilst he drank himself to oblivion. Content in the presence of good friends.
Braavos, Aenar's Manse, 120AC
There were many ways to demonstrate power, Aenar had learned. Some basic, a man with a sword holding it to an unarmed opponent's throat, others more complex, like the political intrigue of a Royal Court. Braavos, on the other hand, far preferred to demonstrate their superiority through the quality of their building and the subtlety of near-limitless wealth.
He had been walking the roads of Braavos for a little under an hour, finding himself still awestruck as he always was, of the gap between grand Braavosi architecture - in truth far closer to art than structure - and the simplicity of Westerosi city-building. Braavos, with its hundreds of winding canals, imposing granite monuments, tightly packed buildings and thronging crowds, was the epitome of a pre-industrial city.
Gazing up at the towering mansions, he ascended the many marble steps leading to the grandest building in Braavos. One might think the building in question would be the Sealord's palace. He had another destination in mind, however, for there was no greater power in this world than gold.
And there was no other institution in Braavos that embodied the concept of gold, more than the Iron Bank of Braavos. And where there was gold, there was industry. The entire district was populated by the giants of industry, nobles and merchant princes alike, who lived and breathed for the intrigue of the centre of Braavosi politics.
His own manse being situated in close proximity.
It was nowhere near as ostentatious as some of the other manses in the district, but Aenar had spent a small fortune on purchasing and refurbishing it to better reflect his wealth and status. Who knew that ridding the Free Cities of the Dothraki threat would have been so profitable?
"Welcome back, my Lord," bowed an attendant as he walked through the doors of his home, flanked on each side by intimidating guards in plate armour.
"Thank you Remmy," replied Aenar, handing his sword over.
"Nelos Dimittis is awaiting you in your solar, my lord. He was quite insistent that you meet him immediately."
Aenar paused for a second, finding it uncharacteristic of Nelos to insist upon urgency, "I'll attend to him forthwith. Thank you, Remmy."
The faithful attendant bowed and made to leave. Aenar too made his way through his manse to meet his banker.
His property was grand, as were all the buildings in this district, built purely for the fabulously wealthy. It possessed thick walls; ostensibly for protection, though in truth merely for the aesthetic. Inside which laid an opulent estate, once belonging to one of the great trading families who had unfortunately found themselves financially troubled.
He walked inside, the opening giving way to walls carved with relief, depicting everything from exotic animals to grand battles. Personally, he found it to be a bit too much, still used to the relative simplicity of Dragonstone's style. Yet he enjoyed the comfort of the home greatly after so many months in the field.
Continuing his trek, he was soon met with his solar. Aenar was greeted by the sight of Nelos Dimittis, lounging on one of the chairs, quietly sipping wine. An older man, slightly balding and with some fat accumulating around his belly, Nelos had been a banker and accountant for the wealthy of Braavos for nigh on three decades. His olive skin was lined with wrinkles which were well hidden by a neatly trimmed beard. His family was one of the most notable in Braavos, being one of the more prominent and wealthy Keyholders for the Iron Bank. While Nelos belonged to a cadet branch, his cousin twice removed was the man who represented the family's interests.
But Nelos Dimittis was not one to be left behind. And he had carved a niche for himself growing the asset portfolios of several merchants and traders in Braavos when Aenar had first met him. And since then, Aenar had become his primary client.
"And what is so urgent that you needed to show up at my home uninvited and unannounced?" questioned Aenar as he strode in and took his seat.
His solar was built in much the same styles of relief and hanging tapestries as the rest of his estate. Though with him spending far more time in this room he had opted to decorate it more personably. His coat of arms hung behind his seat, bearing the black dragon for all to see.
"Well, we just received the final instalment of gold from the Pentoshi Magisters for the Grey Hills campaign last year. I've raised the bill for your most recent bout of genocidal rage in the valleys to the Sealord and we should receive payment in full in three moons' turn. Oh, and your niece has married your half-brother."
A pause. And then, "Fuck me."
"Aye," grinned Nelos, "that's a really fucked up family you have there Aenar. The siblings Velaryons' bodies aren't even cold in the ground yet and their spouses marry each other."
"Daemon always was an ambitious fucker entirely lacking anything more than base cunning. But Rhaenyra? I thought she would have more sense."
"Well I could hardly care less about the incestuous tales of House Targaryen, but this might hamper our investments in the Narrow Sea. Myr and Tyrosh are angry. The Three Sisters may make moves soon. I'd like to move some of our assets out of the Rogare Bank's purview," said the canny banker as he handed Aenar a sheaf of papers.
"A list of our investments in the Three Sisters. I've taken the liberty to liquidate more of them. Lord Darklyn is always welcoming more investments in Duskendale. And the rest can be invested in Spicetown through intermediaries."
"Keep reducing our exposure to the Rogare Bank, but I don't want to touch Spicetown with a ten-foot pole," primarily because it was going to be burnt to ashes in a few years.
The Braavosi scratched his pointed beard lightly as he turned his gaze downwards to read through some notes.
"Then I'll refocus our attention to the Vale. I don't understand your insistence on investing so heavily in Westeros. The markets are much slower than those in Essos and we always have to operate through intermediaries considering your status as a wanted man."
"I have my reasons, old friend," stated Aenar, his firm tone brooking no argument.
"Fair enough. Keep your secrets to yourself then. Will I see you in court?"
"Not this week. There is much that needs to be done with the men. The Sons of the Dragon are restless. With the Dothraki near eradicated, and their remnants hiding in the hills, there is some tension that work may not be as forthcoming as it used to be. Harrold is insistent that I make an appearance at the barracks every day to keep morale high. Getting them paid on time would also go a long way towards shoring up their concerns," said Aenar, levelling a pointed look at the banker.
Nelos fidgeted uncomfortably in his seat for a moment and then replied, "I'll see to it that they are paid within a fortnight. Morelos has been up my arse about that anyways. The way he talks he must think that arranging payment for three thousand odd men is simplicity itself, especially when we are yet to receive payment for the fucking campaign."
"The Company is hardly hurting for money. But right now, seeing to it that the men are paid on time is my priority."
"I'll see it done Aenar, but you do know that the men have a point right? Payment and appearances will only keep up morale for so long. The Dothraki have been scattered. None of the Free Cities will be throwing gold at you anymore to get rid of a bunch of horse fuckers hiding away like rats. Sooner or later, you will have to either reposition or disband the Company."
"Aye. You're right of course. I will have to figure something out," sighed Aenar, collapsing back in his seat and taking another sip of wine.
"I'll see you in court next week then," said Nelos as he stood up to leave.
"Nelos!" called out Aenar, causing the Braavosi to turn, "regardless of who she has married, my niece has married nonetheless. See to it that she receives an appropriate wedding gift."
"Of course," replied Nelos, pausing slightly as though mulling over his next words before asking, "and what of Daemon? Should we not send him a gift?"
The Dragonlord's face was left emotionless as he considered the question.
"Fuck Daemon."
The Sealord's Palace, Braavos, 120 AC
"Ser Aenar Waters, the Black Dragon, Rider of the Cannibal, Commander of the Sons of the Dragon, Bane of the Dothraki, the Liberator, Hordebreaker and Knight of the Seven Kingdoms," the Herald boomed as Aenar was announced to the Court of the Sealord of Braavos.
As one, heads turned towards the entrance, as Aenar entered imperiously, followed by Harrold and Morelos. Dressed in expensive black silks lined with red lining, he looked every bit the Valyrian Dragonlord that he was.
All around him, the crowd parted as he made his way to the High Table, where a seat was reserved for him. Whispers broke out among the gathered attendees as they discussed the arrival of Rider of Cannibal. Aenar tried not to, but he couldn't help but revel in their attention. A decade ago, he had been nothing. Not even a pebble in their eyes. And today, Nobles, merchant princes, courtiers, politicians and bankers alike, all stopped as he neared them and directed their gaze at him. Some in awe, some in fear and some in cold assessment.
He ignored it all and calmly ascended the High Table where he was greeted by the Sealord. A highly intelligent man, Arretto Acherion ruled Braavos with an iron fist. Aenar had not enjoyed a good rapport with the previous Sealord, but when Arretto had come to power, Aenar's relationship with the Sealord's Court had flourished. The man hated slavery with a passion, and his goals aligned well with Aenar's own.
Whereas earlier Aenar only occasionally visited Braavos, spending much of his time on campaign or in Pentos and Norvos, it was only after Arretto's ascension that Aenar truly settled in Braavos and made it home to the Sons of the Dragon. With the Sealord's support, Aenar's war had prospered. The Sons of the Dragons would go on to slaughter Khalasar after Khalasar, liberating thousands of slaves. Slaves that settled the lands that the Dothraki had previously run rampant in. Lands that were quickly claimed by Braavos.
The other Free Cities had done the same as well. But Braavos had been the first. And while near every Free City had claimed much of the Dothrakis' former lands, none had annexed more than the Braavosi. The balance of power in Essos had tilted, with the cities now having far more land to back up their industry and trade. Aenar worried at times, about what butterfly effect his actions would have, but he cared little. War in the Free Cities had always been inevitable once he had set on his path. But it would not be his concern. For the Cities were far too busy consolidating their gains to look towards war.
"It has been some time, Aenar. How have you been my friend?" said the Sealord as he shook Aenar's hand.
"Well enough. The last campaign was hard fought. But my men were victorious nonetheless."
"Indeed," said Arretto, motioning for Aenar to take a seat next to him. A great honour, more so for a bastard. But then again, Aenar was no ordinary bastard.
"My councillors informed me that they had taken refuge in a well-defended valley. I hope that did not trouble you much?"
"The Dothraki are like cockroaches. But even cockroaches burn," replied Aenar.
His comment was received by soft chuckles, "That they do. That they do," replied the Head of House Acherion.
"I assume you are aware of the tensions with the Three Sisters?" continued the Sealord.
"Nelos informed me. I am taking precautions."
"Good. Tyrosh, Myr and Lys benefited the least from the eradication of the Dothraki. The other Free Cities have gained far too much land for their comfort. Sooner or later, Volantis or Pentos will turn their attention to them."
"Undoubtedly. Lys reached out to me. While they haven't said anything outright, I'm fairly confident that they are looking for a decisive victory in the Disputed Lands." and having the Sons of the Dragon fighting for them would ensure that went unsaid.
"And would you? If they offered you?" questioned Arretto.
"I fought the Triarchy's slavers and rapers in the Stepstones for far too long to ever get in bed with them. Besides, I swore a long time ago that I would not fight for one Free City against another."
That was perhaps the only reason that the Free Cities had not contracted assassins to slit his throat a long time ago. Cannibal and Aenar had changed the game in Essos. But mostly in favour of the Free Cities. He had made it clear in the beginning that he would not act on behalf of or against any of the Cities. Not even Braavos.
"We have much to discuss, Aenar, but I am afraid that I have many matters to attend to this evening. I'll have an assistant reach out to you to set up a meeting. You shall have to pardon me for taking my leave. But the night is still young and the food and drink are delightful if I may say so myself. Please, enjoy yourself," said Arretto as he stood to leave.
As the Sealord departed, Aenar turned his attention to the Court. If one were to say that Aenar's own holdings were opulent, one had clearly never seen the Sealord's Palace. It was covered top to bottom in artwork, the gardens were exceptionally well-tended and it even possessed a primitive form of a zoo. It would be a beautiful place, were it not for the occupants.
"A brave man you are, Ser Aenar, to take on and defeat one of Essos's most perilous foes," offered one of the unfortunate dragon rider's dining compatriots. Belatedly, the returning conqueror realised that he was not alone on the High Table and was surrounded by what would be generously described as bottomless arsefeeders.
"I thank you for your words, though in truth they are hardly so perilous atop my dragon."
"Even still, the whole continent owes you a debt for your deeds."
Aenar's smile strained under the false praise, though he managed not to grit his teeth in frustration, "The debt is already paid, the Sealord is a most generous man."
There were polite smiles all around the table as silence descended, the courtiers having perhaps sensed his mood.
The feast continued along the same lines for the next hour. Aenar eventually made his way to the main floor so that he could mingle with some of his allies whom he wished to speak to. This was, after all, the centre of Braavosi power. Every power broker and player of the game, converged here at the Sealord's Palace, every day to further their agenda. Deals were struck, backs were stabbed and heads rolled as each man trampled over the other to secure their standing. Aenar was no different.
He may possess a dragon, a fortune and an army, but he needed a vast network of allies, friends and business partners to ensure that his dragon and men alike were cared for. And there was no point in possessing a fortune if he had no way of investing it.
"A hard man to track down, aren't you, Ser Aenar?" a familiar voice spoke out behind him.
Aenar turned and his eyes widened as they landed upon the form of Ser Steffon Darklyn. He looked older, his once dark hair giving way to his current salt-and-pepper appearance. And yet, the Kingsguard stood tall. He watched the elder knight approach him, his gaze wary. The man may have once been a friend and a mentor. But he still served King Viserys.
Surprise coloured his expression, "Ser Steffon. It has been a while."
"It has, hasn't it, my boy? You need not worry. On my honour, I am not here to harm you," replied the knight, his arms raised in a placating manner.
Aenar did relax at that. He had known Ser Steffon since he had been a young lad. The man had taught him more of life than his own brothers had. Their duties and desires may have led them into conflict with one another, but Aenar knew that Ser Steffon's word was his bond.
"It is good to see you Ser," replied Aenar, "but I find it hard to believe that your presence here is a coincidence."
"It is no coincidence, Aenar," chuckled the Darklyn knight, "I have been searching for you for some time now. But I figured you would return to Braavos eventually."
"And why is it that you have been searching for me?" Suspicion laced the Valyrian's tone.
The Knight's lips pulled up into a grin, "Well Aenar, you have been summoned to King's Landing by your half-brother, King Viserys Targaryen, First of His Name, King of the Andals and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm."