A Wayward Wizard at War

The proceeding days after 'The Christening', as the event came to be known, proceeded smoothly, I now had another moniker to append to an extensive list that I didn't truly care for. People, being the superstitious wackos that they were, had already been propagating tales that I was Balerion's human manifestation here to lead the House of the Dragon in the purest manner possible or some such nonsense, owing to our similar color schemes and intimidating profiles. It was an amusingly farfetched idea, but I had been rocking this style of mine well before I had made the true Black Dragon my familiar. It was not the first occasion that the 'aura' of my presence proved itself to be a mixed blessing. It may have passively converted people's opinions to be favorable to me in spite of their initial leanings, but it also triggered a spot of weirdness here and there that I would rather do without. The only reason that I did not dissuade the dissemination of those illogical rumors was because they were still positive PR for the cause, so I let it be for now. There were greater matters for me to attend to at the Targaryen camp than scuttlebutt.

As planned, Rhaenys flew to Rosby Castle and secured their surrender without a fight, utilizing honeyed words that were backed by a daunting scaly bodyguard, though she relayed a missive from their Lord Jon Rosby that their troops would take about a month to muster, outfit, and arrive at the Targaryen war camp. Within a span of two weeks, news came that Visenya had managed to also secure the cooperation of the Stokeworths, but only after she and Vhagar set their castle roof on fire when some idiotic members of their garrison let loose a barrage of crossbow bolts out of fear, which they apologized profusely for after a firm reprimand from the Lady of the Castle, Benissa Stokeworth. As with the Rosbys, their meager levies would likewise take a moon's turn to amalgamate and send our way. I didn't even care that they were clearly sandbagging on us, with those two regionally major Houses in our pocket we had additionally increased our foothold on the continent.

Amidst the chaotic flurry of administration, deliberation, and coordination, I found some solace in the fact that I could delegate the niceties of such burdensome tasks to dependable people such as Visenya and Rhaenys, who seemed to honestly enjoy this unengaging drivel. Everybody wanted to have a King's Crown, but how many would want his desk and the obscenely disgusting amount of paperwork associated with it? That aside, I did make it a point to mingle with the troops regularly. An adept ruler is not just seen but their presence must also be felt, a lesson that I learned early in my years of leadership. The energy that coursed through the war camp was tangible, a measure of fear, anticipation, and an overriding notion of hope that we would prevail against the odds. The soldiers greeted me with salutes, bows, or if they were occupied, a respectful nod as I walked by. The camaraderie within the Targaryen camp filled me with a sense of satisfaction. Morale was rebounding from the slump that had been incurred with the ill fated crossing.

The seasoned veterans were always reliable for motivating their juniors with some war stories over a mug of ale. Their youthful exuberance may have been dulled by time and hardship, but the glimmer in their eyes was unmistakable when they delved into tales of past valor and triumph under the shadow of the dragons. The younger soldiers hesitated at first, fearing that their greenness would show too obviously in my attendance by the edges of the campfires. But word had gotten around that their new warlord was more than just a towering figure leading them towards an uncertain future; he was approachable, keen on listening to their concerns and hopes, and quick to share his own wisdom should they ask for it. It was too soon for me to truthfully supplant Aegon in their hearts, but the seeds were being planted in receptive soil.

While my two prospective queens reveled in the intricacies of diplomacy and governance, I found myself drawn to the pragmatic elements of our cause. Instructing troops in how to maintain steadfast discipline in the field, overseeing a steady stream of supplies from responsible foraging and hunting, and ensuring that the camp ran with machine like precision. After all, one could not wage a successful war bandying words alone. Proper warfare logistics was not particularly glamorous, but that and instilled orderliness was what separated a genuine army from a glorified mob. I would even declare that my 'rehabilitated' brigands were doing quite well in my burgeoning logistics division. The wooden leaf springs that I had set them to retooling the variegated assortment of wains and wagons in our inventory were already increasing the efficiency of the newborn division by a large margin. With an upgraded supply baggage train that broke down with reduced frequency, even the ponderously plodding peasant levies in our ranks could make decent progress when on the march.

One evening, after a grueling day at the training fields ruthlessly drilling to make those peasants less plodding, I decided to pay a visit to one of the tents that was set aside for myself and my apprentice. It was my comforting sanctuary away from the ceaseless tedium of conquest.

"That's sufficient for now. Assemble at dawn for another round of formation drills, your collective footwork is still atrocious" I had commanded the weary men before departing from them; their haggard, sweat soaked faces reflecting their bone deep exhaustion. If they were this tired now, they would drop dead from an actual 'Training Regimen from Hell' if I legitimately felt the need to remove the kid gloves.

Although there were myriad demands on my now limited time, I still managed to guide my apprentice Ylisse in refining her fine control and swelling her internal reserves of mana using training tools every night in our personal tent. I also used that opportunity to instruct her in the subject of 'Letters and Numbers' as the local parlance went, as she was unsurprisingly quite illiterate. She took to letters like a fish to water, but like me, disdained vexatious mathematics with a passion. Luckily for her, I did not really require her to know arithmetic beyond the four basic operations, and she would eventually learn spells of Arithmancy that would handle more complex topics. As the moon rose high in the sky that evening, I showed Ylisse the beauty and power that could be harnessed through precise lettering, each quill stroke bringing her closer to unlocking arcane secrets.

A boxy shape blazed itself onto a scrap of parchment and stayed lit like a brazier, "This… my dear Apprentice, is a Rune" I handed it to her for her perusal.

"Like the kind my ancestors once used?" She asked as she beheld it, a sense of wonder twinkling in her eyes.

"Unlikely" I shook my head, "This is a Rune for Illumination from a School, or distinct training process, known where I come from as Seal-script"

"I am not sure I understand, Teacher" She blinked, "Can you explain it to me?"

I resisted affectionately mussing her red hair, "You can think of it as akin to written languages such as the Common Tongue of Westeros or High Valyrian, and like written languages, they are used to convey meaning to another reader, the other intended reader in this case being the World itself. Runes are a manifestation of arcane power in the world. They come in many patterns and arrangements and are basically a codified language that imposes a specified condition upon wherever or whatever they are inscribed. I will show you the three main types that I'll be teaching you" I demonstrated by imprinting a Rune for High Morale on an ovular river stone, with my apprentice letting out an involuntary smile as her spirits were boosted, "This is known as a permanent Rune. It will accomplish its effect so long as mana is supplied to it, whether it is from the Mage or the ambient mana provided from the leylines of the world. It is permanent because there is an additional feature involved in its inscription known as a Siphon, which you are not ready to make yet"

She pouted at that, and I had to stifle a chuckle at her childlike impatience.

A Rune for Warmth materialized in the air, appearing hazy like a heat effect, "This is what is known as a Spontaneous Rune. They're good for battlefield applications or just tossing out temporarily when you don't want to emplace a permanent Rune. They cost less mana to initially cast and do not require further input from the Mage, but they will dissipate after they run out of fuel, like a campfire that has burned itself out"

I wrote a Rune for Discretion on another piece of parchment with a regular office pen that I had on me, which obscured it from prying eyes like a privacy screen would for a smart phone unless seen from head on, "The Third type is a Written Rune, which blends characteristics of the preceding two. Just infuse mana into the Rune to activate it. How long it stays active depends on how much mana you infuse into it. It also depends on what medium that you use to write it and on which material you write it upon. The more resonance, or compatibility with magic it has, the better and longer lasting the effect will be"

"That is so amazing, Teacher!" She verbally gushed, "Is this why you're having me practice my penmanship?"

"That's right" I confirmed, "Proper penmanship is important, even for the Runes that you will be inscribing using your Will. If you can draw them accurately, then you can visualize them faithfully. Runes are finicky, and poorly drawn ones will not function at best… or blow up in your face at worse" I tapped her gently on her forehead, "So be diligent with your practicing, okay?"

"Aye, Teacher" She resolved herself, "I will"

I again fought the urge to tussle the top of her hair, "You know that pool of energy that you have been adding to with your exercises?"

She nodded in the affirmative, "I want you to visualize it like cave paint… the Free Folk do that, right? Make images with pigments to commemorate hunts, heritage, history?" I double checked with her, not wanting to come off as racist.

She slowly bobbed her head, recalling such practices with her old tribe, "Some of them did that with seal blubber oil and crushed plants for colors" She frowned, "Lot of hands, mostly"

'Ah yes, the timeless artistry of hand turkeys' I thought with some amusement.

"Regardless, I want you to close your eyes and imagine tracing your fingers through that pool" She did so, with great concentration etched on her brow, "Once you get some feedback from that, we will continue"

"I think I have it, Teacher" She squinted, "It… tingles… like a limb I've slept on overnight"

"Very good" I praised her, "Now visualize the shape of this rune," I materialized the shape of a Rune of Warmth a few feet from her face, "like an indentation in the mud that you must fill with water, with your magic being the water"

It was the Hour of Ghosts (or nine in the nighttime) when she achieved a breakthrough, the tent suffusing with artificial heat that dispersed as soon as the Rune died out, given the minute reserves of mana that she charged it with. It was not the best work that a beginner could do, but Ylisse was ecstatic as she performed proper magic via her own will. Her hair became frizzy as her elevated emotional state caused her inner magic to run in wild currents throughout her body. It was something that Arcanian infants, irrespective of clan type, manifested when they got excitable. It was harmless, but not exactly subtle, which was why we hosted these sessions in private.

"That's not bad, Apprentice" I positively acknowledged her, "Eventually you'll be able to do that without delay" I handed her an enchanted paintbrush, "For now though, you can use this"

She held the unassuming object up, scrutinizing it, "What is it, Teacher?"

"Another tool to aid you with your Rune-crafting" I answered, "It will draw on your pool of magic in a way that will train you to one day do so without the brush, permitting you to 'paint' Runes with greater ease"

She tilted her head, making some mental connection, "Is this why you wanted to know if the Free Folk used paint? I always wanted to try drawing shapes for meself" She muttered the last bit, her face reddening with a mix of embarrassment and resentment of the people that ostracized her.

"Artistic expression is almost as important as your penmanship when it comes to Runecrafting, my Apprentice" I indulgently twirled another brush between my fingers, "It is my sincere hope, Ylisse, that you will become quite the artist in this someday"

In spite of the recent realpolitik successes that buoyed the spirits of the soldiers and Narrow Sea Lords, I didn't have the patience to waste essential time snowballing strength spasmodically, so one night I took Balerion out for a twilight flight and landed upon another secluded islet to accelerate my goals. I opened a portal to one of my pocket dimensions, this one dedicated to axiomatic Trump Cards that I had amassed during one misadventure or another and stepped within. What greeted me was a colossal, futuristic facility that was dedicated to housing thousands upon thousands of Vat-Grown, Bioengineered superhuman beings that I 'acquired' over the course of my many travels. Oddly enough these beings were not specifically bred for war, but could do just about anything exceptionally well. I had found them languishing in an undisclosed complex on an asteroid belt in a forgotten star system that was on one of my Mirror Inspired Sojourns. From the primary computer mainframe there, I had accessed records that told an interesting story. The archives had labeled these Vat-Grown people as the Void Legion, and placed great expectations on them.

I deduced that the planetary government that had ordered the creation of this Void Legion intended for them to be an emergency, secretive contingency plan of some kind, but had since gone defunct, given that the timestamp from the latest official inspection was ages ago by local reckoning.

Meanwhile, these poor bastards had been literally chilling in immobilized sleep for centuries.

The overwhelming majority of these superhumans were kept in pseudo-stasis pods that preserved their impeccable, Gene-Forged bodies but run their minds through virtual deep-dive scenarios that were connected to and overseen by a Simu-Net to sharpen their skills and ensure that when the day came for them to serve, they would be ideal servants.

Justifiably, after hundreds of years of doing this, they were Prime Renaissance Men and Women.

Sadly, they had no other purpose to justify their existence to themselves, which is why when I 'thawed' them out, their Sub-Legion Commanders staunchly rejected me when I offered to free them and their brethren and settle them into a normal life elsewhere. Instead, they collectively swore themselves to me and while it did not sit well with my conscience, I had little choice but to keep them squirreled away for a proverbial rainy day.

Moving all of them and their support facilities into one of my Pocket Dimensions had been quite the ordeal, understandably. An unabridged dozen trips, even.

A set of metallic doors slid open with the faintest whisper of sound as I approached one of the many administrator offices that monitored the main stasis facility.

"Autarch Zenith!" A firm, albeit monotonous voice greeted me, "How can the Void Legion be of use to you?" A well built, six foot tall man with pale skin, buzz cut hair, and flinty grey eyes stood up from his monitoring station and knelt to me in a modified 'Superhero Landing' pose with his free hand clutched to his heart in a fist.

It was a mannerism that I had yet to divest them of.

"Please stand, Darius" I addressed the man, "You know that I'm not big on ceremony like that"

He was one of a multitude of Sub-Legion Commanders that had pledged themselves and their subordinate brethren to me. Unlike many of the others though, he volunteered to be part of the monitoring crew that augmented the automated processes of the facility. It gave me hope that perhaps someday his brothers and sisters might shake off whatever mental programming whammied their minds and think more for themselves.

"Force of Habit, I suppose" He grinned unapologetically at me, "What brings the Liberator to us this day?"

Another title that I had been saddled with, and an untrue one at that. I had realistically only liberated them from gathering dust on a shelf.

"Is the Delta Sub-Legion up for some action?" I asked, and nearly winced when I saw his expression brighten like a child on Christmas morning.

The Sub-Legion Commanders were intended to be the face of the Sub-Legion they led, so their mannerisms were more personable, but there was always this… artificial tinge to it. I had no doubt that they were genuine with their thoughts and feelings, thanks to my keen empathic abilities, but it seemed like they had difficulties conveying this past the biological 'programming' that regulated their actions. The best way to describe this was that they were akin to machines made out of meat, but with authentic souls animating them.

It was a queer disconnect.

He slammed a meaty fist against his pectorals, "My Brothers and Sisters are ready to serve!" He practically chirped, "What do you need of us, Liberator?"

"I need your brothers and sisters to masquerade as Mercenaries, Sailors, and a plethora of other jobs in a Medieval type world that has magical elements of varying potency sprinkled here and there" I explained to him, "Your Sisters will probably dislike this, but they will have to be relegated to auxiliary support roles, as there is a strong bias towards males on the front lines there"

He had a contemplative twist to his forehead at that earlier mention. Magic was one of the few weaknesses that the Void Legion did not have many hard counters for, and the Simu-Net had a lack of scenarios to help them adjust to possible arcane dangers.

"You're right, Liberator" He nodded, "My Sisters will despise that limitation. We tried some of these Medieval Melee scenarios that you input into the Simu-Net, and my brethren had an enjoyable time!"

He chuckled, and an ordinary person would shiver at how uncanny it registered to their ears, "What further relevant details are there, Liberator?"

"I'll find ways to make it up to your Sisters" I shrugged regrettably, "The Mercenary Company that I want your Brothers to represent will still be called the Starsworn, just like your original Sub-Legion designation. Your Banner shall be a silver longsword piercing the centermost portion of a pentagonal grouping of five golden stars on a Sable background. You will be comprised of a mixture of heavy infantry armed with pikes and halberds, with a number of you dedicated to Windlass style Arbalests and Longbows. I also require multipurpose medium cavalry armed with latchet crossbows and lances that can do anything from leading a charge, to harassing armies on the move, to reconnaissance at midnight. The heavy infantry will have Swiss Sallet helms with visors, Sergeants leading a formation of pike will have gold stars embossed on their helmets marking them as such. Body armor will consist of studded brigandines with light plate covering the extremities. Archers and Crossbowmen will wear leather vests with aketons over hauberks, with barbute helmets for superior visibility. The cavalry will be armored in a semi-cataphract style, with visored bascinets, and flexible scaled armor encasing the horse with a combination of riveted mail and plate to protect the rider in pitched battle, and whole scale mail for outrider actions. Mounted upon tireless yet swift Marabian steeds, I suspect you will be some of the most intimidating cavalry this world will ever see"

"I want ten thousand troops and five thousand auxiliaries. Seventy percent of the troops shall be infantry, twenty percent will be ranged soldiers, and the remaining ten percent will be cavalry" I denoted to the Sub-Commander, "The auxiliaries will be dedicated to roles like sappers, sailors, and builders. I also have plans for some of them to 'retire' and later become the foundational members of reforms involving anything from judiciary jobs to theatrical arts… to leave behind a legacy that does not involve solely war"

"You will be like no mercenary company the continent of Westeros has ever known" I vowed to the artificially born man.

"Westeros, eh? All of this martial activity is certainly within our ability to do… and we can adapt to the other roles" He tilted his head, "How do you want us to present ourselves in a social aspect?"

"Your company backstory will be that of a newly formed but very well equipped mercenary army that has something to prove, with the promise that you will one day become the core foundation of a standing army that upholds the Crown's authority" I explicated, "Come off as rough around the edges, but fearless. Don't be afraid to play into the greed a bit, too. Westerosi Lords don't trust mercenaries to be loyal to anything but their paid coin, but will abide by their presence if they fight well"

"But Autarch… the only authority that we recognize is you" He protested with a prominent frown.

I hitched my shoulders, "Eh, I kind of got railroaded into becoming a Conquering King for this House of Dragonriders. You will still answer to me, and your Brothers and Sisters will be helping me achieve that goal. But ultimately, I will need you to train your replacements in the Crown Army and other departments under the Crown's purview before I can put you guys back into stasis… if your brethren still desire it, at that juncture"

He breathed through his nostrils, "This will be an amusing distraction for my brethren at worst, Liberator. But when all is said and done… we are yours to command, Autarch Zenith. That will not change, I swear it upon the honor of the Legion"

I clapped a hand on his pauldron and gave him a pained smile, "So it would seem. Awaken your brethren that you think best suited for this task and give them the heads up, and have the industrial fabricators fashion your equipment. I will take care of the rest. Amazing as Simu-Net is at authentic recreations, fieldwork offers unique challenges of its own"

He saluted me, "By your Will, my Autarch"

As the sun rose over the horizon, the newly created Starsworn Mercenary Company arrived by sea in a magnificent flotilla of fifty meter long, race built Galleons. The sleek ships glided smoothly through the water, their gunmetal grey sails billowing in the wind. The war camp was abuzz with numerous reactions to their unexpected manifestation. The Narrow Sea Lords were shocked though curious, especially Lord Velaryon who eyeballed them with great interest. These ships were doubtlessly unlike anything he had seen before, with rather streamlined profiles that seemed to slice through the frothy drink effortlessly. But it wasn't just their design that caught his attention; they were also equipped for battle. On the fore and aft of each ship stood rotary platform naval ballista and onagers mounted on the sides, capable of launching bolts and other projectiles at targets hundreds of meters away. Smaller scorpios were also emplaced on the handrails for ship to ship combat. The crews were also armed with repeater crossbows to reap a terrible toll upon any poorly armored, would-be boarders.

They were a formidable sight to behold. And if it weren't for the Targaryen pennants flying high upon the mainmasts and myself perched atop Balerion escorting them in, the other lords may have scattered like bowling pins upon seeing them approaching. It took a few hours for the majority of the men and their equipment to be rowed ashore, but they moved with machine like efficiency as I had them establish a separate campsite to the Northwest of the High Hill. They quickly established a system of picket lines, latrines, barracks, stables, wooden watchtowers, mess tents, charcoal and sand barreled water filters, drill yards, archery ranges, simplistic fortifications, and other constructions just shy of entirely emulating a Roman Castrum. I could tell that their implacable proficiency had further spooked my curious lords, as most mercenary companies of this period were little better than armed rabble and tended to behave as such. To see this many thousands of men actually comporting themselves like a proper army had rocked their limited, rigid paradigms for sure.

That afternoon I called together another war council to reassure the shaken lords that the appearance of the Starsworn was planned aforethought by my predecessor, Aegon. Given Aegon's secretive nature, this explanation was shakily accepted by them, although I could tell that Orys was suspicious of this reasoning. I also introduced them to Field Marshal Darius, who I had decked out in elaborately gilded, black plate armor that would make Henry the Eighth jealous. Darius played his role admirably throughout the meeting, maintaining a polite, if businesslike manner that had only the most facetious of Lords present sneer at him. If they only knew that he could collectively snap their spines like twigs, I'm sure they would have carefully reserved their disdain. When they were dismissed from my presence, Rhaenys, Visenya, and even Orys stayed behind to grill me about them. Visenya had shortly let in Orys on the barely kept secret that I was a Wizard, which he took in stride. If this revelation bothered him, he did not show it or give voice to it. His steadfastness was something that I appreciated about him.

"Why were we not informed about this sooner, Zenith?" Visenya practically demanded from me.

I arched an eyebrow, "Are you complaining about the additional manpower?"

She scoffed, "Hardly. But how do you suppose we are to pay them? The wealth of our House is considerable, but hiring a mercenary company of this size will rapidly change that"

"They have already been 'contracted' for a period of five years, which states that they were paid in full for that duration already" I used my quotation fingers, which they got the gist of in spite of the unfamiliar gesture, "I also intend to keep them on retainer for afterwards"

"Afterwards?" Rhaenys spoke, pouring herself a glass of wine and taking a sip. She hid it well, but I could discern that Aegon's death still haunted her. Hopefully her minor alcoholism would not become a problem.

Who was I kidding here? With her modifications, she was incapable of developing a somatic addiction the way vanilla mortals could.

"Winning the war is one challenge" I posited to her, "Winning the peace is another. A standing army at the Crown's beck and call aids with this"

"Winning the peace?" She whispered to herself, "I quite like this saying"

A cool wind swept through the pavilion, causing Rhaenys' silver-gold hair to flutter like pennants at the break of dawn. She seemed lost in rumination, her fingers dancing idly along the stem of her wine glass.

Visenya leaned forward, her eyes narrowed in scrutiny, "And what of the costs beyond gold, Zenith?" She inquired, her words carrying the weight of experienced rulership, "We may have secured this… Starsworn Company of yours for a time, but armies are not stirred by goodwill alone. The other lords may attempt to court their services"

"I assure you that they are absolutely loyal to me, and by that association, will fight fanatically for this House. No bribes are necessary" I focused on Orys, who had been silent thus far, "I've seen you watching them. What are your thoughts, Orys?"

Orys regarded me with hushed respect, his dark eyes betraying his piqued interest, "They are unlike any force I have ever seen, Archon. Their sheer discipline and coordination is… otherworldly. If Ser Quenton could see them now, he would say the same"

"Let us just say," I began cryptically, my crimson eyes reflecting a secret knowledge, "that they have been trained by methods unknown to this world. Did Ser Quenton perish in the Crossing?"

"Nay, thank the Gods" He shook his head, "He elected to join us on another moon"

"Are you on good terms with the man?" I wondered aloud, "You seem rather relieved that he was not in the initial invasion"

"Of course!" He exclaimed, "He's like a second father to me. The man trained my brother and I in weapon-craft since before our balls had dropped!" He sent an apologetic glance to his half sisters, "Pray, pardon the impropriety, Archontessas"

"Will their presence not spurn our Bannermen?" Rhaenys interjected, waving off Orys' faux pas, "Many will feel slighted that they cannot lead men in our name, or have positions from which they can reap glory and rewards for their leal service. Others still might feel threatened by their presence and plot against us"

"Like the Dragons won't already intimidate most of them into compliance. As the acting Archon of this House, I am entitled to a personal retinue of armsmen" I reminded her, "That this retinue is several thousand strong is immaterial. Let the lords bristle and sputter. Unless they're volunteering to pay for their upkeep, they have no say whatsoever on where this Company is employed on the field"

Rhaenys' lips curled into a partial smile, the mention of dragons always seemed to lift her spirits, "Indeed, the dragons shall cast a fearsome shadow upon our enemies. But there is some wisdom in the caution of our Bannermen, Zenith. They know the land and its people"

I met her eyes with an unyielding stare, "And I know war, Rhaenys. This land will bend to the Will of those who wield the tools of power most effectively. Our dragons are an example to that. My Starsworn Company is another"

Visenya's mouth twisted into a smirk, a rare amusement glinting in her lilac orbs, "Spoken like a true Targaryen, Zenith," She conceded with a nod, "We shall see how the lords react as the Conquest progresses. If nothing else, it will be a sight to behold… your foreign legion standing amongst our seasoned knights and soldiers"

"We'll have that opportunity sooner than you think. There are roughly three thousand men marching south to contest our landing here, the lead banners displaying black and gold rhombi on the right, and a red tierce on the left. The other displays a red salmon within a gold tressure of all things" I informed her.

"Mooton and Duskendale?" Her severe face pinched in confusion, "I have received no reports of this from the scouts. How would you know that?"

"Dragons are not the only eyes in the sky that we have" I mysteriously replied.

Orys went stiff at this news, "Then we must muster the men at once!"

I stopped him before he could get far, "Only notify the lords that have mounted men and are willing to leave on short notice to accompany us. You will have command of the Targaryen outriders. We journey at first light. I'll stay at a low altitude with Balerion so that you can visibly follow us to our prey"

"Aye, my Advocate of Targaryen" He dutifully moved to obey me.

"Vhagar and I are coming with" Visenya insisted, tolerating no suggestions to the contrary.

Rhaenys sighed and downed a mighty gulp of wine, "I shall remain here and tend to administrative affairs" She dilligently resigned herself.

"We won't be gone that long" I told her, "Once we have secured the cooperation of Duskendale and Maidenpool, I estimate that we shall have the political and military momentum to sustain the intended campaigns into the Stormlands and the Riverlands unabated"

Rhaenys tilted her head, "And what of your… apprentice, Ylisse?"

I thought about it, "I would appreciate it if you could support her studies in reading and writing while I am busy dealing with our earliest legitimate challengers"

"I can have our Maester Vaeron oversee her letters and numbers" Rhaenys acquiesced, "Good hunting, Zenith"

"Thank you, Rhaenys," I responded with a rakish beam, feeling the accustomed thrill of an impending clash surge through me, "We will return with tales to tell and songs for the singers to spread"

She giggled, "I look forward to hearing them"

I directly notified Darius, my trusted commander, to have three hundred of his riders outfitted for skirmishing duties. They were to be dispatched with the Targaryen outriders to harass the combined host of Darklyn and Mooton. Their objective was to limit their avenues of approach towards us and blind their forces before they could spot us. With preparations underway, my thoughts turned to Ylisse, the young woman from the distant northern lands who had become my apprentice in these tumultuous times. As I retraced my steps back to the tent that we coexisted in, I couldn't help but approve of her fierce intellect and insatiable curiosity as my student. I found her sitting cross legged on an expensive Myrish rug, surrounded by tome upon tome of pictures that I had made for her as a primer to help her learn the words written in the common tongue of this land. Her fiery ginger locks spilled over the pages like liquid fire as she leaned in, completely engrossed in her studies. Perched in the corner was Snowfall, who was preening her feathers.

She looked up, her features brightening upon seeing me, "Teacher! You've returned! Did Visenya agree to our-"

I raised a hand to interrupt her eager questioning, "Ylisse," I began in a more subdued tone than usual, "There are matters of war that require my direct attention. I need you to take your regular studies with Maester Vaeron while I'm away"

Her expression faltered for a moment before she masked it with determination, "Yes, Teacher. Of course" She said, her voice tinged with disappointment.

I stepped closer and knelt beside her, observing how the candlelight danced across her freckled cheeks, "Listen carefully, Apprentice" I spoke softly, "Your education is of paramount importance. Not only is it your burgeoning control over magic, but also your understanding of the history and culture of these lands. You must be prepared, for this world will test you in ways you cannot yet imagine"

Ylisse's green eyes met mine unflinchingly, and she nodded solemnly. She understood the gravity of my words, perhaps better than most would at her age.

"As for your skin changing abilities," I carried on in a low tone, "practice them subtly and privately. It is a rare gift, one that could prove invaluable or dangerous, depending on who learns of it"

Her lips formed a tight line as she absorbed the counsel that I provided. There was steel there, a resilience beneath her youthful appearance that was honed through years of harsh survival.

"I won't let you down, Teacher" She vowed.

"I know you won't" I retorted with a hint of pride.

Our exchange was interrupted by Orys' brisk entrance. His stern face was drawn tight with urgency, "The men are informed and are getting ready," He announced to me.

"Very well" I stood up smoothly, giving Ylisse a reassuring glance before turning towards Orys. My visage betrayed nothing of my faint concern for my young apprentice as they settled on the warrior's face.

"Get some sleep, Orys. We ride afore dawn" I declared without further ado, "Any idlers and sluggards will be left behind, I care not for their noble status"

"My riders will not be found wanting, Advocate" Orys resolutely affirmed, "I make no promises about the others"

I snorted, "Good enough for me"

After seven grueling days of nigh nonstop riding, our paths finally crossed with the joint forces of Mooten and Darklyn on the Rosby Road. They appeared as a motley crew, comprised mostly of untrained peasant levies who brandished simple weapons like bill hooks with shaky hands. A handful of knights and men at arms from the wealthier Darklyn House strove to bolster their ranks, but their efforts faltered in comparison to the valor of the Targaryen outriders deftly led by Orys and the Starsworn medium cavalry under the command of Field Marshal Darius. The swift maneuvers and calculated strikes of our mounted troops swiftly neutralized their own outriders in the thicket, leaving the main force unscreened and vulnerable to assault. As Balerion and I descended from the clouds above, there was no time for warning or reaction as we unleashed a burst of red tinged black flames upon the unsuspecting Lords Mooton and Darklyn, who trotted unwisely at the procession's forefront. The intense heat and blinding light engulfed the head of their column in a blistering blaze, sending shouts of terror and confusion up and down their ranks.

Something that was compounded by Visenya and Vhagar joining the fray.

The smell of burning flesh, from horses and human alike, saturated the air, overwhelming the senses. Blackened lumps vaguely shaped like the bodies of men and horses littered the ground, while others outside of the immediate kill radius writhed in agony as they caught aflame via proximity, desperately and fruitlessly trying to extinguish the magical flames that consumed them. Amidst the disorder and carnage, my men rode on with fierce determination, cutting down any who dared to still stand in our way with ease. Our dragons flew overhead, circling like vultures as we kept up our relentless attack on the disorganized enemy forces. The sound of swords clashing and screams of battle echoed through the countryside as we fought for victory. In that moment, nothing else existed for our men except for the exhilaration of battle and the ardent desire to emerge triumphant.

With the abrupt decapitation of their leadership and the following mounted onslaught, a panic had been incited in the remainder of the enemy, who peeled off the road in droves before fragmenting and routing into the woods, the futile shouting of Knights to rein them in proving insufficient in the face of annihilation.

The acrid scent of char and smoke clung heavy to the air as I regrouped with my equestrian forces by an exposed field, surveying the brief but vicious destruction we had wrought upon our erstwhile foes. The ground was a harrowing tapestry of scorched earth and the smoldering remains of armored corpses, the plate steel melting like butter and coalescing into clumps. Balerion, his fuliginous scales shimmering like polished jet in the light of the fires that he ignited, raked his claws against the ground in a mix of contentment and agitation. Amidst the carnage, I gaged our position with meticulous care, ensuring that no threats of reinforcements lingered in the shadows.

It was clear that there were none.

Over two and fifty hundred men had perished in under a sixth of an hour… and that was with us holding back.

As I dismounted from Balerion, my boots settled upon the dry earth with a disconcerting silence. The sudden devastation spoke volumes of our potency, yet it weighed upon me with the burden of responsibility for what had transpired. Here I was embroiled in another war, which meant witnessing further loss of human life. It evoked a multitude of unpleasant memories from my time spent in Gryphondria, when I was less accustomed to such gruesome sights. On this occasion however, my men were efficient and merciless, and though this was essential for triumph, the magnitude of obliteration at my disposal in the form of a living siege engine was not lost on me.

A sense of disquiet gathered like storm clouds in my chest as I turned to address Orys and Darius, who approached me with purposeful strides. Their armor bore the scuffs of skirmishing activities, but their faces were alight with an easy victory.

"Darius," I monotoned, my voice slicing through the smoky haze like a blade, "have your riders round up any stragglers. You can spare the levies, since without leadership, they'll return to whence they came and spread word of what happened here. Prioritize the knights and nobles instead. We can't leave potential threats to fester at our backs"

"As you command" Darius grunted, riding off to carry out my orders.

"What is our next move, my Archon?" Orys questioned, shifting in his saddle, a hungry energy emanating from his posture. His armor plates were stained with streaks of crimson, the rivulets running down the metal like gory teardrops.

"Duskendale in the principal port on this region, yes?" At his confirmation, I continued, "That will be our next destination. Once we have secured the town, we can admix their resources, manpower, and treasury to the war chest"

"And if they resist us forcefully?" He countered, "Our men are not suited for setting up a siege"

"No sieges, Duskendale will simply be wiped off the map then" I shrugged unsympathetically, "Either way, the notoriety will advance our cause"

Orys paused, looking at me with a mixture of awe and trepidation, "Such destruction… are you certain that it is necessary?"

"Necessary?" I echoed, matching his gaze with my own unflinching stare, "Perhaps not. But it is expedient. Sieges take valuable time to conduct. In war, expediency often outweighs necessity. Even with the Starsworn's professionalism bolstering our army, it is ill advised for us to enact warfare on too many fronts"

"An uncompromising stance," Orys rasped, his brows furrowing with a thoughtful glint in his eyes, "Then you reckon that Duskendale would rather capitulate than test that ultimatum?"

"Capitulation is not as bitter a medicine to swallow when the alternative is total eradication," I replied, my smoldering look steady, "It is high time that they and future challengers to the Targaryen cause learned what it means to oppose us"

Orys hummed, before saluting crisply and galloping off to rally his men. Rejoining Visenya and her dragon, who had landed nearby, I turned to review the ruined battlefield once again. The view was grisly, yes, but it was also sobering for our opponents, a testament to our strength and Will to unify this continent under one rule. And yet, in the pit of my stomach, there lingered an ominous sense of foreboding. My spirit always felt tainted by such acts, and I made a mental note to meditate to avoid losing sight of myself. War was a brutish, bloody business, and one that I derived no real pleasure in prosecuting.

"I take it that we shall be heading for Duskendale?" Visenya asked as she swept ashes and soot off of Vhagar's scales with a hand brush, crinkling her nose at the stink of the battleground. Her pitch hued, enameled scale armored cuirass clinked and chimed as she made rote movements with the horse haired implement.

"Indeed" I affirmed, "Unless you have thoughts to the contrary?"

"Nay" She droned, "I heed the Will of my House's Archon"

"I'm not opposed to counsel if you believe it prudent, Visenya" I apprised her, causing her to glance at me with a nondescript expression. Even her emotions registered as labile.

Yes, turns out that you can be an empath and women can still be enigmatic.

"I truly do not have any objections to this course of action" She neutrally insisted, "With Lords Darklyn and Mooton both dead, their heirs will either surrender to us, or dig their heels in and invoke the wrath of our dragons"

In truth, it was more than wrath. The fire of the dragons was indiscriminate with its arbitration. I thought of Duskendale, a coastal town that was replete with people, according to the reports. Did they understand the severity of their liege hypothetically denying us, what it meant to challenge the might of House Targaryen? Doubtful, but they would be fairly warned when we got there.

"Duskendale shall be given fair warning," I decided then, "A town can survive without its lords but not without its people. If they still choose to resist afterwards… well, that's on them"

Visenya wordlessly expressed her approval, the corners of her mouth tightening in that vague semblance of a smile, signaling her satisfaction with this plan. As of late, she had ever been the balanced force in our triumvirate; where Rhaenys was diplomatic yet whimsical and I was ruthless yet pragmatic, Visenya offered a sense of grounded morality alternating between a harsh standpoint and an open handed one. I suspected that as the firstborn of the Targaryen siblings, she received some kind of rulership training from her late Archon father. I imagine that she perceived our inner circle's developing dynamic and adjusted herself as she saw fit.

With our course charted, we began to take stock of our ranks and assess the aftermath of the short lived battle. The sight was not for the faint hearted; bodies lay strewn across the battlefield like discarded puppets, felled by the crossbow bolts and blades of our cavalry. There were some casualties on our side, but only from the attendant lords being careless with the conduct of their men. Dirty and disgruntled prisoners, mainly knights and a handful of lesser nobles, had been rounded up and would prove useful in negotiations, as well as corroborating how lords Mooton and Darklyn had been slain to any skeptics when we began to parley with those in charge of the defense of Duskendale. The survivors that were now our captives were also prospective pawns in this vast political chessboard of domination.

We could keep going onwards to Duskendale right now, but the Targaryen and accompanying lords' cavalrymen were showing signs of strain from the nigh constant riding to respond to this attacking force. My Starsworn, by comparison, were not even winded. We could afford to set up camp for a complete night's sleep. I let Darius and Orys know and tents were expeditiously erected in a nearby glade. The Starsworn proved their worth again, aiding their compatriots with their accommodations and stabling the horses before isolating themselves from the noble soldiery as decorum dictated. Any other force would feel slighted by the social snubbing, but my Starsworn could not care less, absorbed as they were with all the spectacles and activities of outdoor camping that Simu-Net failed to flesh out. It was rather amusing to see my superhuman troops marveling with childlike wonder at roasting marshmallows over an open flame, or fascinating over the local lantern bugs blinking on and off with bioluminescence.

Mayhaps such novelties would one day enable them to become independent, like I hoped.

That night we would rest, refresh, and ready ourselves for what undertakings lay ahead. The road to Duskendale awaited us.

A relatively brief interval later, I sat astride one of the spare Marabian horses that Darius had brought with us, perched proudly on a knoll overlooking the busy port of Duskendale. The horse himself was a magnificent creature, just out of colt-hood, with a coat as dark and glossy as Balerion's scales. His powerful muscles rippled beneath his smooth skin, and I could feel his willful energy pulsing beneath me, desiring to gallop to his horsey heart's content. A small, irregular star marking on his forehead caught my interest, with it being reminiscent of a yin-yang symbol. With a gentle whisper and a reassuring pat, I tamed the rather spirited stallion into submission, his hooves now treading softly on the grass like a newborn foal. I christened him Bucephalus, declaring him as my trusted equestrian companion for our ongoing journey.

Duskendale, though modest in size for a town of this era, still boasted an impressive stature. Its walls, standing at a firm thirty five feet high, were whitewashed to protect the sturdy mortar that held them together from harsh weather conditions. Three gatehouses, each fortified with dual portcullises and spear wielding guardsmen, served as entry points into the bustling town. Along the walls, archers stood vigilant, their arrows ready to defend against any threat that may arise. However, due to the recent, ill fated Darklyn muster, their numbers had been stretched dangerously thin as they tried to cover all approaches equally. Perched atop a hillock at the northern termination of the town stood the Dun Fort, home to House Darklyn. Its squat, square structure was adorned with drum towers that looked across the lively port town below. Within the town itself, the people resided in cozy timbered houses topped with thatched roofs and stone chimneys, giving it a quaint and welcoming atmosphere.

Extending beyond the outskirts of Duskendale were expansive farm fields, each one teeming with different crops. The wheat fields waved gently in the breeze, while plump turnips and onions bulged from the soil's embrace. Amongst the expanse of greenery were small groves, their branches laden with ripe apples and pears, a welcome treat for our non-mercenary riders, who had been surviving on dried meat and foraged nuts. Nearby, a stone Sept, a type of Church, stood tall and proud. Its confines acted as a sanctuary for the farmers of these lands, who had huddled together in fearful appeal to their Seven Faced God when my men materialized like phantoms out of the morning mist. Despite their initial fears of pillaging, my strict orders to leave them unharmed were vehemently enforced by my loyal Starsworn, who were generally averse to civilian abuse. My outriders noted that quiet whispers could be heard within the Sept as prayers drifted like smog up towards the sky, mingling with the scent of freshly harvested wheat and the sweet aroma of ripening fruit.

There was no true intention to put the city to the siege. We hadn't the time, nor the equipment on hand to adequately do so, but I wanted all pathways of escape to be cut off, and so they were. Even the sea could offer no refuge, not with Balerion and Vhagar shrieking with deafening volume overhead. Those with the chutzpah to try to leave on their ships were forced to turn around when Balerion turned the green-grey water in front of them into billowing clouds of salty vapors with a blast of his breath. The town was completely encircled, its inhabitants trapped like prey in a predator's jaws. How their leadership behaved would determine if those jaws snapped shut with blazing lethality.

"Orys" I beckoned the man to join my side, "Who would you recommend we bring to the negotiations, from among the captives?"

"There is a Knight from House Rykker. They're one of the more prominent Houses serving under the Darklyns" He kept me abreast, "I can fetch him and have him bear the seven colored flag of peace. Do you wish for me to lead the parley?"

"No need" I shook my head, "I will speak to them myself. You stay back and monitor the roads for hostile activity"

He seemed like he wanted to protest, but held his tongue, "At least have some of my riders escort you" He whistled and some of his mounted men came forth.

I recognized one of the men who did, "Aelan, was it? You're with me"

"It would by my sincerest honor, my Archon of Targaryen!" He eagerly chirped, apparently belonging to the growing group of people that seemed to believe me a Dragon in human form.

I hoped they would not start a cult or something.

The prisoner, divested of his plate armor and dressed only in a tunic, introduced himself as Ser Renald who mounted his horse and took the flagstaff provided to him without complaint. He seemed resigned, but not resentful at his circumstances.

We trotted up the Rosby Road to the southern gatehouse, halting a respectful distance away to engage the defenders in conversation. Given that they had not attempted to feather us yet, it seemed that they were willing to listen to us.

"I am Zenith, I command House Targaryen and its forces, whose power you tried to contest some days ago" I initiated the talks, "Who is in command here?"

"That would be me, milord" A better equipped armsman said, "I'm Rychard Hollard. I am the Captain of the town guard"

"Well met" I politely cocked my head to him, "Are you aware that your ruling lord is deceased?"

"Is this the truth, Ser? Is our Lord dead?" The Captain of the guards asked my captive, seemingly recognizing him, as he leaned on a parapet.

Ser Renald Rykker nodded grimly, "Aye, twas not a battle, but a slaughter! The Lords Darklyn and Mooton were reduced to ashes before my very eyes! And then his horsemen were upon us before we could mount any kind of defense and scattered us to the winds. It shames me to admit this, but we were soundly outmatched!"

The men manning the walls reacted anxiously to this, gripping their spears and bows nervously. The Captain hesitated before formulating his next words, "I must inform Lord Darklyn's heir of this. Would you be opposed to waiting?"

I shrugged uncaringly, "I am in no hurry, but I don't advise testing my patience with any chicanery"

"I swear upon me honor that I won't dally, milord" The Hollard promised me, before personally running off to the Dun Fort.

Under half an hour had elapsed, during which Visenya had grounded Vhagar and had merged herself with my negotiations party, when a young man, a boy really, who was younger than Ylisse even, climbed onto the ramparts and addressed us in hushed tones. He must have been the late lord Darklyn's heir, given the finery of his velvet doublet, which was done up in the Darklyn colors. He had a messy mop of wavy black hair that veiled his ears and seemed to be the bane of combs. His features were balanced, if a bit boorish. He wouldn't be a heartbreaker, but I was sure there would be no scarcities in marriageable suitors for him.

Given he made his following choices wisely.

"Is it true? My father is dead?" I doubted that anyone besides myself could clearly hear him, so subdued was his speech.

"I'm afraid so, young lord Derrek. I am sorry" Ser Rykker apologized to his new liege, having better ears than I initially gave his credit for. Either that, or he just understood context.

His face scrunched up, "Did he give a good account of himself?"

"Alas," The Knight sighed gustily, "he hadn't the chance to even draw his sword, young lord. But I knew your father well. Under ordinary circumstances… he would have given good account of himself"

"Thank you, Ser" The boy lord gave his gratitude with trembling lips as he refocused on me, "If I yield the port to you, will my House be deposed and the town sacked?"

'Bold of him to outright ask, but I could respect that' I mused.

"Not at all" I gainsaid him, "So long as House Darklyn and its attendant Houses pledge themselves and their resources to the Targaryen cause, no harm shall befall this town or its inhabitants. I give you my word on this"

The boy lord studied me with a mix of suspicion and hope, his youthful eyes seeking some semblance of deceit in my words. But he would find none, for the House of Targaryen would be as much the harbingers of benevolent mercy as they were of Fire and Blood under my authority.

I stood firm, my voice a bastion of the avowal I made, "Your people have nothing to fear from us, Lord Derrek Darklyn… should you bend the knee. You and yours will retain all of your attendant lands and incomes. The dragons might soar high, yet they see the smallest mouse in their domain; but they are judicious in their wrath"

His breathing hitched slightly as he contemplated the hefty weight of the decision before him. Finally, after what must have seemed like an eternity to the youth, Lord Darklyn's shoulders slumped, not in defeat but in solemn acceptance, "Then… we will join you" He professed his allegiance with a slow nod, his voice resonating with unexpected strength that belied his tender years, "From this day, House Darklyn shall serve House Targaryen henceforth. The town and castle are yours, my liege Zenith. I also yield my treasury to you, in exchange for the Noble hostages and other captives you may have taken"

"What hostages? I have only leal bannermen in my host" I motioned with my head to Ser Renald, who blinked twice before he caught on, lowering the flag of parley now that it was not necessary.

Visenya stepped forward then, her movements brimming with regal grace, "Your fealty to us is accepted and with it comes our protection" She intoned coolly, "Let it be known throughout the land that those who stand with us shall find sanctuary beneath the wings of the dragons"

A servant who had emerged from a side door in the gatehouse offered Bread and Salt to us and we partook in Guest Right. In that moment, it was as if a palpable burden had been lifted from the town's collective shoulders. Now that we had formally sworn to do no harm to our Host or be harmed by our Host, we were welcomed as visitants. Eyes brightened with renewed hope as men shouldered their weapons and opened all of their portcullis gates to us.

Duskendale was all but officially ours now.

My soldiers kept good order as we rode into the town from the southern gate on the cobblestone road that led up to the Dun Fort. As he was not a hostage, Ser Renald did us the courtesy of being a tour guide, his posture relaxing now that he was ostensibly allied to us. On the immediate right hand side was the merchant harbor that was separated from the inner harbor by a small portion of land that was connected to the mainland via wooden walkways called the Merchant's Isle. On the left was the Worker's Quarter, where the majority of the populace lived and toiled working as crofters, carpenters, bakers, weavers, cobblers, tailors, and the odd blacksmith here and there. There were multiple Septs in Duskendale, and the Rykker knight stressed that most of the people living here were 'of the faithful'. Perhaps he was testing us someway by mentioning that. There were many market squares where wares were peddled, including the fish that were reeled in that morning. The town was odorous from spoiled fish that didn't sell and filth wedged in the gutters, but it was not as bad as it could have been, thanks to the sea breeze circulating that was the air in the town.

The smallfolk under Lord Darklyn's care seemed to be healthy enough, if a bit dirty. There was a distinct lack of bathhouses or fountains with pristine running water to wash from after all. I updated my swelling list of things to do concerning the welfare of the common born to include general sanitation improvements. Cleanliness promotes healthiness, and healthy peasants farm better and for longer meaning more taxes for the Kingdom in the long run! Unsupervised children stopped their play in the streets to point at us and whisper as they giggled to each other. Unannounced, Visenya beckoned Aelan to her to impart a few silver coins that had the stamp of a Stag on one side and a king's face on the opposite to the children on her behalf. The rowdy kids goggled in awe of an amount of money in their palms that exceeded their parents yearly wages before running off home. It was a generous example of Visenya's soft spot for little children.

My entourage and I were quartered in the Dun Fort while a handful of our Dragonkeepers minded Balerion and Vhagar outside the walls. As was often customary after such lofty oaths were sworn, the pantries were depleted and a feast was soon arranged to honor the newfound lieges of our adherents. The great hall was filled with sumptuous delicacies and fine wines from across the realm, including the touted Arbor Gold, which was a rich and fruity white wine that paired fantastically with my buttered crab's legs. The supplementary dishes consisted of honey cakes, beef and bacon pies, trout that was baked in clay molds, roasted onions dipped in gravy, glazed bread rolls, a sweet pumpkin soup, boiled goose eggs, mashed yellow turnips with butter, and garlic stuffed pork sausages. As we dined, Minstrels strummed lutes and sang ballads that extolled the valor and magnanimity of the House of Targaryen.

Their skills with improvisation were mildly impressive, if nothing else.

The air hummed with whispered tales of the dragons of ancient Valyria that soared higher than eagles, each word weaving further into legend the story that was unfolding before us. The young lord Darklyn, who prudently drank from a goblet of watered down wine, vowed to send Ravens to Maidenpool with messages urging House Mooton to quit the fight and surrender to us, testifying to our charitable behavior with them. He did not deign to excuse his father's act of mustering to war with us, as it would be insincere, but expounded that they were honoring prior commands from King Harren the Black to repel any invaders to his kingdom. He explained that his father had a notable friendship with the previous lord Mooton dating back to the days when they were squiring, which was why they were marching together… and why they had died together.

For the sake of his family's old alliances, Lord Derrek implored me to safeguard the Mootons from any potential ironborn retribution once they had surrendered to us. Relief flooded through the young lord's body when I assured him that the Mootons would outlast the line of Hoare without resorting to divulging any sensitive information. My eyes scanned the crowd and fell on a pair of shady individuals surreptitiously studying us who I had a sneaking suspicion were acting as informants for the Hoares. When prompted about them, Lord Derrek supplied that they were aging knights of his father that once owned land in the Darklyn demesne, but not being lords themselves, could not dispense justice on it and were therefore lower on the social status ladder. After falling out of favor during an incident that Lord Derrek knew nothing about, they were stripped of their holdings, though not banished from the Darklyn service. This only reinforced my misgivings that they were the kind of people who could benefit from having royal favor in exchange for dirty deeds. Lord Derrek guaranteed me that only his maester had access to Duskendale's rookery, so any spies would have to report their findings on us the hard way.

It was a minor threat, but one that could be assigned a low priority.

The lords and ladies present at the celebration in the adjacent ballroom were instantly intrigued by me and my shadowy, Assassin's Creed themed robes, but their attention was quickly captured by the stunning Visenya, who was eye catching even when clad in scaled armor and riding leathers. Despite the lively music and inviting atmosphere, both of us chose to refrain from dancing and remained aloof. Instead, we entertained discourse with any who were brave enough to approach us. One such bold soul was a young knight named Robin Darklyn, who hailed from a cadet branch of the prestigious Darklyn family but bore their name with pride. He seemed an intelligent, well spoken lad, and he was quite taken with our dragons, which he bombarded us with many harmless questions about. Such innocuous topics included diet, grooming requirements, riding characteristics, etcetera. Honestly, replace the animal in the discussion and we could have been talking mundanely about horses.

I quite liked him, and he even scored brownie points with Visenya by admiring the build quality of Dark Sister instead of criticizing her choice to wield a weapon at all. He struck me as an understated Valyrian culture enthusiast, eagerly soaking up every negligible detail Visenya shared about her heritage and customs. It was evident that this knight held a deep appreciation for the Valyrian people and their fearsome dragons, as his eyes gleamed with genuine enthrallment as I clinically described how the enriched iron processing in a dragon's gut colored their bones black whilst imparting desirable characteristics such as a lightened weight and flexibility, which made Dragonbone bows the best performing bows in that world. Even with my intentionally boring terminology that warded off eavesdroppers, he was rooted where he stood. I knew then that this knight was not just a mere flatterer, but a true aficionado of the Valyrian culture. Afterwards, the man pardoned himself from the gathering to reflect on what he had learned from us.

As the night carried on, Ser Renald Rykker, perchance testing the boundaries of our acquaintanceship, subtly challenged me to a drinking contest. Beforehand he had loudly boasted of his ability to hold his liquor, to the raucous cheers and jeers of his comrades, but he had soon passed out before the fourth pitcher could even be brought to the table by the serving maids, as hammered as the weapons on his House sigil. Seeking to outdo his lackluster showing, two others followed suit, succumbing to dreamy oblivion as they attempted to keep up with my legendary tolerance for alcohol and inexorably failed. After that, people seemed to realize that I would likewise drink them under the table and backed off in fear for their livers. Even Visenya seemed dubiously impressed, though she hid it well behind her usual air of derision.

Despite the revelries echoing through the stone walls of the Dun Fort and torches flickering like distant stars that had sunk low to earth, I stayed both metaphorically and literally sober throughout the night before Visenya and I retired to our modest chambers for a few hours rest. The dawn's first light gradually kissed the horizon, signaling an end to the festivities and leaving behind only faint hints of debauchery and nasty hangovers in its wake.

I did not bother personally attending to the surrender of Maidenpool (which Visenya saw to in my stead once the raven had arrived after a couple of days), alternatively flying back to the mouth of the Blackwater River on Balerion. I was welcomed in the skies by Rhaenys on Meraxes, who seemed to be attempting to goad me into a game of aerial skill, which I obliged as we gave chase. Balerion was beefy for a Valyrian dragon his age, but thanks to my enhancements, he was no longer a cumbersome flier, matching Meraxes move for move as she tried to shake us off her tail. Far from dismayed, instead I heard Rhaenys' mellifluous laughter carry on the winds. Our intertwined paths through the air and between the clouds created an intricate dance above the lands, a sight that surely became the fodder of tall tales for any who chanced to witness our skyward ballet. As the sun waxed on and the pursuit waned, we found ourselves drifting towards the expansive fields that bordered the Kingswood. Rhaenys' delight in the flight broke through even my normally stoic demeanor as I allowed myself a rare, unrestrained smile. Her infectious joy was a balm to the spirit amidst the backdrop of war and conquest.

It was reminiscent of a dear friend who had done the same for me in similar circumstances.

Transforming our descent into an elegant glide, Balerion and Meraxes gracefully landed side by side in a clearing that was bathed in the warmth of the midday sun. The grasses beneath us whispered secrets to the wind as Rhaenys dismounted with a poise that belied her mischievous nature.

"My dear Zenith," She began, her tone playful yet threaded with genuine curiosity, "what magicks have you wrought upon our formidable Black Dread? He flies with such vigor now, it is as if he has shed centuries from his scales!"

"Nothing so trite" I chuckled softly, "Merely a few… enhancements to balance his thew with nimbleness. One does not easily alter the essence of a dragon, but rather amplifies what already exists within"

She scrutinized me with those bright lilac eyes that held wonder within their depths, clearly amazed, "An oddly modest explanation for an extraordinary feat" She stated, stepping forward to gently place her hand on Balerion's massive scaled neck and give it a rub. The beast let out a content rumble that could be felt in the bones, as if approving of the affection.

Honestly, his mannerisms reminded me of an old guard dog that was ever vigilant, but still retained a critical weakness to belly scratches.

"But tell me truly" She sibilated, her expression growing more serious as she stepped back from Balerion, meeting my gaze with an inquisitive tilt of her head. "What plans do you harbor for our future?" Her question was not just about Balerion's newfound agility, but about the larger scheme of things concerning our conquest, our legacy, and perhaps even more than that.

I considered her query before responding with careful deliberation, "When one peers into the flames of ambition," I spoke slowly, "it is imperative to recognize the shadows it casts and be wary. We must not only conquer this land… but also build a realm that is resilient and ideally Just. You and Visenya will learn the finer details of this when it becomes pertinent"

She hummed thoughtfully, "And what of the whispers that speak your name with revulsion and fear?" Rhaenys disputed, "The Seven fearing Westerosi lords that mumble that you are a 'Sorcerer with eyes like spilt blood' who commands both spell and dragon with unequalled prowess"

'I grow tired of this Sorcerer mislabeling. It's Wizard or Mage. Pick a lane!' I mentally groused.

I arched an eyebrow at her polite phrasing, "Whispers will twist and grow like ivy on ancient stone," I acknowledged. "But let them speak true or false; my solicitude lies not with rumors but with actions. If they must whisper my name, let them whisper also of their undying loyalty to House Targaryen"

"Or of their unending fear," Rhaenys quipped, her lips curving into an impish grin that momentarily softened her contemporary resolute visage, "Both can be equally useful to us, I suppose"

"Indeed" I concurred with a faint smirk, knowing full well the power of reputation in the game of thrones, "But we must straddle the line between fear and respect. Lean too far into dread… and rebellion takes root that we have to waste precious time and resources stamping out. But if we falter towards complacency, the realm will decay from within from corruption"

Her grin faded as she pondered my words, "A delicate balance, to be sure" She murmured, "One that requires a careful hand to maintain"

Rhaenys looked at me, her eyes glinting with both reverence and admiration, "And where do you fit in this grand scheme, Zenith? You who are not of our blood nor bound by our traditions" She inquired with a discerning tilt of her head.

"I am but a guide" I explained, my tone remaining even, "A wielder of magic from another world, come to represent this noble House with reliability and wisdom" I paused, then added mindfully, "Though I am not of Targaryen blood, I share your Brother-Husband's vision for a greater future for this continent, one where might and magic will secure peace and prosperity for all, from the King all the way down to the lowliest peasant"

She glacially bobbed her head, understanding dawning on her petite features, "Then let us hope that the Maesters who write of the history of these days record you kindly, as more than just the wizard or mage that my Sister and I gave a Crown" She said, emphasizing my preferred titles with an elegant wave of her hand.

I offered her a genuine smile, one devoid of any hidden agendas or foreboding. "As long as history remembers you and Visenya as the conquering Queens who brought lasting, positive change to these lands, then how it remembers myself is of no consequence to me"

Rhaenys beamed at me before turning to watch her Meraxes once more. The she-dragon's scales shimmered like burnished steel in the sunlight, each scute a testament to the creature's ancient lineage.

"May I confide in you, Zenith?" She whispered, even though there was no one around to eavesdrop.

"Always" I crowed.

She inhaled, "I've only told Visenya and Aegon about this aspiration, but one day I would like to take Meraxes and see what lies on the other side of the Sunset Sea"

"I could tell you right now, if don't mind it being spoiled for you" I scratched idly at my chin.

"Truly!?" She squeaked cutely, before recomposing herself, "Ehem. That is… I do not mind knowing"

"As its narrowest point," My eyes glowed as I examined ye'old Arcane GPS, "the Sunset Sea still spans several thousand miles. So it's more of an ocean… one that is oddly lacking in islands for a seagoing crew to restock on fresh water and other supplies. There is also an alarming prevalence of hundred foot tall Rogue Waves that could smash a ship into splinters. What a daunting challenge it would be to circumnavigate through that"

"Oh… that is… disheartening" Rhaenys' shoulders slumped, "That would account for the ships that had to turn around… or were never seen again. Any expedition sent with me into those conditions would be consigned to a watery grave"

"I'm sorry to be the bearer of bad news, Rhaenys" I apologized to her.

"No" She waved me off, "It is much better to learn of this from the safe vantage of your magic than in person. I could never endanger Meraxes like that"

Like someone else that I knew, a depressed Rhaenys was something that had to be remedied straightway.

"My magic allows me to travel the world at whim" I disclosed to her, "If you desire it, and if our future schedule has openings, I could take you to the exotic places of the world that even the well traveled Lomas Longstrider in those books of yours could only dream of visiting"

She swallowed thickly as she gawked at me, "I-… I would very much like that, Zenith"

"The singers will indeed draft songs about us all" She declared with conviction, changing the subject, "The Dragon Queens they'll dub us, with the Dragon King as our enigmatic guardian" Her eyes sparkled with merriment and pride as she conjured up images of forthcoming tales to be told throughout the ages, propagated by reimbursed bards, no doubt.

I nodded sagely in response, "Then so mote it be"

The weight of our shared destiny seemed to solidify around us. It was a bond forged stronger than any steel, Valyrian or otherwise, binding our fates together in the annals of history that had yet to be written.

For now, though, amidst the gentle rustling of leaves and the adjacent rumbling of Balerion's contented breathing nearby, we stood united in a companionable silence under a sky streaked with picturesque cotton white clouds. It was a brief moment of tranquility before we would have to unfurl our banners once more to lead our armies into an age that would redefine this world forever.

The Targaryen position at the mouth of the Blackwater Rush grew ever stronger, with flags flying high and bustling activity from armsmen hailing from over a dozen castles that had bent the knee to our rule. The riverbanks were now firmly under our control for leagues and leagues, thanks to the strategic efforts of Rhaenys and Visenya. As our power and influence spread, the two sisters urged me to host a grand coronation ceremony, complete with all the pomp and celebration befitting a newly crowned ruler. But I saw no need for such pageantry, as a king that had to flamboyantly emphasize his station was no real king at all. My focus was on leading my adopted House towards its destiny. I made it clear to them in no uncertain terms that when it came time for Visenya to crown me and Rhaenys to announce me as the Monarch of Westeros, it would be a momentous occasion heralding a metamorphosis, not just a mere display of pageantry. That it would mark the beginning of a new era for the realm, one where peace and unity could reign supreme.

While moderately disappointed, they acquiesced.

The most recent event meriting any interest was that of an unexpected visit one boring afternoon. A paid merchant that was being escorted by Valemen that were sworn to House Arryn came bearing a written message and a portrait wrapped in thick linens to protect it from the dampness of their journey south. My trusty Starsworn had spotted and challenged them before any of the Targaryen lookouts could react, and soon we were presented with a gift from the famed 'Flower of the Mountain'. I thanked the Valemen and offered them Bread and Salt as well as the hospitality of my campgrounds for them to rest and recover before they returned north, which they graciously expressed their gratitude to me for. I saw their jaws drop as Balerion let out a thundering roar as he sailed overhead, enshrouding the land with his great bulk, but my placid mien never faltered.

I resisted smirking as they visibly paled, doubtlessly contemplating about what they would have to report back to their Queen Regent.

Violence perceived was violence achieved.

When I had reverted to my tented office, or 'solar' as the parlance went, I read through the enclosed contents of the vellum letter aloud, which I could discern had been dictated to a scribe from the masculine penmanship of the imprinted ink, "From the Queen Regent of the Vale, Sharra Arryn of the most noble House of Arryn to the Lord of House Targaryen. Yada yada yada…. In exchange for the lands east of the Green Fork, she offers military assistance dealing with the black hearted King Harren Hoare. Then she goes on to espouse the martial prowess of the Vale and how their knightly traditions have the lengthiest history given how the Andals set foot there first, and we would be 'unwise' to discount them. There is also the offer of a comprehensive alliance sealed by marriage to her, although I would have to make her son, King Ronnel Arryn, my heir before any children of my House"

"Absurd!" Visenya scoffed at the Queen Regent's flagrancy, "The nerve of this woman!"

"Is she in her right mind?" Rhaenys was likewise astounded, "In what world would we ever consider such an outrageous stipulation?"

"I think the thinner air of the Eyrie is affecting their good judgment" I jested, "Either that, or I'm not actually supposed to take this offer seriously and it was a flimsy excuse for her men to spy what they could of us and our numbers. Orys, would you remove those linens, please?"

He complied, propping the portrait up on a table and yanking at the linen sheets to reveal the image of dark haired woman with a plethora of aristocratic features such as high cheekbones, pencil thin, manicured eyebrows, a button nose, and piercing, sky blue eyes that matched the Arryn colors and were framed by a cascade of raven black tresses. The portrait captured a sense of regality that one would expect from the Queen Regent of the Vale, yet there was something in her bearing, a haughtiness almost bordering on insolence, that suggested she was not one to be trifled with lightly.

It also did not accurately convey the fact that this woman was in her mid thirties instead of the teenager this picture of her portrayed her as.

'Does airbrushing apply to painted portraits?' I inquired to myself.

"This Sharra Arryn seems to fancy herself a player in this grand game afoot" I mused, tracing the outlines of her painted visage with an appraising eye, "Her offer reeks of desperation, hidden under layers of false bravado. She knows full well that Harren's newly constructed stronghold is impregnable to most armies… but she has not factored in the element of dragons"

Visenya stood by my side, studying the portrait with equal intensity, "We have no need for the Arryn's knights" She stated resolutely, her fingers absentmindedly caressing the hilt leather of Dark Sister at her waist, "Neither do we need to bind ourselves to such preposterously constrictive terms as those proposed by her in order to obtain them"

She was correct, as per usual. Our dragons were the ultimate arbiter in our conquest, and no stone fortress or knightly prowess could match the argument of their fiery breath.

I looked to my inner circle, "How do you suppose we should answer this?"

Visenya's silver-gold hair caught the faint glow of candlelight as she turned to face the others of the informal council, her presence commanding undivided attention before she even spoke, "Sharra Arryn seeks to negotiate such ridiculous terms from a position that she believes secure, yet her castle lies as open and vulnerable as a hatchling's egg in a barren tree to a passing predator's whim" She said, her voice as cool and sharp as the blade that she was never seen without.

"As such," Visenya went on, "we shall not deign to accept or reject her offer as it stands. Instead, we shall propose that she surrenders the Eyrie and swears fealty to our cause. In return, we will ensure that her lineage remains unbroken and that her lands and titles, excluding their royal privileges, pass to her heir" Her eyes glittered with the certainty of her words.

"You imply that we relay these terms to her in person?" Rhaenys queried.

"The Eyrie is the highest castle in the Seven Kingdoms. 'As High as Honor' itself even" Visenya mockingly recited the Arryn House words, "But this lofty falcon's perch means nothing to us, for dragons can also fly"

The notion of a dragon descending upon the Eyrie was undeniably an intimidating one. The castle had been designed with the presumption that any assault on it would inevitably be terrestrial in nature, not aerial. A dragon and its rider could bypass the unassailable defenses and swoop down upon it like an angry god, its destructive breath erasing all in their path.

I turned my gaze back to the portrait of Sharra Arryn. Her haughty eyes seemed to challenge us from the canvas, the painted stare now replete with daring defiance, "A personal visit could indeed prove beneficial," I intoned after a moment's introspection, "It might even shatter the notion that the Eyrie cannot be touched by the Vale's foes"

I steepled my hands, "But our house call can wait. The Vale of Arryn is not liable to sally forth from their mountains, especially when they'll be busy fretting at a knife to their backside"

"You are certain of this, Archon?" Orys rumbled, having been otherwise passive in the meeting.

I was glad that he was participating, "This Sharra Arryn is no Warrior Queen, but she is a mother. She will not risk her son and heir's safety on the off chance that she provokes us. Her lords will indubitably grumble at the inaction, but for whatever faults they have, they will heed their Arryn liege's Regent"

"You mentioned a knife at their backside" Rhaenys brought up, "What do you mean by this, my Advocate of Targaryen?"

"I mean for us to go on the offensive soon" I revealed to them, "I've been consulting Aegon's notes on how he'd prosecute this war and find them sound enough to make few alterations to the overall gist" I held up a trio of fingers, "There shall be a three pronged thrust, two by land and one by sea. Orys shall lead fourteen thousand of our men into the Stormlands to confront the Storm King, Rhaenys and Meraxes will support him by scouting Argilac's movements and aiding the army however she deems fit once battle is given. Orys, I highly recommend that you utilize the Starsworn cavalry that I dispatch with you to sniff out and hamper ambushes as you enter the Stormlands. The bulk of my Starsworn and I shall march on Harrenhal, liberating Riverlord castles along the way and scouring the land of ironborn raiders. If the tales of Black Harren's casual cruelty have but a kernel of truth to them, I suspect that the Riverlords will revolt forthwith against him, if given the agency. I intend to have Lord Velaryon and my maritime forces sink or capture the Arryn's ships and blockade Gulltown. Visenya and Vhagar will be a key part of that particular effort"

"You do not mean to actually invade the Valemen's lands?" Visenya questioned, the skin around her eyes crinkling.

"There is no need for us to" I shook my head, "All we need do is show up to the Eyrie where the young King Ronnel likes to play with wooden swords on his favorite platform overlooking the valley below. Given how impregnable the Eyrie is to conventional opponents, the Arryn household security there is rather lax… I'm sure you get the message"

"Dare I ask how you can possibly know of this?" Visenya rubbed exasperatedly at her forehead, fending off a headache.

My eyes flashed in emphasis, "I've been monitoring his habits for weeks now. Six out of Seven days, he'll swing that toy sword around and pretend to be some famous knight or other just after breaking his fast. On the Seventh he is forced to attend service in the Sept by his mother… and then rushes to the same balcony afterwards"

"How devious" Rhaenys neutrally commented, looking vaguely disturbed.

"Only what's requisite, my dear," I replied, maintaining my unflagging glare, before the arcane illumination dimmed, "For us to handily win this war, we need to be smarter and more resourceful than our enemies. There are several opportunities that they unwittingly present to you, if you know what to search for. For example, Argilac has already mustered over twenty thousand men to his banner and will rush to meet us in the field of battle as soon as we step foot into his lands proper"

Visenya's silver-gold hair shimmered in the candlelight as she moved back and crossed her arms over her chest. "Do you suggest we kidnap the Arryn sprog?"

"Nothing so extreme" I retorted with a shake of my head, "We are not savages after all. No harm will come to the young King if his mother is wise enough to see sense and submit to us"

"Isn't this gambit a bit risky though?" Rhaenys chimed in, her hands clasped together as if in prayer.

"Yes, it carries risks," I conceded with a slow nod, "But that is characteristic of all endeavors. Outdoing our foes without shedding a drop of blood requires us to take calculated gambles. As long as we're meticulous in our execution, the odds of success are favorable"

"What if King Arryn or his mother refuses to negotiate with us and instead chooses to fight?" Orys' played devil's advocate.

I had an unbothered demeanor, "Then we shall be forced to handle things… differently. It would be regrettable, but not unaccounted for"

"I would also like to add that while my primary focus will be on delivering the Riverlands from the ironborn, Balerion and I will still be able to lend our considerable aid to the other two prongs" I headed off their dubiety, "You do not have to worry about coordinating anything, I will always make a timely appearance. That's part and parcel of being a Wizard"

With their marching orders painstakingly penned and sealed, I then summoned Lord Daemon Velaryon into my transient study. The man, known for his steadfast loyalty and skill at sea, had become one of the chief spokesmen for the powerful lords entirely devoted to House Targaryen. As he stepped forward to attend me at my desk, the sound of his armored boots echoed through the room, a physical manifestation of his stalwart commitment to us. He had transformed himself into one of my most valuable political and military allies leveraging his ships and connections, the benefits of which rated him second only to the Targaryen family themselves in their usefulness to the cause.

He bowed respectfully to me, "How may I serve, my Advocate of Targaryen?"

"You are a man of the sea, yes?" Was my rhetorical question to him.

"Indeed, we Velaryons pride ourselves on this" He had the ghost of a smirk quirking at his lips, "I assume you have a need for my ships?"

"And a man who can sail them well" I motioned for him to have a seat, "Once this continent has been made into one Kingdom, I wish to form a Royal Privy Council that advises and serves the King in both an administrative role, and in the field, as required. One of those posts will be Lord Admiral and Master of Ships. I would like for you to be the first of this prestigious position… if you want the job, that is?"

He stood and bowed again, even lower this time, "I am deeply honored, my Advocate. It would be my pleasure to serve as your first Master of Ships"

"Glad to hear it" I slid a leather folder over to him, containing parchments documenting his orders and details apposite within, "I want you to hunt down the Arryn fleet and sink or neutralize it as a fighting force, but your main objective is to blockade Gulltown and maintain the veneer that we will invade the Vale by sea. My maritime forces from the Starsworn will assist you, though being my mercenary fleet, they will function independently of your command. So you will have to collaborate with Flag Captain Cysko to subdue the Valemen navy. To keep your ships fast, do not load up on anything that you won't need to fight with at sea. Visenya will scout for the enemy ships from the air, and my Starsworn seamen will do what they can to funnel them to you to board and capture. They have a device onboard that helps them navigate the deep blue waters without having land or stars in sight. With fortune, they will be able to engage the Valemen from an unexpected direction"

"I believe I understand completely, my Advocate. I look eagerly ahead to seeing how these mercenary sailors and those fascinating ships of theirs perform" Lord Daemon said to me, oddly okay with having partial command, "With my niece accompanying us, I shall not fear death nor dishonor. I will set sail at once" He earnestly pledged before he made his leave.

I stalled him with a hand, "Before you go, I had an unrelated inquiry for you"

He blinked owlishly, "Of course, My Advocate. What is it?"

"You threw your lot in with me apropos of nothing" I noted impersonally, "Not to seem ungrateful or anything, but I would like to know your motivations there"

He licked his upper lip in thought, "If I may be so blunt, My Advocate?"

"I am not made of glass, Lord Daemon" I lazily uttered, "Tell me your reasons"

He re-seated himself with his knuckles pensively placed to his chin, "As you know, I am of the Blood of Ancient Valyria, but did you know that my House is among the eldest of all Valyrian noble families? My House may never have been one of the renowned Forty, but we have served House Targaryen Truly and Bravely since times of Old. Where they controlled the skies, we plied the sea in their name, filling our coffers near to bursting. And since The Doom, we have been rewarded with several marriages with that House. In fact, my dear sister is the mother of the man whose dreams you are upholding"

He was referring to Valaena Targaryen née Velaryon. I had not met the woman myself yet, but formal, polite letters had been exchanged between us and it appeared that would eventually change. According to Rhaenys, their aging mother had never left Dragonstone since she married their father. Visenya gave a rare laugh upon hearing that and divulged that their mother was a pitiable passenger and ironically hated traveling by ship. Orys himself had a conflicted opinion about her, thankful that she was not mean spirited to him but that he still felt like his father's indiscretion to her on the infrequent circumstances that they interacted.

All families had their quirks, I supposed.

He idly tapped the pommel of his sword, "But I digress. There are many reasons why I am your man. The foremost of which is that you kept your word about Balerion, with shocking celerity, I might declare. In my opinion, a man must be as dependable as his word or he is nothing. My nephew named you his successor, and so I am oath-bound to heed you as such"

He tilted his head introspectively, "The other reasons are… complex. You are plainly a man of Arcane ability, the likes of which exceed even the stories of the ancestor sorcerers who initially bound the dragons to their Will. The Westerosi lords don't fully comprehend it, but I do" There was an impalpable glint in those purple orbs of his, "I would be a fool of elephantine proportions not to hitch the future of the Velaryons to such a formidable figure. You also have markedly prodigious plans for this continent, and I am curious to see what they are and how they pan out"

There was a pregnant pause as the well groomed man collected himself, having gotten heated with his explication.

He then got to his feet, straightening his elegant, teal dyed buttoned coat, "If that is all, my Advocate of Targaryen?"

"It is" I confirmed, but showed no indication of how his impassioned explanation affected me, "Thank you for indulging me… Lord Admiral Velaryon"

I watched Lord Admiral Daemon depart with renewed pep in his step, his resolute stride a testament to the staunch loyalty he bore for me. I felt an odd sensation of relief in the seahorse's wake. In this world of shifting alliances and treacherous politics, having such a duly committed man on our side was a truly remarkable gift. While my own modus operandi could regularly be described as cutthroat in nature, I still held a deep respect for such unswerving individuals, the ones that had ulterior motives but were legitimately willing to risk everything for the cause that they genuinely believed in.

For hours after the Lord Admiral had left my study to prepare his ships to harness the winds of Blackwater Bay, I sat there brooding over an elaborate map of Westeros that I had laid out before me. Each strategically placed marker denoted our forces or those of our enemies that our spies had sent reports about. As expected of conventional informants, the information was of ambiguous reliability. For instance, it was widely known that King Harren was gathering his ironmen to him at his stronghold, but less recounted were the warbands that he enticed south to impede us. The intricacies of war were akin to the popular Essosi game of Cyvasse, with each piece on the board carefully weighed and measured before it was repositioned to fight the enemies of the respective kings in ivory and onyx. I pondered over every possible outcome, every tactic, every shifting inclination of our enemies, as though they were all tangible entities that could be bent to the game-master's will.

"Teacher" A familiar head of red hair poked through the tent curtain, "May I join you?"

"Come in," I beckoned her, appreciative for the distraction. The sheet was pulled wide, revealing the petite frame of my protegée, Ylisse.

"I hope that I'm not disturbing you, Teacher" She began, her voice soft, but there was an undercurrent of determination running through it.

"Not at all" I assured her, pushing aside the map and motioning for her to join me. She hesitated for a moment before ambling inside and lethargically making her way towards me.

"What can I do for you?" I asked her, not unkindly, observing the anxiety that cloaked her like a shroud. She bit her lip and then gripped her dagger in its sheath as if it were a lifeline.

"I want… I need to be more useful. You've told me about your plans, and your strategies. But what is my part in all this?" Her grassy eyes were honest, pleading. It was clear that she yearned to contribute more than just scrawling on pages or reading texts.

My fingers rapped at the table surface in a repetitive manner, "Speak your mind, my Apprentice"

She exhaled, "I want to fight"

"My dear Ylisse" I chuckled, patting her on the shoulder gently, "You are already fighting for me. Right now your battlefield is of literary comprehension"

"Then teach me to fight differently! Teach me to wield my dagger as you do your sword!" Her plea was heartfelt and it stirred something within me, perhaps admiration or concern.

Leaning back in my chair, I studied the girl who had grown so much under my wing, in ways beyond just magic. A funny surge of protectiveness welled up inside me. I wanted to shield her from the harsh realities of war, yet I knew that I couldn't dismiss her demand outright either. After a momentary silence, I finally decided.

"Tomorrow" I affirmed, looking into her determined eyes, "We will begin your field lessons in earnest. But remember Ylisse, there are consequences for every action"

She nodded solemnly, "I understand, Master"

"No… you do not" I retorted morosely, "But you will"

I was astride Bucephalus as my Starsworn trooped in orderly lines on the narrow and worn dirt roads that ultimately led to Harrenhal. The terrain of the Riverlands was a sight to behold, with vast expanses of lush green plains, thick forests teeming with wildlife, rolling hills painted in shades of emerald and gold, and countless rivers that seemed to flow endlessly throughout the landscape. These eponymous rivers, while not depicted on maps due to their smaller size and larger numbers, were a crucial lifeline that provided the people who called this region home with freshwater, fish, fertile soil, and transportation lanes for river barges.

As we moseyed north, our steady march was met with occasional skirmishes from our enemies, their attacks persistent but fundamentally ineffective against my well trained Starsworn soldiers. Here the ironborn's disdain for horses for anything but traveling quickly truly hurt them, as my Starsworn mounted Crossbowmen showed them the error of their ways, often before they could disembark from their longships. Those that tried to kite us found their longboats' sails or rigging being set aflame with vindictively placed incendiary crossbow bolts that stubbornly refused to be extinguished. Such specialty ammunition was to be proprietary of the Crown's standing army and the recipe would be kept in-house.

When they stood on solid ground, the ironmen seemed to have a cultural preference for fighting exclusively on foot and hurling goading insults at us to fight them like men, which made them vulnerable to being picked off by the accurate fire of my archers. They didn't even fight us skillfully, throwing themselves at us in piecemeal groups instead of a bigger force that could potentially bog us down. I failed to see how the lords of these lands, who did not spurn the use of cavalry, lost to these machismo obsessed morons. Sure, they were fierce as individual warriors, but they lacked the cohesion required to be a worthy threat to a structured force. But mayhaps I was being discourteous here. It was an established fact that the Riverlords were a fractious bunch, arguing like impetuous children before the Hoares came by and spanked them with their axes. It was likely that the ironmen kings of old divided and conquered until the whole of the Riverlands were theirs to use and abuse.

And abuse them they did. The ironborn seemed a plague upon these susceptible villages, leaving behind a trail of destruction and suffering as they ravaged the land. We stumbled upon countless hamlets where the signs of their brutal rampages were impossible to ignore. Charred homes, looted belongings, daughters stolen to become 'Salt Wives', and rent corpses were left in their wake. The villagers, who had been recurrently subjected to rapine, murder, and rape at the hands of the roving ironborn for decades, greeted us with tears of gratitude as we chased out the raiders or delivered them bound and gagged for some overdue 'Smallfolk Justice'. It was clear that their ostensible lords had been either too weak or too afraid to stand up against the ironborn oppressors by themselves. Everywhere we went, the stench of fear and despair was rampant in the atmosphere, a grim reminder of the atrocities committed by these brutish and merciless warriors and the rightness of our cause.

Even Ylisse was disgusted by the brutality of what she witnessed, comparing the savagery of the ironborn to the worst of the worst that the Free Folk would hesitate to claim as their own.

Word of our march had spread almost faster than Raven borne messages could, and before long I had added the strength of House Buckwell, Wode, Lolliston, Hayford and Hogg, Cressy, Thorne, Chyterring, Byrch, and even the Vances of Atranta to my own. After decades of boldfaced exploitation, they could not contribute overmuch, in either resources or manpower, but what they did have they gave wholeheartedly.

They were second only to my Valyrian Bannermen in their support for House Targaryen.

Messengers on horses came from Lord Edmyn Tully of Riverrun, who had purportedly been the first of the major Riverlords vassals to rise up in rebellion to his liege Harren the Black once news of our campaigning had reached them. The Tullys had with them a coalition of disgruntled Riverlord Houses under their nominal leadership who were understandably fed up with their smallfolk being utterly mistreated or being taxed to death to fund the building of the excessively grandiose Harrenhal. He swore his fealty to the House of Targaryen and to me, who he mistakenly thought to be a Targaryen. He also implied in his refreshingly candid letter that the Riverlord Houses with him would likewise be amenable to my rule. I dispatched his messengers back with my answer that he was welcome to come and swear his oaths to me in person once it was practical for him to do so.

In sooth, this was a welcome update, as it tied up most of Harren's military strength throughout the Riverlands to dealing with local insurrections instead of massing to repulse our invasion. Not that it would have changed the outcome in his favor.

It was at the southern shores of the Gods Eye Lake that the ironborn resistance began to coalesce into something resembling a factual army. Their figures were significant compared to the scattered warbands that we had swept aside with ease, numbering at least six thousand, and they employed tactical maneuvers that suggested a seasoned commander was at their helm. Perhaps it was a trusted lieutenant of Harren Hoare himself or one of his sons, I conjectured, observing their formation from atop Bucephalus. They must have been sent from Harrenhal to contest our march, otherwise the Hoare King would have demonstrated unacceptable weakness to his ironmen vassals.

The ironborn army was arranged in a threatening wedge like formation several hundred feet from their boats, protecting their flanks with tightly held shields and bristling spears as they sought to pierce through our defenses. Behind them, their longboats lay distributed along the shores of the lake; their dark, weathered hulls contrasting against the vibrant greens and blues of nature. The placid waters lapped gently against the boats, providing an eerie backdrop to the impending battle.

My army was arranged in a prudent fashion as well, ready to answer their challenge. My Starsworn comprised the center, a bulwark of steel and superhuman flesh against any wrathful assail from the ironborn. To their right, my medium cavalry and the horse borne knights of the Riverlord Houses sat astride their caparisoned steeds, lances and heads held high. On their left wing on elevated grounds were the smallfolk levy armed with superior quality pikes that were supplied by House Targaryen. The orders to the armsmen leading them were to advance slower than the other wings, as they were meant to deter any attempts at flanking us from the ironborn. I could not trust untried smallfolk levy not to break if they did not have a defensive advantage to bolster them. Behind the foot soldiers, crossbowmen on portable platforms and archers with longbows stood poised to fire nigh unending volleys upon my signal.

In the back, Ylisse and I waited, watching for openings. After considerable deliberation among the Riverlords, Lord Jarmun Buckwell had netted the honor of accompanying me, which I did not mind, finding the man to be insightful on matters of tactics and a skilled fighter in his own right. It had helped that he had basically emptied his lands of able hands to tend his farms and brought just shy of two thousand men with him, or that he did not vehemently protest the presence of a woman on the battlegrounds, which could not be said about the majority of the other lords.

The Buckwells served with 'Pride and Purpose' indeed.

The sight of an organized enemy force didn't deter me. Instead, I felt my heart pounding with anticipation. The first true test of my Starsworn on an open battlefield had arrived, "Ylisse" I spoke, my voice calm as my mind whirled with plans and strategies.

"Yes, Teacher" She responded promptly. Despite her youth and relative lack of battle experience, Ylisse's eyes held a certain spark, a readiness to prove herself to me in more than a learning capacity.

"Stay near me, and do not hesitate to use your 'talents' if necessary to ward yourself from harm" My words held a warning, an implication that the battle ahead would be no simple skirmish. She nodded her understanding, her face hardening with resolve.

As we prepared for pitched battle, I unsheathed Blackfyre. Its smoky surface shimmered faintly under the crisp morning sunlight, unnoticed by our foes yet a commanding presence by my side.

It was time for the dance of death to commence.

With a stentorian command of 'Advance!' to my troops, we moved towards the ironborn and they did the same. The air filled with the cries of war intermingled with the sharp whistle of loosed arrows and crossbow bolts. The ground beneath us trembled as thousands of armored feet stomped in unison. As we neared the enemy and they neared us, I could see their faces clearly, some held pure grit, some discontentment, others bore the looks of excitement. Yet collectively they held firm in their stand against us.

Then my cavalry charged the leg of their triangle. It buckled, and that resolve was tested.

Their paltry spears met my medium cavalry's armored first and were turned aside contemptuously; the jarring clashes echoing hauntingly across the battlefield. Then the tip of the iron triangle poked at our midpoint. My Starsworn, however, held their ground, driving back the early onslaught and quickly gaining an advantage as our pikes out-ranged their spears and our retaliatory jabs were placed with deadly care. The ironborn fought fiercely but they lacked the regimen and organized tactics to adapt as our hedgehogs of pikes absolutely shredded their front lines.

Our levy wing fared substantially worse than the center. Credit to them, the farmhands and village folk playing at soldiers earnestly tried to stand their ground against the mountainous force of iron-clad warriors baring up at them, but their lack of proper training and the sheer tenacity of their opponents started showing its cost. From a distance, I could see their lines wavering, their formation beginning to bend under the unremitting pressure as the ironborn intuited the weakness in our ranks, threatening to break at an inopportune moment. Yet, they had been given a stout defensive position and a height advantage for a reason, and in such a battle, these things sometimes made all the difference.

We still needed to even the odds for them though, so I had my archers concentrate their fire on that flank, bringing a barrage of precisely aimed destruction upon our adversaries. The arrows fell like a black swarm, nearly each one discovering a home in either the flesh of an ironborn warrior or the shield that protected him, keeping them suppressed. Their lines thinned under the steel rain, and I watched as my own soldiers regained their footing, renewed by the sight of their foes stumbling under counterattack.

"Ylisse" I called to my young companion, my voice a mere whisper amidst the roaring din of battle, "Let's put those lessons of yours into practice. Bolster our ranks with your craft. Discreetly"

Her emerald eyes flickered towards mine, a spark of understanding kindling in their depths. With a solemn nod of validation, she began weaving her magic, paintbrush in palm. Her hands moved subtly as the world around us thrummed with power, a runic formula manifesting in the air in such a way as to be dismissed as a heat wave. To the untrained eye, the gusts of wind that suddenly sprang up would seem natural, a blessing from the Old Gods perhaps, but I knew better. The sudden shift in the wind's course might have been slight, but it was enough to set our enemy's arrows off course while aiding ours in locating their mark.

Strictly speaking, it was amateurish work, but it was not bad for a beginner with this girl's background. Ylisse was showing her promise as my apprentice.

"Good, keep at it" I praised her quietly, watching as our archers' volleys began to take a noticeable toll on the enemy formation, forcing them to stall and giving our levies a chance to breathe. Meanwhile, Ylisse gracefully combo'ed into another spell, this one devoted to casting an unnerving shadow over the ironborn's peripheral vision. A minor mass illusion meant to make our numbers appear larger than they truly were and their likelihood of victory here slim.

With their primary formation in the initial stages of losing cohesion, I sounded the horn as an indicator for my Starsworn formation to make room for us and directed the off center cavalry that were held in reserve with me into place, along with some of the senior mounted Riverlords who were inspecting this breakdown of the ironborn with mixed elation and glee.

"Forward! For the Riverlands!" I cried out, leading the vanguard myself, Blackfyre gleaming ominously under the sun's rays. The exclamations of my men joined mine as we bulled ahead, their shouts echoing through the battlefield with resounding pitch. The secondary cavalry charge slammed into the foe with all the subtlety of a rhino. Our hooves trampled men underfoot, limbs were hacked off and heads parted from shoulders as we crashed into the beleaguered ironborn formations like a warhammer on a melon. I cut down multiple ironmen like wheat before a khopesh, each movement precisely timed and executed flawlessly. Yet there was no pleasure in this improvident carnage for me, only a grim sense of duty.

Ylisse, who was at my side, had her own engagements to fight too, her shortsword striking down foes with surgical precision even as her apprentice robe's enchantments blunted stray arrows. Despite her youth, she fought alongside me as an equal, her sword hand slick with the blood of those sufficiently foolish to challenge us, her spirit indomitable from a severe upbringing far north of The Wall.

The battle raged on for an hour, painting a bloody picture amidst the serene backdrop of the Gods Eye Lake. It was a dance macabre of clashing steel and sundered guts, a fitting testament to the nastiness of wars waged for grander men's ambitions.

But with every fallen enemy, with every yard gained against the ironborn mob, we were one step closer to liberating these lands from Harren's tyranny. With the Starsworn and my apprentice beside me, I knew with certainty that we would prevail.

The Riverlords, by contrast, gave a significantly poorer showing in the battle. I saw men getting dragged off their horses as they overextended and getting dirks through their visors or exposed joints. Others found themselves skewered on the spears of better defended, compact ironborn shield walls in spite of their ancestral hatred for the ironmen propelling them forth with surging wrath. They had the courage and the valor in their hearts, but overall they lacked the restraint and unity that my Starsworn had ingrained within their ranks. Their nobility was tainted by pride, their strength of arms diminished by overconfidence and inexperience. One by one, their numbers dwindled, swallowed up in the voracious din of the fight. It was a brutal lesson in humility, a stark reminder that bravery alone did not trump discipline and tactics.

With the swirling chaos of battle raging around me, I raised my voice and sent out a rallying cry, "Do not falter men of the Riverlands!" I shouted thunderously above the cacophony, "Avenge yourselves on these blackguards!"

Heeding me, they rallied underneath their banners time and time again, a testament to their willpower even as the bodies of their deceased comrades littered the blood stained grass around them. They may not have been as effective as my Starsworn but they still fought on with a fervor that betrayed their desperate need to be free from Harren's yoke.

Meanwhile, the archers in the rearmost ranks continued to let loose arrows upon my orders. Each volley perforated true, bringing down scores of the outmatched ironborn as reinforced steel bodkin tips pierced shields and ring mail and bit at tender flesh, eliciting growls and yelps as incapacitated ironborn were forced to fall back to their longships. Their efforts hardly went unnoticed by the enemy, who took their reprisal with a hail of thrown axes and spears and arrows that could only injure my Starsworn at worst. Yet their weapons did not reach their lines, falling short due to their strategic positioning in the rear and the superiority of their ranged armaments.

I turned my attention back to the disarray before me and saw that the ironborn as a whole were faltering. The gaggle my formation had struck at was crumbling under our relentless assault. Yet rather than retreat, they held their ground stubbornly, many of them preferring to fight till their last, spiteful breaths sooner than give in to the 'Greenlanders'.

The tide of battle was turning rapidly against them now, making it evident that this contest would soon be won for the Targaryens. I swiveled back to look at Ylisse, her face painted with grime and blood but her eyes ablaze with zeal as she panted from her exertions. Many of the Riverlords who followed me were opposed to her attendance here, but they wisely kept silent as she rendered their doubts unfounded this day.

"Targaryen!" Bellowed a larger ironborn who emerged from the rickety ranks of the ironborn, his round shield depicted a silver scythe on a black field, "Face me!" He banged his axe against his shield, formally challenging me.

"Your Majesty, pray allow me to end this scum in your stead" Lord Buckwell entreated me, his hair matted with sweat as he huffed from the gory toil. He had racked up an impressive body count today, but he was in no shape for duels with a fresh opponent right now.

I had encouraged my lords to refer to me as 'Your Majesty', firstly because the honorific sounded more Sovereign than 'Your Grace', and secondly because I was here to impose change, and titles would be among the first of those things.

I wiped my blood spattered hands clean with a rag, "I appreciate the offer, but I can handle this, Jarmun"

I obliged the ironborn, dismounting Bucephalus and striding out to meet him. Around us, men from both sides had stood back to give us space for our bout, the bizarre effect that matters of honor had on the psyche of mortal men making itself manifest.

"For your information, I'm not technically a Targaryen" I nonchalantly disclosed, flicking Blackfyre to the side to dislodge the spilled lifeblood on it before it could dry, "Who do I have the indulgence of encountering this fine day?"

"The name's Harald Harlaw" He gruffly informed me, "I'm the foremost of the Captains among this throng, and you've shamed me and my men by facing us on the backs of horses"

"As I am about to show you" I saluted him with Blackfyre, "It does not matter if I am ahorse or not. You ironborn will be reaped the same as that sigil on your shield"

"Heh" He chuckled and spat a glob of phlegm to his right, "Show me then"

With a swift and determined nod, I engaged him, my blade singing through the air as it moved with practically unnatural speed and precision. However, I limited myself to mortal standards out of respect for the match. Harlaw proved a burly opponent, his steel axe swinging with a deadly grace of motion that came from years of hard earned experience. The harsh clang of our weapons meeting echoed through the battlefield, a chunk being gouged out of his axe blade as the inferior metal gave way, drawing the attention of many. The onlookers watched in stunned awe as my unarmored form danced around his subsequent blows and shield bashes, each parry and dodge a demonstration of my superior skills. Yet the noble ironborn captain seemed unfazed by this.

"Aye, you're good," Harlaw grunted through clenched teeth, launching another sweeping attack that I sidestepped with ease, "But I've fought better!"

A flicker of amusement passed over me, "Is that so?" I queried nonchalantly. I didn't give him time to riposte as I stepped unexpectedly into his guard, delivering a fist to his face that broke his nose through the nasal covering of his helmet. For all his bravado, he realized that he was now on the back foot and retaliated angrily with an irate snarl.

Harlaw's next string of attacks were relentless; each swipe a testament to his iron will and raw power as a combatant. But his brutish strength was also his downfall. Each savage strike at me left him momentarily open, and I took advantage of these momentary opportunities, precisely landing my own blows in such a way that he was left bleeding as his armor failed to negate the bite of Valyrian Steel, instead of being hewn in half.

The duel raged on, neither of us willing to show weakness by backpedalling. But time was not on the Harlaw's side. With each block and counterattack, his movements became slightly slower, slightly less precise as he tired. His staggered breathing started to rag out in sputtering pants as exhaustion crept over him. His weapon was in bad shape too, with the haft and the metal showcasing several gouges and grooves from where it met my Valyrian Steel and was found wanting. His once unmarred shield was in worse condition, and his House sigil was desecrated, with my magically enhanced blade having reduced it to flinders.

In the end, it was my unyielding endurance pitted against his waning stamina that sealed his fate. One final exchange saw Harlaw's defenses falter just enough for me to land a decisive blow that bypassed his tattered shield and cut deeply into the side of his torso, nicking a lung. He reeled back in surprise, clutching at the wound with a grimace of pain before collapsing onto one knee, his axe slipping from limp fingers. Blood bubbled from his lips and he gave a gurgling, disappointed groan. His eyes met mine defiantly despite the clear agony written across his face.

"We. Reap. What. You. Sow" He managed to gasp out his House Words betwixt labored breaths.

'You gotta respect his fortitude, if his not his allegiances' I mentally annotated.

"You were a commendable fighter, Harald" I acknowledged as I leveled Blackfyre at him one final time, "A pity you represent the wrong side"

The sword of the Conqueror whipped out and parted Harlaw's head from his body, which promptly crumpled over. There was an interlude of stillness on the bloodied grasses before cries of dismay from the ironborn and raucous cheers from the Riverlords and my Starsworn rang out alike as they raised swords and spears high. I lowered Blackfyre, glancing about at the wholesale battlefield. The ironborn had faltered at the death of their leading captain, their morale eroding like a castle besieged.

In the aftermath of Harlaw's death, the demoralized ironborn fighters lost their lingering spirit. Disarray inevitably worsened, their ranks breaking as they scattered in retreat to their beached and anchored longboats en masse. Oars churned and frothed the blue-green water of the massive lake as they fled in the direction of Harrenhal. The Rivermen and my Starsworn fought to prevent as many from escaping as they could, but only the concerted pike squares of my Starsworn seemed to have any measure of success there. One by one, longboats began to peel away from the south shore of the enormous lake, the ironmen tossing jeers and obscene gestures at us from the safety of their decks, as if they weren't running with their tails between their legs.

They were fools if they thought I was going to simply let them row away to inconvenience us another day.

I sheathed Blackfyre before I put two fingers to my face and let out a shrill whistle.

One that was answered by a monumental roar.

The clouds gave way as the scaly figure of mass destruction that was the Black Dread all but dive-bombed the fleeing longboats, unleashing an unholy torrent of flames that engulfed the ironborn sailors. Their desperate screams were drowned out by the crackling flames and the hissing steam that arose from the boiling waters below as their bodies disintegrated. Even those who managed to jump overboard were not spared, their skin blistering and flaking as they were cooked alive on the broiling lake surface.

The Rivermen stood frozen in stunned silence, their jaws agape as they beheld the annihilation of their oppressors occur with casual indifference. The House of Targaryen's display of firepower stood as a potent exhibition of its unmatched strength and warning for them to never betray their oaths of loyalty. The air was thick with the acrid scent of burning flesh as the mewls of the dying echoed throughout the landscape, etching everlasting memories into the minds of all who bore witness to this savage presentation of unbridled ruination.

With but a few strafes and sweeps, Balerion had erased the bulk of King Harren's armed forces in the region. It would turn out to be the first and last occasion that the ironmen confronted us in the Riverlands as soldiers rather than glorified raiders.

Discounting some prisoners taken during the noisy scrap between armies, there were no survivors. There were also some important enemy casualties, like King Harren Hoare's youngest sons, Princes Harrag and Othgar, who had tried to make a name of themselves here and wound up becoming food for the crows for it.

Yet the taste of victory was tart and bittersweet in the mouths of the Riverlords still standing. Too many Highborn lives had been lost for this single victory, among them notable names such as Lord Lorgan Hayford, Lord Hugard Wode, Ser Russal Thorne, Ser Tolman Lolliston, Ser Henfield Hogg, and Ser Karlyle Vance (tearfully survived by his brother, Vyncent Vance). To balance this glum news, there were Heroes that arose from this battle, chief among them being the heir to the Twins; Ser Fornost Frey and his squire Artos Erenford, whose valorous actions in the field saved Lord Lychester and Lord Bayle Bracken's lives when they were brusquely yanked from their saddles and wounded by ironborn. It was not pulled off without a hitch though, as the Frey's plucky squire lost a ring and pinky finger to an ironman's axe deflecting a blow that would have ended Lord Bracken. It seemed to have paid off for him, as I was humbly asked to be present at young Artos' Knighting ceremony, despite openly admitting to not being a Westerosi knight myself.

With their cautious approach and better armaments, the losses from our levies were relatively light, numbering some five hundred and change. My Starsworn only had a few dozen injuries sprinkled here and there that put them 'out of action' for a week or so to avoid rousing suspicion. However, this battle had marked a crucial turning point for the Rivermen in the war against Harren Hoare. The ironborn king had lost a significant portion of his army and with it his metaphorical stranglehold on the Riverlands had loosened in its grip. There was virtually nothing he could throw at us that would cancel or even hamper our plans of surrounding Harrenhal.

Out of respect for the recently deceased's martial prowess, and to the veiled criticism of a few Riverlords, I had the Harlaw's body preserved and equipment stowed so it could be returned to his family as a gesture of good will once it came time for me to subjugate the Iron Islands. As for the other fallen warriors, their bodies were stripped of their precious armor and valuables, which was a utilitarian act as decent quality metal could be prohibitively expensive for some. I decreed that the spoils were to be divided equally among my lords, a small consolation for their unfortunate bloodshed in the battle. The remaining corpses were burned and buried in unmarked mass graves as a sobering reminder of the wasteful reality of warfare. The Riverlords took great pleasure in this defilement of the ironborn's religious beliefs concerning burial at sea, gleefully carrying out the task with vindictive determination.

With the pyres built and ignited and the honored dead respectfully disposed of, I turned my attention to Ylisse. My young apprentice was watching the fires with her emerald eyes wide open but unseeing, flickering with the reflected flames. Her face was pale, the usual vibrancy replaced by a haunting stillness. This was her first witnessing of such carnage on a grand scale, an experience that could break lesser individuals. Yet, Ylisse stood unmoved, her spirit refusing to falter on her.

"Ylisse" I softly intoned, snapping her out of the emotional tumult in her heart, "Should you discover yourself leading people in the future; I want you to remember this scene. This is the ugly face of war. It is not glorious… it is devastating. Sometimes it is necessary, but never forget that it comes with a terrible cost. There are many families today who will never see their husbands, sons, and brothers alive ever again. And while their sacrifices here will not be in vain, that does not mean that their abject loss will not be keenly felt for many years onwards"

Her green eyes met mine, and she swallowed hard before giving a small nod of acknowledgment, "I… think I understand, Teacher"

I laid a hand on her shoulder comfortingly, "On a less solemn note. You did well today, apprentice. You skillful use of Spontaneous Runes likely saved many lives on that battlefield, though they won't know it"

She cradled her forehead, "My head feels… drained in a way I cannot explain, Teacher"

I hummed, "That mental fatigue is a sign that your body's internal mana reserves were strained by the effort. They will grow with time and further use of your abilities. Go get some rest, Ylisse. There is still a ways until we surround Harrenhal"

She nodded blearily, "What about you, Teacher?"

"I have to fly out with Balerion tonight. There is a Falcon themed fleet out there that requires burning to the waterline and you've seen enough death for the nonce. Field Captain Maxim has orders to keep an eye on you in case any of the bigoted Westerosi we have in our ranks bother you" I addressed any concern she might have had being left behind.

Unexpectedly, she hugged me. Enclosing her arms around my midsection.

"Then I wish you a good hunt, Teacher" She said, her voice muffled by my dragonscale cuirass.

I patted her noggin a tad awkwardly, "A successful hunt requires the hunter to bring back something. Somehow I doubt I would be able to bring back anything save for ashes and charred driftwood from this hunt"

She looked up at me, her eyes shimmering in the light of the dying funeral fires, "Then I shall wish you a safe return, Zenith"

Feeling oddly buttressed by her encouragement, I gave her a nod of acknowledgement before leaving for my dragon. Balerion was mutely waiting for me at the edges of the war camp, his glossy black scales gleaming under the glow of the setting sun. His crimson eyes were focused on me as I approached him, a sense of anticipation emanating from him as he divined our upcoming objective from our magically governed connection. Around us the battered Riverlanders were agog with the spectacle of the day's events, the scent of charred flesh and burning timbers wafting across the vast expanse of land. The night was slowly creeping its way in, its icy shroud swallowing the aftermath of a battle that had been an eloquent sonnet to the brutality and ruthlessness of war. As I climbed onto his back, I shared a brief moment of wordless understanding with him. He knew what was required of him tonight, and he was looking forward to it as much as any dragon could.

As our ascent began, I cast one last glance towards Ylisse. She remained where she stood, her silhouette framed by the burning pyres that seemed to dance in response to our departure. Her expression was nondescript from this distance but I knew that she was watching Balerion and I soaring into the immense expanse of the nocturnal sky.

The flight towards the Bay of Crabs was an uneventful affair, though the rushing air current would have been bitingly cold against my exposed face had I been a vanilla mortal. However, with Balerion's furnace like body heat seeping into my robes, I was quite toasty warm during our trip. The wind whistled past me as we cut through the air like an arrow loosed from its bow with great speed. Before long our destination came into sight on the skyline, the moonlight catching on the shimmering surface of the expansive bay water. Dark silhouettes bobbed gently in the waves, indicating the fleet of House Arryn, which was bolstered by a dozen or so Braavosi warships that flew mauve sails and sported purple hulls. The vital port of Gulltown was visible in the distance. Lambent firelights flickered from lighthouses from the sheltered port. The enemy armada numbered over three score ships, not including the Braavosi interlopers.

I wondered what they could have been doing here? I hoped that they were Braavosi sell-sails whose service had been purchased by Arryn coin, because if the Braavosi were actually deliberately lending their aid to the Arryns on the Sealord's orders, it might make future diplomatic relations with them stroppy if I torch their vessels on dragonback. Their ancestors being former slaves of the Valyrian Freehold would make such a gesture doubly insulting. Then again, it wasn't like the Fire and Blood approach of the Dragonriders was known for its diplomatic grace. I would deal with the Braavosi if and when the occasion came.

For now, I had a hot date with the proud falcon fleet.

The timing of my arrival here was excellent, as Daemon's fleet was cresting the horizon. There was a bit of a problem though, as they were rowing against the wind with their sails tucked in, putting them at a severe disadvantage versus their foes, who at full sail had the weather gauge (and therefore management of the engagement) on their side. Numbers wise, they had near parity with the combined Arryn-Braavosi armada, but the prevailing wind direction was a significant disadvantage that could easily turn the tide of battle if left unaddressed. Visenya and Vhagar were out of visual range, but I knew that they were relatively close by. It seemed that she was resting Vhagar on land after scouting for the Velaryon fleet all day. It was poor timing on everyone's part except for myself and my Starsworn navy, who were even now cruising in from the deep sea to yank at the Falcon fleet's tailfeathers.

Fortunately for the Lord Admiral, he had at least two trump cards he could immediately count on.

"Steady, Balerion" I murmured into the chill night air, my words carried away by the wind as we hovered high above the imminent clash of naval forces. His flickering crimson eyes were riveted on the ships below, his anticipation palpable even as he maintained our altitude with powerful beats of his mammoth wings. The dragon knew what was expected of him; fire and destruction were after all his bread and butter.

Steering Balerion into a wide arc, I watched the cumbersome enemy ships carefully. The moon bounced off the still water and lent a ghostly pallor to the fleet. I reached out with my mind, stretching it across the expanse of water towards the ships, feeling for the vital life force that throbbed within every sailor aboard those ships with each heartbeat. They were excited to do battle and were eager to defend their home against what they saw as foreign invaders. Already there was a quintet of dromonds that had peeled off frontward of the main formation and were readying themselves for ramming action. The Velaryon ships they were targeting would be at a maneuverability disadvantage on oar power alone.

That eagerness would seal their doom.

The time of judgment had come. With a mental command, Balerion folded his wings and we began to descend on our unsuspecting forward arrayed targets in a harrowing dive. Snapping his wings open to create drag at the last moment before we submerged ourselves, Balerion ignited a blaze in his belly and let loose a tongue of fire that bathed three of the dromonds in an otherworldly illumination that did not give off much light. The two ships that were untouched by the flames veered away to avoid the conflagration that had taken their fellow warships, panicking men shouting orders and archers loosing arrows haphazardly into the darkness to no avail.

A second pass neutralized their resistance.

Their cries were lost in the building breeze and the roaring inferno, an orchestra of terror solely drowned out by a symphony of destruction. There was no pretense of damage control or efforts to save the ships from the crews. Wooden hulls of once proud ships crackled as they blackened, then split under the intense heat, sinking to the depths. White sails, once billowing with pride, now turned to floating embers amidst the incandescent maelstrom. Dying men barreled into the freezing sea, their bodies aflame, eager for the cold embrace of the water that promised a quicker death over the slow torment of burning alive. Balerion exhaled for what must have felt like an eternity for the dismayed onlookers before his breath finally ceased. As we climbed back into the night sky, I looked back to see five otherwise strong dromonds reduced to smoldering husks, bobbing gently as they began their descent to join their crewmen in a watery burial.

The remaining Arryn fleet was thrown into disorder as they realized the quandary they were in. They were still nearby enough to Gulltown to retreat to the safety of the harbor… if they didn't have the Black Dread to contend with. For that same reason they could not effectively engage the Velaryon ships, which were surging ahead with renewed vigor. They were paralyzed with indecision. I could feel their internal terror as they felt the heat from afar and saw their sister ships consumed by dragonfire. It was almost palpable, like a living, breathing entity that clawed at their hearts and minds.

Their decision would be made for them.

Balerion and I loomed over the Arryn fleet of galleys and hastily converted cogs like the specter of death. The dragon's long neck arched back before his maw opened wide, exposing rows of wickedly sharp teeth and an abyss that seemed to reach into the heart of a primal firestorm. The initial gout of flame that erupted from Balerion's mouth was a thing of terrible beauty as it painted a swath of fiery destruction across a cluster of tightly packed ships. The evening air was filled with screams of agony and the stench of ash as men were burnt alive in a catastrophe from which there was no escape, even for those few that leapt into the sea's embrace. We circled around for another demoralizing run as Balerion's wings beat against the air creating a rhythm of rolling thunder across the night sky. The plan was working; our entrance had struck horror into their hearts and given Lord Admiral Daemon's fleet time to draw nearer and arrange themselves into battle lines.

And then, with a competitive shriek, Visenya appeared on Vhagar's back like a wraith on the horizon, her braids whipping freely in the wind as her dragon descended upon the enemy fleet from behind, catching a half dozen of slow cogs by lethal surprise. The sight of two dragons raining down fiery annihilation sent the Arryn ships scattering in all directions, with only the Braavosi ships keeping cohesion, making them easy pickings for Daemon's charging fleet and my Starsworn Navy, who began bombarding them with their ballistae and onagers from a distance with unerring accuracy. Seeing that our efforts would soon harm our own ships, I signaled Visenya with a pre-agreed upon magical flare of Brown light to get her to back off. Vhagar's bloodthirsty shriek of disappointment as her rider mentally wrestled her into compliance was almost as loud as Balerion's triumphant, booming roar.

We would have to serve as spectators for the sea battle for now.

(Theme Music: The Neck by Glen Gabriel)

The Velaryon fleet showcased the conventional method of maritime warfare for this time, either ramming the Arryn ships or pulling up alongside them for boarding action. It was an inherently chaotic manner of fighting and several of the Velaryon ships burnt or capsized in the frenzy as boarding actions went poorly and were reversed. Yet, despite their losses, the valiant seafarers held their own. Even as flames engulfed some of their fellow vessels, they pressed the offensive fiercely into the ailing enemy; grit and sheer determination were etched on their battle hardened mugs as they clutched boarding hooks and short swords in hand. Their fealty to House Targaryen fueled them with an unyielding resolve to give a good showing, as did a certain understanding that failure here was not an option, not after Fire and Blood had been brought down upon their foes.

Amid the swirling smoke and roiling waves littered with wreckage and bodies, Visenya's bellicose dragon Vhagar lurked hungrily at the outskirts of the battlefield like a predator watching the distressed struggles of its prey. She appeared almost like a monstrous, winged sea serpent, her scales glinting a sickly sheen in the radiance of the destruction around her. Her violent yellow eyes flickered with an unsettling voracity as she silently observed her quarry, held back only by the Will of her rider.

Pulling up beside me in a hover, Visenya's gaze remained fixed on the bedlam below, her mind coldly calculating every move made by our enemies. She was momentarily silent before turning her attention back to me, silver-gold hair whirling around her face. She lowered her hand before summoning Dark Sister from its sheath with a swift movement and pointing it towards a cluster of enemy ships that were attempting to regroup on the fringes of the pandemonium, conveniently where the Braavosi ships were skillfully kiting and harassing my Velaryon vessels in a sort of rearguard action. The artillery from the Starsworn fleet had petered out, as they did not want to risk striking their allies who were in knife fighting range of the enemy.

"Zenith!" She shouted to me over the cacophony of the battle, her voice containing the immensity of an impending hurricane, "They are reorganizing. We need to stop them!"

Her bearing was stern yet her violet eyes held a fire in them that could rival any dragon's. I nodded to her, understanding the urgency in her words. In concert, Balerion and Vhagar swooped down into the fray, twin balustrades of flame carving our path through the churning waters. The Braavosi fleet, skilled as they were against seaborne threats, could not outrun nor outfight a dragon, let alone two of them working as a team. The yells of men and the bubbling of water were soon drowned out by the deafening roars of our dragons as we bulldozed through their ranks. Ships that were previously jouncing on the mounting waves like wooden ducklings now only served as makeshift pyres for their unfortunate crews. The overwhelming heat of our dragonfire was such that anyone brave enough to wear heavy metal armor at sea experienced more of a torture sentence than protection, forging the men within into grotesque statues of charred flesh and molten metal.

I'll give the Braavosi credit though, their arrows were a lot more precise than their Arryn allies, not that it mattered as Balerion's and Vhagar's scales rebuffed them with contemptuous ease.

Balerion, being the indomitable force of nature that he was, fell upon a particularly large war galley trying to flee the massacre that was unfolding. His monstrous jaws unhinged and snapped down onto the stout center mast, shearing through it as if it were a mere twig in the hands of an ornery toddler. The ship buckled and rocked under his weight before it capsized, sending men plummeting into the icy drink below.

Visenya, astride Vhagar, wielded her dragon almost like an extension of Dark Sister itself; swift, precise, and deadly. Unlike Balerion's unrestrained propensity for total annihilation, Vhagar's flames danced delicately around the underside of the Arryn ships' hulls under Visenya's control, their crews given just enough time to abandon their stricken vessels before they were consumed by the rampant fires. It was an odd display of clemency on her part, and I wondered what her aim was. Theoretically any survivors could swim to the shore and share the stories of what they witnessed with their fellow Valemen, but honestly I think the port town could see what was happening just fine from there.

My crimson eyes cut to Visenya amidst this hellish tableau. She sat tall on Vhagar's back, her Valyrian Steel blade shimmering with an ethereal glow from the flames underneath her. Her expression was as impassive as ever, her mien flinty as she watched the burning fleet beneath us break apart into scorched driftwood. This was not wanton destruction for her but a necessary step to bring order to Westeros, just another sacrifice on the altar of conquest in pursuit of a greater peace. Visenya's shadowed silhouette against the flickering conflagration was mesmerizing to me, as I found beauty in the strangest places, but my focus did not wholly waver from our duty.

The night wore on as our fleets' combined force brought down ship after ship until there were none left sailing against us. The seas were an unruly mess of burning debris and floating bodies, a chilling motif of the price of war. Yet our victory was also in sight, for the Arryn fleet lay utterly decimated, with the Starsworn Navy and Lord Admiral Daemon's fleet advancing to secure their hold on what remained of the captured Arryn ships. The Braavosi who had leant their aid to the Arryns did not fare so well, having been all burnt to the waterline. Their presence in the battle was not insignificant, and we had dealt them and the reputation of their current Sealord a humiliating blow here.

As dawn began to bleed over the horizon, staining the sea in hues of pink and gold, I turned to regard Visenya. We had landed on the far outskirts that were just inside of viewing range of Gulltown's walls, the gates leading into the city locked tight and the guardsmen gripping their weapons in a white knuckled grasp. The first light of morning cast an unearthly sheen onto her silver-gold hair, bound tightly in warrior braids, making her seem as though she belonged in a sphere above this mortal coil, much like the Valkyries I often mentally compared her to. Her face was a mask of stern resolve but her posture was stiff.

"Something on your mind?" I offered her a chance to clear her thoughts.

"We did what we had to do" She announced, her voice as cold as a bitter winter's bite.

Her gaze, fixed on the faraway town, was as hardened steel, both unyielding and resolute. It was then that I understood her earlier actions. The unexpected mercy she had shown the enemy sailors was not an act of kindness, but a strategic move. By leaving survivors she was seeding fear into the hearts of our enemies, letting them carry our message with their own tongues. Already I could see fishing boats bravely venturing from the harbor to pull up the half maddened survivors that were clinging to life on drifting pieces of wreckage that served as life rafts for them. Soon the citizens of Gulltown and the entirety of the Vale would learn how soundly they were bested here. With the Vale left open to attack from the sea, the chances of them sallying from their mountainous stronghold with full strength sank along with their fleet. We secured a tactical and strategic victory over one of Westeros' great kingdoms with only a few hours work, which was not half bad.

"Well, I suppose Sharra Arryn will not misconstrue our response to her offer" I blithely joked.

Visenya turned her steely regard to me, the sun's rays painting her complexion with vibrant hues, "Indeed" She replied, her voice carrying that hint of dry humor that was uniquely hers. She looked back toward Gulltown, her brows furrowing with a weighty thoughtfulness.

"And now" I broke the silence, turning to Visenya with my own mask of stoicism firmly set in place, "We are one step closer to unity. One less kingdom to factor into our calculations. Please give the Lord Admiral and Flag Captain Cysko my regards for their performance"

"I shall do so, my Archon" She obeisantly inclined her head to me, her eyes still taking in the sight of the devastation we wrought, whose flames were only now subsiding.

"You may ransom the prisoners or keep them as you like" I informed her, "With the Vale beaten here, they will button up and keep to themselves with the Lord Admiral's ships free to threaten the coast at their leisure"

"You do not wish to press the Valemen further?" Visenya questioned me, "With their fleet at the bottom of the sea, there is a chance that we could capture Gulltown"

I shook my head, "That would be unwise for us. Taking Gulltown would be a costly affair and holding it even pricier for our limited forces in this region. It is better to have the Valemen perceive the threat of invasion than being forced to respond to one if we step foot on their soil with the intent to stay"

"I mean to keep the Vale Lords looking outwards, toward the sea. Instead of conferring with their bannermen and plotting to attack our unified realm. We need them concerned with their own borders rather than focused on what's beyond them" I explained my method further. Indeed, it was a game of strategic maneuvering, woven with political intrigue and threads of tension. Rulership over the Westerosi would not be won by sheer force alone, but by the careful and masterful hand that could balance fear and respect simultaneously.

Visenya did not protest, accepting my tactics as she always did. Her faith in my strategic mind was one of the many reasons that I grown to respect her as much as I did, "Very well, we shall leave the Valemen to their mountains and the city of Gulltown untouched"

"Once matters are settled here" I gestured to our ships that were moving to blockade the city, "I want you to return to our base camp and continue coalescing power to our cause"

"There are Houses in the Crackclaw peninsula that we have yet to approach" Visenya mused aloud, "Mayhaps I should darken their doorstep?"

"Wait until news from the Riverlands has had a chance to trickle in to their ears, then go ahead" I rubbed my hands together roguishly, "I have something special in mind for Harren's monstrosity of a castle"

"Ah, Harrenhal" Visenya's tone held a note of disdain as she acknowledged the fortress' existence.

I had heard several tales about that monument to excess from my advisors to supplement my memories of reading about it as we planned the conquest of the Riverlands. It was an enormous castle infamous for its grandeur and sheer arrogance long before its foundation was laid, built by King Harren Hoare over a period of forty years as an ostentatious show of his power, nearly bankrupting his holdings and the Riverlands in the process. Harrenhal's five towers overshadowed the land, their imposing presence a constant reminder of who ruled the Riverlands, and while his iron grip was rusting thanks to my invasion and the wholesale rebellion of the Riverlords, it's sheer defensive prowess was not to be underestimated. Under a conventional siege by Westerosi forces, the castle could likely hold out for several years, all while ironborn raiders from the islands were free to despoil and ravage the Rivermen.

I meant for that testament to the ironborns' tyranny to fall overnight.

"Harrenhal is protected by lofty stone walls and towers that scrape the very heavens. It is claimed that all the knights in all of Westeros could not breach it, even before it was recently completed" Visenya reiterated as regarded me with an intrigued expression, her violet eyes glinting under the sunlight.

My lips curled into a mocking smirk as I replied, "I suppose I'll just have to prove such tales overstated"

Visenya let out an oddly infectious laugh that echoed over the seawaters, drawing contemplative looks from some of our nearby soldiers who had landed adjacent to us as to take on fresh drinking water from the local streams. Her laughter quickly subsided though, replaced by a thoughtful silence as she studied my features.

"You plan to use Balerion" She indicated, more than asked, her scrutiny never wavering from my own.

"Balerion will certainly be useful" I confirmed, my gaze flicking towards where the great black beast rested. The desire for Devastation and Death seemed to dance in his endless red eyes. He was hatched for war and destruction, that dragon of mine.

Visenya's eyes followed mine, lingering on the gargantuan creature, "And you believe that Harren will not anticipate this?" She inquired, her countenance held a hint of skepticism.

I turned to meet her stare, a knowing smile played on my lips, "Visenya," I began, keeping my voice steady but low, "Harren Hoare is a man of iron and stone, his mind envisions battles waged by men with steel in their hands and ships with wind in their sails"

My hand stretched out towards Balerion once more, "He cannot nor will not fathom the use of dragons as a means to neutralize castles. His hubris blinds him to such possibilities, and it will be his ultimate mistake… other than being a Grade-A arsehole to his subjects anyway"

As my declaration settled in the space between us, Visenya gave me a conclusive nod, her warrior braids swaying with the motion.

"Humility has never been accounted among Harren's lacking virtues," Visenya commented dryly, drawing me back from my contemplations, "and he will pay dearly for it. May our foes bow before the might of House Targaryen!"

"So he shall" I concurred sagely, "Anyway, there is still a war for us to wage. I will see you later, Visenya"

With the battle here so decisively won, I ascended into the sky and had Balerion turn us back towards the heartlands of the continent. The crisp morning air whipped past us as Balerion periodically flapped his gargantuan wings, carrying us away from the carnage that was left in our wake. Yet even as we flew away, I knew that our victory here did not spell the end for the Arryns, though it did sent a resolute message to the Queen Regent on the Mountain. This was only one battle in a much larger conflict that would engulf the majority of the realm, even if it was piecemeal at this juncture.

Perched atop a dragon, I soared over the Riverlands, taking in its breathtaking landscape below. Its multitude of streams snaked through the fertile valleys and lush forests like glistening silver ribbons against a backdrop of vibrant greenery. From above, I could see many fishing villages scattered throughout the terrain, their humble thatch roofed homes clustered together as if seeking solace from an impending storm. But there was no escaping the truth. The realm was on the brink of a drastic upheaval.

As we flew closer, one particular settlement, its banners that were draped over its walls and adorned with the red salmon of House Mooton, caught my eye. This was Maidenpool, home to Lord Jon Mooton, who had quietly pledged his allegiance to the Targaryen cause after his late elder brother's detachment of men had been defeated. I knew that the young lord of Duskendale himself had successfully urged Jon to join his numbers to our cause, regaling him with stories of our magnanimity and compassion. Though it may have seemed insignificant in terms of strategic importance, Maidenpool's early declaration of loyalty to House Targaryen had a ripple effect on other Riverlords who followed suit in openly rebelling against King Harren. And given its close proximity to ironborn controlled territories along the Trident, Maidenpool also served as an ideal base for rooting out their longships and putting an end to their continued reaving, which would doubtlessly continue even after Harren was dealt with.

I rejoined with my war host to little fanfare, save only for the hushed whispers as new Riverlords and their men who had formed up with us attempted to hide their awe of Balerion. Even after all this time, the sight of his colossal frame never failed to inspire fear and admiration in equal measures, even from those who had become accustomed to his presence. His rumbling growl echoed through the encampment, cowing several onlookers as I dismounted from his back, my boots sinking into the soft earth. I ran a hand appreciatively along his scales, mentally thanking him for his hard work these past few days, which caused him to emit a mildly pleased snort of steam from his nostrils.

Stepping away from the massive dragon, I turned my attention towards the assembled Riverlords that had seen me descend from the skies. Their faces were a mix of hope and trepidation, their eyes drawn to Balerion's intimidating form despite their best efforts. Most of them knew what he was capable of, having witnessed the annihilation on the lake.

"Your Majesty?" Lord Jarmun Buckwell emerged from their number, and I motioned for him to continue, "While you were away, we had many newcomers add their strength to our forces, one of them being the nominal leader of the rebellion, Lord Tully"

"He has decent timing" I remarked, "Send him my way, if you please. I would like to hear what he has to say"

Lord Buckwell bowed and hurried to obey. Meanwhile, I addressed the men, "Friends and Allies from the Riverlands. We stand on the precipice of ridding your ancestral holdings from the Hoares and their vile ilk. The ironborn have been a plague upon these lands, raiding your homes, raping your daughters, murdering your families, and enslaving your children! Like a rotten, festering wound, they must be scourged with Fire and Blood!"

There was a roar of agreement from all present, and a sense of determination settled over the gathered lords like a warm blanket in winter. They knew what had to be done. They knew that the path to victory wouldn't be easy for them, but they also knew that each step towards it was a step towards a better realm. Men fought harder when they believed their cause to be Just, which in this case did not wholly diverge from the truth.

"We edge nearer and nearer to Black Harren's home by the day!" I went on, wanting to get my men's blood pumping, "Like the filthy rat he is, he hides in his monstrously oversized nest! Mayhaps he knows that with this fine company of warriors marching his way, his days are numbered!"

"By the Seven, yes!" The new Lord Hayford exclaimed, religious zeal burning in his eyes, "The Stranger comes for him!"

"Prepare to move out!" I ordered them, "Let's see if we can't hasten his meeting with righteous judgment!"

The motley crowd let out a raucous cheer, their fervor echoing throughout the campgrounds. The air was now thick with anticipation and bloodlust, a dangerous combination, one that could lead men into foolhardy pursuits if not properly managed. Yet, I trusted in my lords' ability to control themselves and their soldiers. For now, their enflamed passions worked to our advantage.

Lord Buckwell returned shortly, accompanied by a man who bore the symbol of the Tullys, the leaping silver trout over waves of red and blue. Lord Edmyn Tully was a stout, serious man with eyes like the tumultuous rivers of his homeland. His family's signature red hair was sported prominently on his face in the form of a full, rounded beard and tied into a ponytail on the back of his head. There was defiance in those green orbs of his that spoke of a lifetime of minor resistance against the ironborn invaders and an unyielding resolve to reclaim his people's land. Now he was here to transform that defiance into something more substantial. The reports that landed on my desk detailed him as a fairly capable leader of men, managing to unite the normally quarrelsome Riverlords in a united front of rebellion against their oppressors.

I nodded in acknowledgment as he bowed before me, making his plate armor clack, "Your Majesty. House Tully is yours to command" He greeted me, rising to meet my gaze. His voice was quieter than I had expected, but it held an intensity that made it impossible to dismiss him as anything less than formidable.

"Welcome, Lord Tully" I greeted him cordially, "I trust that you've been offered Bread and Salt? That my men have accommodated yours without difficulties?"

"Aye, I have, Your Majesty" He affirmed, "All due customs of hospitality have been observed by my men and I"

He remained silent for a moment before speaking up again. His words were chosen carefully, like he was a bargeman that was navigating through treacherous waters, "I have come to offer my support and that of my vassals… in your fight against Harren Hoare" His tone carried a weight of finality, as if he had said these words to himself hundreds of times before they ever left his lips today.

I didn't quite understand his stiffness. Sure, he probably had to be as diplomatic as he could when treating with his fellow Riverlords, but there was no need to do that with me.

"I am not the typical prickly neighbor that you are no doubt used to haggling with, Lord Tully" I informed him, "You can be reasonably frank with me… you can also rise"

A flicker of surprise flashed across his features before he skillfully hid it away, "I… see. Pardon me, Your Majesty, but is that not how one is to comport themselves in lordly affairs?"

"Maybe for your fellow Riverlords and rivals in the other kingdoms, but not for me. Anyone who takes issue with my more transparent policy of interaction is free to submit their concerns to my complaints department" I pointed a thumb behind me to Balerion, whose answering rumble sent tremors through the earth.

That startled an odd laugh out of the man, who got to his feet, "You are not what I expected, Your Majesty, though I find that this policy of yours is not disagreeable with me"

"Happy to hear it" I smirked, "Is there anything that you wish to discuss with me?"

He paused to consider the question, his eyeballs wandering across the sprawling campsite that was in the middle of packing up, stopping briefly on the various banners of houses sworn to me. When his eyes met mine again, they held a renewed estimation.

"Yes, Your Majesty" He began, his words measured and firm, like a captain holding a ship steady in a storm, "The ironborn have ruled over my land and my people with casual cruelty and disdain for too long. My men and I have opposed them and their evil ways for many years… albeit not so openly as we are now, but we have learned harsh lessons during that time. They are ferocious, devious fighters, both on water and land. I urge you not to underestimate them"

"I can assure you, Lord Tully," I responded seriously, "that I have a clear estimation of our adversaries' strengths and weaknesses. Their primary advantage is in their celerity with their longships along the many rivers that exist in this land. However, their fighting style is best suited towards raiding, and not full scale field battles, as they found to their detriment the first time they sought to stop us in greater numbers. They have many skilled warriors, to be sure, but warriors are only a threat in the individual sense. They're unimpressive when fighting in formation. Another glaring weakness of theirs is their inability to reliably counter cavalry, requiring many men to pull an armored rider off his mount after he's already trampled several of their comrades. Their own culture prevents them from being more of a threat than they are, with only their horrifying reputation keeping the other kingdoms hesitant to interfere, which there will be a reckoning for"

He was momentarily stunned by my summary of his ancestral foe, "I see you have been studying them well" Edmyn conceded as his shoulders slumped, "Which shames me all the more that our ancestors failed to resist them"

"You are not at fault for your ancestor's shortcomings, Lord Tully" I shook my head, "From my read of it, the Riverlands were conquered piecemeal by the ironmen, while the lords of that time squabbled amongst themselves"

Even now, some of them fought amongst themselves. Lord Blackwood and Lord Bracken had weakened each other in a private border war about a decade ago, and the depleted forces that they had mustered from their holdings reflected that fact.

"Indeed," Lord Tully grumbled, a dark look passing through his countenance, "And now, we pay the price for their shortsightedness"

"Yet, you have taken an important step towards liberating your people by aligning yourself with our cause. Harren's reign will soon come to an end, I assure you of that" I guaranteed him.

"But at what cost?" He replied, his gaze betraying his anxiety, "The ironmen won't easily relinquish control of the Riverlands, even if their king is slain. They will fight tooth and nail to maintain their rule… or burn everything down behind them in spite as they flee towards their godsforsaken islands"

"And that is why we will prepare for that eventuality" I retorted, "Their ability on the water is daunting, but they have shown little prowess at landed warfare. We will capitalize on that weakness"

Lord Tully seemed to think over my words; his anxiety eased into cautious hope, "We have the advantage of the terrain and intimate knowledge of these lands that the ironmen know nothing about, even after all these years under their yoke. Given the right strategy and bands of riders to respond to raids, we can trap them in snares from which there is no escape"

"Given how you've rallied your fellow, fractious Riverlords under a common calling, perhaps I ought to make you my River Marshal" I wondered aloud.

Edmyn Tully's shock was palpable beneath the orange glow of the midday sun, "You would trust a man of my lower standing with such a responsibility?"

"The value of a Man is not measured by his birth or his blood, Lord Tully" I countered, punctuating my point with a sharp look, "It is his actions in trying circumstances that define him. You have shown courage and leadership in rallying your people against their oppressors, tying them down and preventing them from rallying to Harren en mass, making my task here easier. That is well worth my trust, or at the very least, the benefit of the doubt"

That man was plainly taken aback as his eyes lowered, considering my words as silence cloaked us. When he looked up once again, his face hardened with renewed determination, "The Tullys have always been watermen, and the humble keepers of Riverrun. But if it means safekeeping my people from the ironborn's depredations, then I am willing to take up any mantle you see fit to bestow. I am deeply honored by your faith in me, Your Majesty" He spoke, his voice steady and booming across the grassy embankment, "Should you decide it. I will gladly serve as your River Marshal to the best of my ability"

"I am pleased to hear that, Lord Tully" I told him, "We can discuss specific details at a later date. For now, we have a rather distinct castle on the horizon to encircle"

Interpreting the polite dismissal for what it was, Lord Tully scampered off to see that preparation to get underway were facilitated with haste. Turning away from my scaly companion and the invigorated crowd of soldiers readying themselves for a rapid hike, I made my way towards my command tent, my robes rustling with each step. Inside, a map of the Seven Kingdoms was sprawled atop a wide wooden table, markers indicating our forces and those of the enemy scattered across the landscape. It was a sobering sight for an ordinary commander, a stark illustration of the enormity of the task before us. For me, it was almost like a live action tabletop strategy set. Perhaps that was a bit disingenuous of me, but given how I was not too emotionally invested in the vast majority of these people, I felt it best to stay impersonal.

The next few days of painfully ponderous army movement passed uneventfully.

I was expecting the ironborn to launch night attacks using their longships to quietly waylay us from the lake as retribution for their first disastrous battle and the loss of their king's youngest sons, but no such assault materialized. I suppose no survivors returning to the mighty fortress that we were steadily closing in on after the 'Culling at the Reeds' must have spooked them. Not that they would have found much success if they tried, given that my Starsworn sentries had excellent night-vision to rival owls and cats. It mattered not, once Harren and his forces were bottled up in their stone cage, the ironmen's fate would be a foregone conclusion.

Finally my forces reached their objective, though the target covered so much territory that it still took the better part of a day to properly envelop the gargantuan fortress named after the current pompous ass-wipe occupying it. My outriders faced minor resistance from mounted ironmen that were stationed in Harrenhal, which were an aberration among their own people, but they troubled my Westerosi riders to the point where I had to dispatch my Starsworn cavalry to sweep them aside so my soldiers could properly establish circumvallation's within sight range of castle's defenders. Part of my plan was to convince Harren that I was going to wage a conventional siege on his castle. He would probably double down in his holdings regardless of what I did, but there was no need for me to be careless about this.

Harrenhal, which was a formidable castle in this world of limited technology, stood before me. Its five towers reached towards the heavens like a grasping hand, rivaling even some of the skyscrapers of my birthworld. The basalt curtain walls, looking like they were carved directly from the earth itself, stood as imposing cliffs against any would-be attackers. I wouldn't have been surprised if entire quarries had been stripped bare to construct such substantial fortifications. Perched atop the walls were wood and iron scorpions, their size comically small compared to the grandeur of the castle. It was as if they were aptly named after their minuscule counterparts for once. As I examined the ramparts, it was hard to determine if the castle was fully garrisoned or if the guards were just spread too thin across its vast confines. Ten drum towers connected the walls like nodes, each one would loom over Riverrun in both size and thickness, according to my newest River Marshal, who also stated that ten Riverruns could indisputably slot within its grounds.

Edmyn had described this dreary place to me during his previous 'summons' to attend his former king. Everything about it was disproportionate, from interminable hallways better suited to giants than people, to a stable that could house a thousand warhorses, to a central chamber that could comfortably accommodate the entirety of the Riverlands nobility with space to spare. The main gate's walls were so thick that a person would chance no less than a dozen murder holes before they reached the yard on the other side. Its Godswood alone encompassed twenty acres of oaks, pines, and sentinel trees and had its own stream. Edmyn privately admitted to me that the face of the Weirwood tree there was the most misshapen, hideous thing he had ever seen, as though it had witnessed unspeakable things and was twisted as a result. He might have been imagining it, but he swore that the one time he had tried praying before it he heard the echoes of screams coming from its mouth as a wind made its blood red leaves tremble angrily. It was an experience that had thoroughly shaken the man.

Now that I was seeing it in person, I couldn't help but feel a sense of awe mixed with desire. It was an excessive waste of the Riverlands' resources to build this thing… and I wanted it for my own.

Once the encirclement of the castle was complete, I had House Targaryen's riders approach the men guarding the main gate bearing a flag of truce with a request to parley with the master of the castle, King Harren. While heated insults were thrown back and forth and the ironmen hemmed and hawed, they eventually agreed to talk. Maester Vaeron came to me with an entreaty to view the tête-à-tête between kings to record for posterity. The Maester himself was an unassuming man of Valyrian, possibly dragonseed, heritage in his twilight years that served House Targaryen loyally and with distinction. Unsurprisingly, the Citadel leadership in Oldtown surreptitiously sent him inquires about the coming and goings of the last House of Dragonlords, and he fed them meaningless drivel to keep them ignorant of House Targaryen's motives.

I granted the Maester's benign wish, offering him a nod of approval. The aged man seemed to brighten at the prospect of being included in this historic event, the stoop in his spine lessening.

As the sun was beginning to set, my personal retinue of Targaryen guards and I trotted forth to meet with Black Harren. I refused to have any of my Riverlords accompany me, as their presence was unlikely to aid in the coming conversation. Harren would rightfully (from a certain point of view) see them as traitorous vassals seeking to overthrow him, while his former vassals would rightfully see him as a petty tyrant in need of being deposed. Both were technically correct, but that would still impede me from getting my point across to the ironborn king. So in spite of their petulantly voiced grievances at being left behind, I put my foot down, and Balerion's irritated growl muted their grousing.

"Teacher, what is the purpose of talking with this ironborn king?" Ylisse questioned from my side, "We have him surrounded and he knows it. Is it to cow him into compliance?"

"Certain practices must be observed, apprentice" I notified her, "There's an important narrative that future generations will look back to that can only exist if it is put to parchment, which is what the good maester with us is here for"

Ylisse was skeptical of this practice, but withheld her tongue.

Harren was waiting for us with what I assume were a few of his elder sons seventy paces from the gatehouse. The man in his fifties projected a presence to mirror his abode, his hulking figure casting a large shadow amidst the venerable stones of the castle. His beady eyes, hardened from years of battle and numerous victories, scanned us with a calculating gaze as we approached under the semi-protective veil of our truce banner. His balding coal black hair, which was streaked with grey, was braided in a way that was traditional among his culture. A spiky ring of driftwood crowned his skull. His tabard swayed lightly with the cool breeze wafting off the lake as he impatiently tapped his feet on the grass. He was clad in decorative heavy plate armor, which was adorned with the sigil of House Hoare, same as the fur trimmed cloak on his back. The man personified an unyielding rock that was neck deep in a rushing river. It would take ages to wear him down, but with that castle protecting him, he had plenty of time.

Or so he mistakenly thought.

His sons by contrast were nothing special, looking like younger carbon copies of him without the force of presence that their father earned by cruel deeds.

"Took you long enough" The man crudely spat to the side, "So you're the foreign dragon twat invading my lands, eh? Mind telling me what happened to those men I sent your way?"

"The one's led by Harald Harlaw?" My smile was placid, "We gave them a warm welcome, so warm in fact, that we had to bury their ashes there"

His stare was flinty as he divined my meaning, "What do you want, Targaryen?"

"I am not strictly a Targaryen, but out of courtesy for my predecessor, I offer you the same deal as the other 'kings' of Westeros" I defaulted to the courtly tone of voice I unenthusiastically used back in Gryphondria, "You are surrounded and cut off from any reinforcements. Bend the knee to House Targaryen, and you'll remain the Lord of the Iron Islands only. Yield now, and you and your sons will live to rule your House, otherwise your lives are forfeit"

It was an outrageous ultimatum, and not one that I realistically projected them to bend to.

"Father, why are we even listening to this nonsense!?" One of Harren's sons demanded, "He's the reason Harrag and Othgar are dead! My axe hand aches for vengeance!"

"Quiet, boy! Lest you feel my axe hand on your cheek!" The ironborn sovereign barked, and his unruly son backed down with gritted teeth. In a discourse between Kings, having a child of yours rudely interrupt makes a man seem a poor ruler and a poor parent both.

"What lies outside my walls is of no concern to me" He informed me with a sour expression, "My walls can repulse any attack and my larders are well stocked. So well stocked in fact that I plan on hosting a feast tonight!" He boasted to save face, to the chuckles of his guards, "We'll toast to your health, sister fucker!"

"Neither Visenya nor Rhaenys are related to me, so your words are as ignorant as they are arrogant" I shrugged nonchalantly, "So be it. When the sun sets, your line will come to an end"

With that final statement, I turned the haunches of Bucephalus about and began our slow gradient back to the encampment. The sound of Harren's harsh, disbelieving laughter mockingly echoed through the otherwise noiseless glade, his hubris filling the air like poison.

'Now there's an idea' I hatched a diabolical plan using the sudden inspiration.

My student Ylisse looked up at me once we were out of earshot, her vibrant emerald eyes reflecting a curious mixture of concern and indignation on my behalf, "What now, Teacher?"

"Now…" I drawled, drawing my Tantō from its sheath and idly examining the gleaming blade in the dying sunlight, "We wait for the sun to set"

The sun dipped below the skyline and the moon rose high over Harrenhal, casting silvery light upon the immense fortress and the camps of our forces encircling it. The warm summer air grew colder, pregnant with the anticipation of the conflict that was to come. The men moved furtively, whispering among themselves as they prepared their weapons and armor. Fires burned low, casting flickering shades over faces set with resolve and trepidation alike. The ironman standing vigil on the wall patrolled them energetically, keeping one eye glued to the sky and the other on my forces, as though they anticipated us to storm them tonight. Torchlights flickered from the many window ports of the Harrenhal's tallest tower, which hosted the king and his household. If one listened closely, they could hear the faintest echoes of feasting and wenching coming the stone structure as the king conceitedly thought himself safe from the wrath of the dragon.

I stood at the edge of the camp not far from the main gate, my crimson gaze scanning the vastness of Harrenhal. Balerion lay coiled next to me like an obsidian mountain, his eyes glowing with a malign intelligence that belied his serene demeanor. Being my familiar, he was privy to my thoughts, and he disapproved of the course of action I was determined to see carried out. Regardless of his misgivings, he would obey his rider.

On my other side, my student was needlessly sharpening her precious heirloom dagger with a nervous energy. She had never seen a structure like Harrenhal in all of her life… could not even conceive that human beings were capable of raising such massive buildings. Despite becoming a learner of magic, she still often resorted to limited thinking. To her, storming a castle like Harrenhal was a suicidal endeavor, and she would normally be right.

"Teacher" She hesitantly whispered, her voice barely a murmur above the crackle of waning cookfires, "What if that ironborn king's confidence is not misplaced? What if his walls are truly impenetrable?"

A faint grin ghosted across my lips as I sheathed the Tantō I had been polishing with a practiced flourish, "Walls are only as strong as the people who defend them, apprentice" I replied softly, "And tonight, it does not matter how well defended the walls are. Their doom cometh"

As if heeding my words, Balerion rose to his full height, his monstrous wings unfurling with a sound like thunder. My camp's hubbub of shifting men fell hushed as soldiers and officers alike looked up in awe and trepidation at the dragon unhinging his cavernous jaws as an inky black vapor crept out from between his teeth and flowed in the direction of the main gate.

An abnormal wind started to pick up, ferrying the unnatural fumes along its currents towards the unsuspecting defenders. One could feel an eerie chill radiating from the dark mist as it undulated in the air, creeping ever so noiselessly towards Harrenhal's unwitting guardsmen. My apprentice gasped as she witnessed this, intuiting the fog's dread purpose. The black fog thickened into curling tendrils of oily gloom, licking at the stones of Harrenhal's main gate and scaling its mighty walls. It wasn't long before men were engulfed by it, disappearing as they were hidden from one another by the embrace of the fog.

And then the screaming came.

A man, if he could still be called that, emerged from a bank of the spreading, insidious smoky fog, futilely trying to escape his condemned fate. Blood oozed from every pore as his skin withered and rotted from the deleterious effects of the Soul Hunting Fog. He stumbled as the deteriorating bones in his body lost structural integrity and snapped. He tripped with a howl and fell over the edge of the wall, slamming into the ground and exploding into a foul mess of liquids as the fog rendered his innards into goop. The unaffected guards on the wall, seeing what occurred with their comrades and desperate to keep the fog at bay, hurled torches into its depths, only to see the fire swallowed by the darkness with nary a flicker or sound. The fog moved with a malevolent intelligence, consuming all in its path and spreading an agonizing demise amongst Harrenhal's defenders and only its defenders.

I did some last minute modifications to Balerion's magical core so that this legendarily bad breath of his would not affect people with the Riverlands genotype, which was a moderately even mix of First Men and Andalish DNA. The ironborn genotype, by contrast, was almost predominantly that of the First Men. I made this modification so that the Soul Hunting Fog would not be indiscriminate as it executed its grim purpose. After all, there were plenty of servants and hostages kept in Harrenhal that were Riverlanders, and carelessly killing them would not be so conducive to portraying myself as a good monarch to my future subjects. The Riverlords might not really care, as they understood that siege warfare caused unfortunate casualties, but the levies in their ranks most certainly would.

Plus I really wanted this castle physically unspoiled.

In less than ten minutes, Harrenhal was completely devoured by the Soul Hunting Fog, which snaked through every corridor and crept into each room like the Angel of Death, claiming lives with ruthless efficiency. The torchlights in the main tower were extinguished one by one as the jubilant sounds of celebration twisted into cries of confusion and then shrieks of mortal terror before being abruptly silenced. The entire fortress was soon shrouded in the dense, oppressive miasma, transforming it into a sinister citadel cloaked in shadows. The agonized echoes of dying souls waned, replaced by an eerie calm that smothered the night in an almost palpable dread. Ylisse's eyes were wide with shock, her hand clutching her heirloom dagger so fiercely that I worried she might pierce her own flesh. Her youthful face contorted between amazement and revulsion. I may have warned her that she would behold such sights in her tenure as my apprentice, but it seemed like I kept surprising her.

"Balerion will need some rest after this" I muttered to myself, casting a glance at my imposing companion. The crimson glow in his eyes had dimmed ever so slightly after the exertion, though his form remained as majestic and terrifying as ever, "Creating the Fog consumes much of his internal energy"

"Your Majesty… what just happened?" My River Marshal asked as he hesitantly ambled alongside. He seemed torn between vindictive glee that his old liege suffered such a horrific death and fear of the scaly death machine adjacent to us that accomplished this.

"Balerion here just saved us a whole lotta time and captured us an intact castle" I insouciantly replied, "That Fog won't disperse until morning though, so maintain a tight cordon around the fortress. Once it does, we move in to secure it for ourselves"

"I'll relay your orders immediately" The man dutifully made to do so.

As the River Marshal departed to convey my orders, I turned my attention back to Ylisse. She stood motionless, a solitary figure against the backdrop of the distorted, fog enshrouded fortress. Her bright crimson hair was a stark contrast to the dark and foreboding scene before us.

"Apprentice" I called softly, my voice cutting through the oppressive stillness like a blade. She looked up, her green eyes meeting my own crimson gaze, "You should get some rest. And cheer up, tomorrow you should be able to sleep in an actual bed for a change!"

She halfheartedly complied, casting one final thoughtful glance to Harrenhal before retiring to her tent.

Once morning arrived and the fog dispersed, my forces advanced, with some reluctance, towards Harrenhal's main gate, which now stood ajar due to its occupants attempting to flee and perishing before they made it twenty paces. Its gaping mouth, the architecture of which I found reminiscent of Morannon, invited us into its depths. Ylisse walked at my side, her earlier trepidation now replaced by a steely resolve that glinted in her green eyes like Wildfire.

As we traversed an impressive distance to pass the first threshold, the hushed whispers of my soldiers suffused the air; a blend of awe and underlying fear as they beheld the once impregnable fortress, now rendered into a grim mausoleum. The stench of rot from the decayed corpses hung heavily around us, a reminder of the night's ill happenings. The castle's inner bailey was littered with fallen banners, discarded weapons, and emptied armor sets. It was a sharp dissimilarity to its usual state of alertness and life. Despite its now forlorn interior, Harrenhal's grandeur was yet undeniable, its vast halls and high ceilings that utilized Weirwood for crossbeams speaking to decades of power and dominion over the Riverlanders.

I had my men fan out and look for survivors, though I doubted any ironborn soul could have escaped the sinister embrace of the Soul Hunting Fog before it was too late. The quiet that enveloped us was occasionally broken by the sound of steel clinking against flooring as shields, axes, and swords were cautiously picked up. The gods-fearing soldiers among the search parties whispering prayers to the Old Gods and the Seven alike, probably that their newfound king would never turn such horrors against them.

As the combing continued, I noted that Ylisse was moving with purpose through the passageways of the shortest tower, her dagger drawn, eyes scanning for any hint of movement. She was adapting quickly to the sobering nature of our quest, her resilience shining like a beacon amidst the impression of death that now inhabited the castle. It was moments like these that reassured me of her potential and her unwavering spirit.

Given the sheer scale of Harrenhal, it took a while, but one of my search parties returned successfully with a trio of scullery maids of Riverland descent. They weren't in the best condition. Their hair was matted with grease and their clothes were filthy. There was a haunted sheen to their eyes, and they responded slowly to questioning. Naturally, being young and defenseless women in the clutches of the ironborn most prominent for their cruelty made for harsh workspace conditions.

I instructed my men to see to it that these maids were washed, fed, and dressed in cleaner attire. It was important to me that House Targaryen, as their new rulers, began with acts of kindness rather than perpetuate the cycle of fear and cruelty that had haunted the Riverlands for so long. It cost me practically nothing and I stood to gain much from it. From the appraising miens of my lords that were watching this, especially my River Marshal, it did not go amiss. While my soldiers attended to this, I turned towards Lord Jarmun Buckwell, who was watching the proceedings with an expression of relief and contemplation.

"They won't be the only ones spared from Balerion's Black Breath that we find, Lord Buckwell" I disclosed to him, "Ensure that facilities are established to accommodate the other survivors… preferably away from the stench of death"

My orders snapped him out of his funk, "Aye, your Majesty. I'll see to it!"

As our forces continued the meticulous task of cleansing Harrenhal from its recent 'procuring', my attention was briefly drawn upward to the skies, where Balerion circled lazily above the depopulated but untouched battlements, like a dark sentinel watching over us. While Lord Buckwell and the other Riverlords scrambled to organize superior lodgings for the survivors trickling in, I studied the towering spires and ramparts of Harrenhal. This fortress, with its bleak history and spectral atmosphere, had always been a nexus of Power and Fear to the Westerosi. Under my tenure, I was going to turn it into a bastion of Order and Purpose.

Thankfully, the other such discovered survivors were in better spirits, although there were unfortunately still some casualties among the elderly servants who dropped dead of fright at the sight of the Fog devouring their captors and spitting out rotting piles of flesh. It was luckless, but some mentally scarred survivors were better than no survivors at all.

As we made our way deeper into Harrenhal, a foreboding unease clung to the atmosphere, like the last whimpers of a fading dream. The castle's muteness was oppressive. Once teeming with life and activity, now it echoed only with the melancholic memories of those who had fallen in its construction. Our footsteps resonated through the barren halls, each step amplifying the sense of desolation. I could see the restlessness creeping into my men's' souls. These were doughty warriors who had seen countless fights and stared death in the face more often than not, but even they were unnerved by this forbidding spectacle.

Reaching the capacious Great Hall, we found the miscellanies of a grand feast gone awry. Tables were overturned, goblets lay scattered across the stone floor, and discarded food mouldered in forgotten corners, nibbled on by rats. The walls were adorned with tapestries depicting profitable raids and ironborn glories long past, now tarnished with dried blood and other unsavory body fluids.

A sudden movement caught my eye. A figure darted from behind one of the colossal pillars buttressing the cavernous space, making an attempt to flee unnoticed. I signaled to Ylisse, who moved with the swiftness of a shade, cutting off any path of retreat. Cornered and realizing their folly, the figure slumped against the wall, breathing heavily.

One of my Riverlords recognized him as Harrenhal's current castellan, a man named Ser Gyles Pritchard. The man himself was not in great shape. His wrinkled face was gaunt, and his drooping eyes were hollow. The man who identified him mentioned that he had once been robust and commanding knight but was now reduced to a fearful shell of his former self as a result of his pressganged service to King Harren Hoare.

"Ser Gyles" I addressed him calmly, like I would a cornered animal, "There is no need to fear us. We mean you no harm. But we would appreciate it if you cooperated with us"

His eyes darted around manically before coming to rest on me; he seemed to summon some vestige of courage from within, "My Lord" He rasped, bowing his head slightly in a show of respect that was more instinctual than sincere deference.

"We seek information" I continued, "Tell us everything about what transpired here"

Ser Gyles swallowed hard before he began recounting the events that led to Harrenhal's downfall, how the ironborn had returned from our meeting dissatisfied and surly, how they posted a bounty on my head that consisted of Lord Tully's daughters, and finally how they had met their grisly end when confronted by an unnatural fog that claimed their lives in a macabre display.

"A fog?" The twiggy thin Riverlord that identified him earlier questioned skeptically. It seemed that he was not in earshot when I made it explicitly clear that Balerion caused this depopulation of the castle.

"Yes, a fog!" Ser Gyles confirmed with a full body shudder, "A fog that moved like it had a mind of its own… it devoured them whole and spat out corpses. The breath of the Stranger came into these halls with righteous fury… why else would it spare the innocent?"

I exchanged a pointed glance with Ylisse, both of us understanding what this meant yet keeping mum about its true nature. Such knowledge was dangerous and best kept secret from all but a trusted few. Lord Tully had wisely kept his trap shut, knowing that Balerion was the one who made that fog. The same went for the few other lords that overheard me previously.

If rumors of divine intervention favoring House Targaryen were to propagate from this incident, then I would not dissuade it.

"Thank you for your cooperation, Ser Gyles" I spoke to the disturbed man softly but firmly, "You will be given quarters and treated well until we can determine your future prospects"

He was led away by his countrymen, murmuring reverently about the Seven in a way that gave me the impression that a Septon's robes were in his future.

It took many hours and several sweeps, but Harrenhal was deemed secure and free of ironmen. With the fortress taken intact, there was a wealth of things to be liberated from its depths. The most important of which were intelligence reports detailing the highest concentrations of ironborn skulking about the Riverlands, which had my River Marshal practically salivating. He had told me before that his greatest urgency as my appointed Marshal was restoring House Mallister to functionality. Said House historically served as a counter to the ironborn's raids in the past, which explained why they had a daughter here serving as a chambermaid slash hostage slash bed warmer to one of Harren's now deceased sons. Of the Hoare King himself, the only remnants of him that could be found were a set of wine soaked plate armor and a bloodstained driftwood crown. The fate of the latter of which was debated on fiercely by the Riverlords before my River Marshal publicly entreated me to simply burn it on a pyre with the other undesirable refuse of the castle.

The ensuing weeks elapsed monotonously. I had several trophies of my time here collected and packed up to be sent to my base camp by the mouth of the Blackwater Rush. Among them were a treasure trove of iron and steel weapons from Harrenhal's vast armories, though this was after granting the Riverlords a cut for use in equipping their levies to counteract ironborn raiders. The ever prickly Riverlords were appeased by this gesture, as many of them wanted the 'Honor' of being my River Marshal and loudly declared themselves suitable for the task. All it took to shut their traps was asking them if they were second guessing my judgment, and the not so distant roar of Balerion in the background. Harrenhal's treasuries were unsurprisingly sparse, given how much wealth was spent to build the place, but what little remained I granted to my River Marshal to pad his war chest in his efforts to rid his homelands of the ironborn scourge once and for all. My personal retinue, Ylisse included, and my Starsworn troops were sent back to the Blackwater camp to await further instructions.

With all future business in the Riverlands settled, oaths and fealties from stragglers were formally sworn to House Targaryen on bended knee. My quarrel-happy Riverlords were conscientiously made to understand their marching orders along with the man they were to listen to in my absence, being partnered up with neighbors they had the smallest amount of bad beef with in order to coordinate and root out the remaining pockets of raider scum infesting their lands. I wasn't too concerned about the Iron Islands themselves. With their Kingly House extinct, and my River Marshal hunting their remaining lords and leaders in the Riverlands, they would likely fall into mass disarray electing a new king with the strength to hold the title against all comers. I then flew to the Stormlands to lend my assistance there.

The sky was painted a deep vermilion as Balerion carried me southwards, his titanic wings casting sweeping shadows upon the lands below. The air smelled of salt and imminent rain, an omen perhaps as we neared the Stormlands. The moist parcels of forests and fields were a tempestuous landscape, befitting their namesake. Rolling thunderclouds gathered ominously on the horizon as I descended with Balerion to the Targaryen encampment on the hills south of Bronzegate castle. The encroaching storm was agitating my familiar, who remembered the last occasion he flew through one and had no desire to repeat getting struck by lightning. As we were about to touch down, the acrid tang of burning wood greeted my nose and the metallic clinking of armor met my ears. The camp bustled with preparations for what seemed like an imminent assault. Soldiers hurried about in disciplined chaos, setting up palisades, sharpening stakes, and feeding their steeds. At the heart of it all Orys stood tall, barking orders and coordinating the camp's manpower in preparation for the Storm King's army, which was on its way here.

Balerion's bulk landed with a thud that shook the very ground beneath us. His immense form created a temporary eclipse, casting a shadow over a group of startled Targaryen soldiers who quickly dropped to their knees in respect. I dismounted gracefully, my robes billowing in the gusts that heralded the storm's arrival.

"My Archon!" A familiar face addressed me, "Your timing is fortuitous!"

"Aelan" I nodded amiably to him, "Glad to see that you're in good health. Show me to the command tent, and let Orys know that I want a report on all happenings since we invaded the Stormlands proper"

Aelan bowed deeply, his chainmail rustling softly, "At once, my Archon" He affirmed, rising swiftly and leading me through the hustling cantonment. The Targaryen soldiers parted deferentially before us, reverence in their features at the sight of Balerion and myself.

The command tent was a hive of activity, with maps spread out on broad tables, and markers denoting known enemy troop movements and fortifications. Orys Baratheon, stalwart and fierce, with the unmistakable stoutness of his lineage arrived a few minutes later.

"Everyone else who is not my appointed commander, take a respite outside" I piped up, my voice carrying the authority that had become synonymous with my position, "Orys, brief me on the situation here"

"My Archon, much has occurred since we last conversed" He respectfully prefaced, taking a few steps forth and gesturing towards the main hand drawn map, "News has reached us even here about the Fall of Harrenhal, forcing our enemy's hand. Southerly Dornish raids and pirate activity in Cape Wrath have him partly hamstrung, but the Storm King Argilac has still mustered a goodly amount of his available forces and is rushing towards us with all haste. Our scouts estimate his arrival in less than two day's time. His army is substantial, outnumbering ours by half again, but it is not insurmountable"

"I assume Rhaenys is scouting their movements from on high?" Was my rhetorical question.

"Aye, my Archon" He confirmed, "Her aid has been invaluable… as has been those Starsworn cavalry scouts you've lent to me. At the Wendwater we would have heedlessly walked into an ambush set up by Houses Buckler, Errol, and Fell were it not for them spoiling it and giving Rhaenys a chance to torch the forest they were hiding in. We've had no trouble with them since"

He scratched at his mildly unkempt facial hair, "Additionally, using pontoons to ford the river was something that never would have occurred to me. It sped up our crossing considerably. Another oddly effective idea from those foreign mercenaries of yours"

"Excellent" I murmured, my eyes tracing the paths marked on the map, "We should exploit every advantage that we have. What of our fortifications here at the foot of Bronzegate?"

Orys' brow furrowed with intensity as he contemplated his response, "The castle itself is closed off to us, and I deemed it a waste of time capturing it with the Storm King himself on his way here, but the terrain around it is treacherous, which we can use to our favor. The encroaching storm adds another layer of difficulty for both sides, but I suspect that the rains will cause the land to muddy and impede cavalry charges, which will serve to our benefit. We've taken measures to rapidly secure our position here and establish fallback points should we be forced to retreat and cede ground"

"Prudent strategizing, Orys," I approved, my gaze still absorbed in the array of crisscrossing lines and symbols upon the map.

The Storm King would not be an easy adversary to overcome, but his arrogance in believing that he could outmaneuver us would aid in his downfall.

"With this inclement weather Balerion and Meraxes will be unable to effectually intercept him in the open field. The storm may hinder our vision, but it will also mask our dragons' presence from the foe. Rhaenys and Meraxes will be on standby once the battle is joined" I dictated the plan.

"Understood, my Archon" Orys bobbed his head, his steely eyes reflecting the flicker of candlelight, "Do you foresee any need for the errh… darker elements of our arsenal?"

My lips thinned in consideration. Magic in battle was a double edged sword, its power could effortlessly turn the tide but it would be a crutch that I didn't want my men reliant on, "If Argilac forces our hand, then we shall respond in kind" I finally murmured, my words causing a noticeable tension in the tent.

"Let us hope it does not come to that" Orys muttered, his brow furrowing. He was an honorable man, a warrior born and bred. To him, battles should be won by steel and blood, not by the unknowable force of magic. Yet, he also respected my acumen and understood my methods.

"Indeed," I echoed his sentiments, folding my arms behind my back and taking a momentary pause. The hum of activity around us seemed to ebb away as I drew deeply within myself, consorting with the swirling streams of thought in my mind, "Continue to prepare for battle, Orys. Ensure that every man is armed and every sword arm is rested. We are the anvil that the hammer shall fall upon and we will not falter"

"Without delay, my Archon" Orys saluted me with a sense of resolute determination. I watched him stride from the tent, his solid figure vanishing amidst the sodden throng of our encamped soldiers. His departure left me alone with nothing but the echoes of our conversation and the quivering light of the candles for company.

As silence reclaimed the canvas expanse around me, I pondered on the impending battle. Argilac's Stormlanders were hardy and hardened by countless skirmishes against the Dornish, Ironborn, and Reachers. Aegon's notes mentioned that they had seasoned knights with a wealth of battlefield experience from their campaign in Essos' Disputed Lands. But they didn't have someone like me, and they didn't have dragonfire.

My thoughts were interrupted by a sudden gust of wind, which did not originate from the poor weather, tearing through the tent, causing maps and parchments alike to flutter in protest. A couple of minutes later, Rhaenys appeared at the entrance, her violet eyes ablaze with an intense focus that instantly drew my attention. She paused momentarily on spotting me, but recovered precipitously.

"My Archon. Meraxes and I bring news from our flight" She initiated without preamble, striding over to join me by the table strewn with charts and tactical markings, "Argilac attempts to hasten his march to us, I believe that he hopes to catch us off guard in this poor weather"

Predictable. The Storm King sought to use this forthcoming tempest to his gain, hoping perhaps that we would be less prepared in our defenses. He was underestimating us again.

"Let him tire his men" I said evenly, my scrutiny tracing the numerous marks of black ink indicating our troops' positions, "His impatient recklessness shall be his undoing. Were you spotted?"

"Nay, my Archon" She shook her head, "Meraxes and I skirted the clouds high above them. They saw nothing… assuming they even looked upwards"

"That definitely tracks" I mockingly murmured, "I should not have to tell you this, but with the storm likely to worsen, Meraxes and Balerion will be grounded for the battle"

Her face pinched with displeasure, but she nodded, "I had similar thoughts, though it satisfies me not" She went to grab a decanter of red wine from an adjacent refreshment table, pouring herself a goblet and taking a deep gulp.

I let her stress drink in peace.

"I've decided that I dislike storms" She eventually muttered, "They remind me of how Aegon was stolen from me"

Her words brought a somber ambience to the tent, as if the weight of Aegon's loss had materialized in the air around us. The memory of his death was a specter that haunted her, likely would for years, for the bonds of blood and matrimony ran deep.

"His dreams yet guide our work here" I replied softly, stepping closer to her, "Aegon's vision lives on through our actions, his legacy immortalized in every step we take toward unification" My voice held the ironclad resolve of a promise sworn before magic and men alike.

Rhaenys' eyes met mine, softened by a mixture of sorrow and determination, "We will not disappoint him" She whispered, her fingers tightening around the goblet as though it were a lifeline.

"We won't" I affirmed, turning my attention back to our strategic plans. Our forces were well prepared, their morale elevated despite the looming confrontation. Yet, Argilac's impending assault required minor adjustments. We could always be one step ahead.

"Send word to our scouts and my Starsworn" I instructed her, "My Starsworn will seed the fields with a special welcoming gift, so ensure that the scouts continue to monitor Argilac's movements closely and report any sudden deviations. I want them to be seen by the enemy host and visibly withdraw with faked panic. We will reel him in with feigned weakness and he'll suffer for his arrogance"

She drained the rest of her cup and set it down with a loud 'plink!', "I will see it done right away" She moved toward the entrance with purpose once more but then stopped, casting a glance back at me, "Zenith… stay safe"

"Same to you, Rhaenys" I returned the sincere wish with genuine warmth.

We had another day and a half of prep time before Argillac's vanguard was spotted by our forward lookouts, looking mildly winded but still in a condition to fight. The storm overhead had soured into a true tempest, with potent gales of wind whipping at tents and icy rain pelting everything like watery softballs. The Stormlanders, who were accustomed to such things, were only somewhat inconvenienced by this, whereas my men who were hunkering in trenches and palisade platforms showed their discomfort as they scurried about seeking whatever shelter they could from the downpour. Contrary to some expectations, Argillac did not heedlessly charge at us, instead waiting for the bulk of his troops to arrive and array themselves for an offensive. The Stormlander levies in his host wore an assortment of protective gear and sported weapons like billhooks, spears, and wood axes. His knights, who were clad in iron plate armor and brandished mighty war hammers and bastard swords, were far more imposing by comparison, and even their horses were armored as if they expected hard fighting.

They were right.

I watched from my vantage point atop the hill where our command tent was situated. The rain obscured much of the future battlefield, but Argilac's banner, a prancing black Stag on a field of yellow, was unmistakable against the dreariness. Our own banners, emblazoned with the red three headed dragon of House Targaryen, flapped defiantly in the wind, held high by our standard bearers.

"Do you think he realizes the trap?" Rhaenys suspected, coming to stand beside me, her silver gold hair plastered to her head from the persistent rain despite her raised hood.

"Argilac, for all his titled arrogance, is still a seasoned warrior with campaigns under his belt" I responded levelly, "But his great pride blinds him to what his brain should be telling him. He sees our fortifications, knows that they are imposing, but expects that his men can grit their teeth and overcome them. He may even be partially correct in that assumption, but that overconfidence will cost him and his men"

"There is no possibility of him pulling back?" She questioned, her hand uncurled wishfully on her chest.

"He does not have a choice, Rhaenys" I crossed my hands behind my back as I stood at parade rest, "If he holes up in his castle at Storm's End, he essentially admits defeat to us as well as to his subjects" Plus I could 'smoke him out' like I did to Harren, "I think he realizes, at least to himself, that this is House Durrandon's last hurrah… so he will do his damnedest to make it memorable"

"Prideful old man" Rhaenys chided as her hand clenched, though it lacked real bite.

As if to validate my words, a series of horns blared from the Stormlander side. Their formation began to move, a slow but incremental advance towards our lines, much like the storm over all our heads itself. The plodding steps of thousands of soldiers resounded through the downpour like a steady drumbeat. Despite the admittedly threatening sight, my men stood firm in their places, their breaths composed and relaxed. Their morale was elevated, thanks to the spoiled ambush at the Wendwater, and they had the high ground here.

As such, they almost radiated what I called 'Kenobi confidence'.

My gaze scanned our earthen defenses. Our palisades and trenches were hurriedly constructed and dug along the hills but they were still effective for all their simplicity. Archers were crouched behind wooden barricades, arrows nocked and bees wax coated strings taut despite the wetness. Outside the trenches, my detachment of Starsworn outriders, an elite unit that was handpicked for their unwavering steadfastness and exceptional skill in the saddle, even when compared to their intrepid brethren, were poised for action with their crossbows cocked. They had already sown the battlefield with hidden traps meant to cripple and confuse any who dared cross them. No doubt the honorable lords of these lands will disapprove of caltrops to stymie their glorious cavalry charges, but honor should rarely get in the way of tactical planning. The kill zones that I had demarcated with painted, crisscrossed stakes were already pre-targeted for the archers to exact a bloody toll on those brave and foolish enough to cross.

A bolt of lightning arced across the sky followed by an ear-ringing clap of thunder. For a brief moment, everything was illuminated, the storm lashed land, a sea of advancing enemies, and our determined defenders holding solidly like the rocks of Shipbreaker Bay.

"So it begins" I noted casually, before looking to Rhaenys, "You and Meraxes are on standby. Should any major breakthrough occur that our men cannot promptly contain, you will be there to plug the gaps"

"I hear and obey, My Archon" She averred, before fading into the curtain like rainfall.

One of the Narrow Sea lords serving as a staff officer for Orys raised a horn to his lips and sounded a series of shrill notes that pierced through the cacophony of wind and rain, which was then repeated along the defensive lines.

Like a well oiled machine, our archers rose in unison and let fly their volleys. Arrows streaked through their arcs with deathly elegance before plunging into the middle ranks of the advancing Stormlanders, their accuracy minorly spoiled by the intensity of the deluge. Curses and shouts of pain filled the air as some fell while others pressed on with grim determination. One notable knight got his shoulder pierced clean through and continued on like he had only gotten an inconvenient bug bite.

These Stormlanders were definitely a higher caliber of opponent on the field than the Ironborn were, that much was plain.

The true test for them came when Argilac's forces reached our outer defenses, where a veritable minefield of hidden caltrops and spiked pitfalls designed to maim legs and halt forward momentum awaited them. As projected, there were cries of confusion and shock as men and horses stumbled into these unseen hazards, laming mounts and throwing knights from their saddles as their equine companions screeched in agony.

I hated causing pain to animals, but such were the cruel realities of war.

The progressing tide slowed to a crawl, the coordination of Argilac's forces faltering under the unanticipated brutality of our traps. Footmen began to stumble and collapse, not just from arrows but metal barbs stabbing into their unarmored feet, their screams muffled as they were unintentionally trampled by their comrades. Horses reared and bucked, spilling riders into the growing morass of mud and blood, their envisioned glorious charge reduced to a chaotic scramble to rise from the muck at their King's infuriated urging.

I'll hand it to him, Argilac and his commanders recovered quickly, spotting the gaps where our traps were nonexistent and funneling themselves into them at speed.

"Archon Zenith!" A voice called out from beside me, cutting through the tumult. It was Orys, his hardened features set like chiseled stone, "Argilac's advance is faltering, but he's not giving up. He's spotted the open areas in the defenses and he'll bring his reserves soon"

I nodded, my scutiny never leaving the chaos unfolding below us, "Patience, Orys. They must bleed themselves on our fortifications before we move to meet them"

A grim smile tugged at the corner of his mouth as Orys nodded, understanding the necessity of our strategy. We could ill afford to be drawn into a premature cavalry on cavalry engagement, as it would cede the initiative to the enemy and prevent our archers from being at their most effective. A thin line separated calculated restraint from reckless abandon. The Stormlanders' resolve had to be eroded first, their morale weakened, before we took to the field in earnest.

The first surge of Argilac's men and horses now lay in disarray, littering the muddy ground with broken bodies and tumbled steeds. Yet still, a second wave pressed headlong into the gaps, where the slopes were coincidentally the most treacherous from the water soaking the earth. The insolent spark of Argilac's spirit burned bright in the hearts of his vanguard, and it was both commendable and pitiable. The Stormlanders' steady progress through the gaps in our first defenses was met with gauged resistance from my Starsworn outriders. Crossbows released their deadly bolts, each aimed shot calculated to sow further disorder among Argilac's men, targeting commanders and standard bearers to disorient their ranks. The battlefield here had rapidly become a tableau of chaos. Mud and blood mingled beneath a relentless downpour as the Stag prodded its antlers at the Dragon's scales.

My eyes narrowed as they sighted Argilac Durrandon amidst his warriors as the second wave gave way to a third, a storm within the storm. His crowned helmet gleamed mordantly against the harsh background, his posture unyielding even as his men fell around him to the continual hail of bodkin points. He embodied the spirit of House Durrandon, bellowing his fury as he hastened to kill his enemies. With a loud cry of his House's famed words, his forces crashed into our primary entrenchments with celerity, many getting skewered by spears but landing killing strokes in retribution. The Targaryen aligned levies there fought bravely, but not well enough to turn away men that were fiendishly defending their homeland. It wasn't an hour before the centermost defenses on that hill threatened to collapse as men fled piecemeal from their trenches or were cut down in the terrible tumult.

"Form ranks! Push these bastards out of our lands!" Argilac's voice boomed in a fraught attempt to impose order upon the splintered masses of his arrow riddled forces.

The King of the Stormlands was no coward, and his tenacity commanded a grudging respect from his peers. But even the stoutest oak must bend under enough pressure. The Stormlanders, mistakenly thinking that victory was within reach, restarted their assault anew, a renewed vigor evident in their charge as King Argilac himself led at the forefront, summoning the energy to continue after a grueling slog uphill.

It seemed he was not paying attention though, as he had dangerously overextended his personal prong of the offense, which was the main reason for leaving gaps in the perimeter of our defensive traps. Rather than a wavy, solid line advancing our way, they were instead skeletal fingers that could so easily snap as they jockeyed to reform.

A speedy series of blasts from a horn traveled down the lines as Targaryen aligned cavalrymen surged forth from concealment behind our fortifications. With practiced precision, they barreled into the jumbled advancing force, flanking them from both directions in a pincer maneuver like wolves descending upon a flock of unwary sheep. Blades gleamed and lances 'thunked' as the clash of steel resounded over hollers of anguish and determination from both sides.

Mounted on horseback, Orys and I singled out the most important target amongst them.

Argilac's valiant bodyguard found itself encircled by our disciplined horsemen as they were cut off from their comrades in the vanguard. Their valor became futility under our persistent onslaught, with the edges of swords and the tips of lances biting deep into flesh and bone as Targaryen banners streamed proudly above the fray.

Argilac's gaze met mine across the battlefield, and for a moment, time seemed to stand still. His eyes blazed with anger, an intensity to them that was kindled by desperation and an unyielding pride. He raised his sword high, rallying the noble men around him for what he likely knew was his final stand. His voice, though strained and weary from unremitting shouting and heavy physical activity, carried over the din.

"Show these Targaryen bastards what true Stormlanders are made of boys! But their leader is mine!" He thundered, eliciting a hoarse cheer from his embattled soldiers.

With a nod to Orys, we spurred our mounts forward. I locked onto Argilac as he led his bodyguard in a desperate bid to break through our encirclement. The hillside transformed into a maelstrom of blood and steel as we collided with Argilac's fraying retinue on the lower embankment. Our equestrian forces' weapons clashed in a violent symphony that echoed through the rain soaked mire. We were shrouded from the Stormlander archers, but similarly our own bowmen were unable to assist us without risking blue-on-blue incidents.

Balerion, not content to sit out a fight in any way shape or form with the heady iron scent of blood perfusing his sensitive olfactory senses, added himself to the equation as he manifested from above, landing heavily as his bulk flattened several Stormlander knights and even unhorsed some of my own men. Proving that a dragon was just as dangerous on the ground as in the air, he utilized his hugeness to his advantage. With claws and teeth he tore a bloody swathe through the enemy, ensuring that Argilac would never receive his reinforcements before we dispensed with him.

Speaking of, the Storm King was now on foot, his mount having succumbed to exhaustion and arrow fire previously, and was now on its side bleeding out and whinnying pitifully. As I did with Harlaw, I met him likewise. As I studied my opponent, I noticed how… elderly he looked. All of his long hairs were grey and his face was severely wrinkled with stress and age lines. In his tightly clenched hands was an arming sword and a dirk, an unusual combination for a king of his stature to wield. His armor lacked outstanding ornamentation, being practical plate that covered his joints well with roundels. The exception to this being his crowned half helm, which bore a stag's antlers on the front in a way that would not offset the helmets balance overmuch. Despite being almost seventy, he hid his decrepit, withered strength well. His yellow cloak flapped restlessly in the wind of the storm as he saw my challenge for what it was and approached me with assured footfalls.

"I've killed one King before!" He roared from behind his retinue, "I still have it in me to deal with a would be King!"

I leveled Blackfyre at him, "So have I. By all means… try to stop me"

He endeavored to do so. Argilac raised his weapons and lunged forward with startling agility for one so advanced in years. His arming sword arced towards my head with deadly precision while the dirk aimed a deliberate thrust towards my side, a deceptive feint meant to draw my parry aside.

I twisted away from the initial strike, Blackfyre meeting his main blade with a clash that I'm sure sent vibrations up his arm. Our swords locked for a brief moment before I disengaged, sidestepping to avoid his dirk which slashed at the emptied space where I had stood a heartbeat prior.

"You fight wily for such an old man," I noted aloud, allowing myself a terse smile as we circled one another.

His eyes narrowed behind his helm, "And you speak too boldly for a mere fawn. From what I have heard, a storm has already slain one Targaryen. What's one more!?"

"How many times must I correct you presumptuous fools?" I murmured to myself, "I am not a Targaryen, but the banners of the Three Headed Dragon will yet fly over Storm's End"

With a snarl of defiance at my statement of fact, Argilac launched into another string of attacks, his motions fluid and practiced from decades of experience. His steel flashed with lethal intent but I guided Blackfyre true, parrying, countering, striking at angles designed to exploit the smallest chinks in his armor. The power behind his blows was astounding for a man of his years, but it was getting clear that desperation fueled his every movement. Each strike he made was accompanied by a growl or a low grunt, though the adroitness of his attacks told tales of a multitude of battles fought and won by him. Whereas I parried and riposted with a fluidity that mirrored my own years of disciplined training, Argilac's own swordsmanship technique was seasoned, if not somewhat predictable; each move of his conveyed a lifetime of experience but also exposed a weariness that was starting to set into his bones.

Around us, the crashing of steel and the cries of the wounded filled the atmosphere, creating a grisly orchestral backdrop that underscored the decisive duel to come. Orys was a whirlwind of disciplined ferocity, his blade swiftly dispatching any knight or footman who dared to interfere with our duel to defend their king. Aelan was also nearby, proving himself adept with a short sword and dagger, felling a trio of Stormlander knights who were desperate to aid their visibly tiring king. I would have to see about rewarding his bravery sometime. Reliable men were a treasured resource in worlds like this.

Argilac's dirk darted out like a viper's fangs, aiming for a false opening in my defense. I deftly turned it aside with Blackfyre's sturdy forte before sweeping his legs out from under him with a deft, circular kick. He fell forward heavily with a curse, frantically using both his arms to try and pick himself out of the mud. I could have ended the duel here and there, but I had an extra objective to make, and leisurely stepped back a few paces. Oddly, the man gave me a begrudging nod as he stood to his feet and brushed the filth off his knuckles, conceding that I had him dead to rights beforehand. There was an inexplicable change in the atmosphere as we momentarily studied the other. He, his chest heaving as he struggled to oxygenate his lungs, and I, who did not have a single hair out of place.

The next exchange would be terminal.

I settled into a stance signifying my usage of Form V Djem So, which I could tell confused Argilac, who had mostly witnessed me utilizing a relaxed version of Form III. Whereas before he came at me, now, I came for him. Djem So was one of my favorite styles (though they were all equally viable in the proper circumstances), combining important elements from Form III and Form II to result in a potent dueling philosophy. My strikes, once teasing, now struck like boulders as I battered the Storm King like a Category Five Hurricane battered a coastline. Even when purposefully limiting myself to vanilla mortal parameters, Argilac's defense wilted nearly instantly as I crushed through his anemic blocks with forceful swipes, putting him squarely on the back foot. The abruptness of the dynamic shift had him instinctually panic, and he lashed out. I spun around his tattered guard as he feebly attempted to get an attack of his own in, dangerously overextending himself.

I capitalized straightaway.

Using my momentum from my earlier maneuver, Blackfyre sang through the downward chopping arc of Falling Avalanche as its foible sliced through the man's exposed gauntlets just above the wrists. Although Blackfyre paled in comparison to a lightsaber, this was still a demonstration of Cho mai, the technique of removing an opponent's weapon hand, or hands in this case, to end the duel. Credit to him, being parted from his appendages didn't so much as elicit a grunt of pain out of him as he disconsolately sank to the sopping earth while remaining upright on his knees, glaring at me with all the antipathy of a man who knew in the marrow of his bones that he was beaten. While he shed no tears at his loss, his worn face was streaked with wet lines all the same.

"You shouldn't have harmed the messenger" I enunciated to him in a low voice.

He spat derisively to the side, "Aegon shouldn't have had the gall to counter my offer with his bastard brother"

Mayhaps it was to give himself 'Casus belli', mayhaps it was genuine. Doesn't alter the fact that this man had overreacted.

"Excuses. Cutting off Gaelon Celtigar's hands was both cruel and petty of you" I criticized him, "Unlike you, he'll have to live with that infirmity for the remainder of his days"

"Spare me the Septon's sermon" He sneered at me, "Grant me a warrior's death!"

So be it.

"If you will not bend the knee and live as a Lord in your homeland, then you shall perish a King in it!" I boomed for all to hear, the storm winds howling with me in seeming agreement to the declaration.

With a summary, resolute motion, I raised Blackfyre high above me. The blade gleamed menacingly, catching a distant lightning strike's brilliant flash. Argilac the Arrogant, defiant to his last breath, was stock still before me with squared shoulders and a mien of unyielding determination etched across his weathered features. His eyes met mine without a hint of fear, just grim acceptance.

"For a united realm" I whispered to no one in particular, before bringing Blackfyre down in a powerful arc. The Valyrian steel cut cleanly through flesh and bone, removing the head from its body in a single stroke. Royal blood spattered across the muddied ground as it spurted from the severed neck, merging with the rain that continued to fall in obstinate sheets from the weeping heavens.

The Stormlanders around us steadily grew hushed, their gazes locked onto their fallen king's lifeless form. For a moment, time seemed to stand still as they processed the sight before them. Then, one by one, they began to lay down their weapons, the will to fight draining from them like liquid through a sieve. The sounds of battle were ongoing elsewhere, but it wouldn't take an onerous effort to get the other Stormlanders to retreat or surrender now that their primary leader was dead.

I looked to Orys and Aelan, who were panting from their exertions, nodding once to each of them. Each of them had felled several men that were on their skill level or just below it, taking minor wounds in the process. Their faces were streaked with sweat and grime, and their armors scuffed and dirtied, but there was no mistaking the glint of triumph in their eyes. I retrieved the severed head of the slain Storm King and tossed it to my second in command. Orys caught it without skipping a beat, intuiting my meaning and retrieving a discarded spear before 'affixing' the grisly trophy to it.

"Secure the prisoners here and spread the news of Argilac's demise to his remaining commanders and underlings. Further struggles in the name of their sovereign will be pointless" I commanded as I wiped the blood from Blackfyre's blade using a bit of cloth from a pocket in my own robes, "No more bloodshed unless absolutely necessary" I mentally had Balerion break off his rampage, who then took to the sky with a displeased shriek.

The two of them acknowledged my orders with silent, dutiful nods, turning to rally the men and enforce the finality of our victory. With messengers under a rainbow flag dispersing the word and Argilac's muddy head on a stick to refute any skeptics, the battle was gradually resolved. The battlefield, once a turbulent mess of roaring combat and clashing steel, began to settle into an uneasy quietude. The Stormlanders who had fought us so fiercely moments ago even with the odds stacked against them now stood as dejected remnants of a broken force, with the rest scattering in all directions, carrying news of Argilac's demise with them. As I stood amidst the battlefield's morbid tableau, I felt the heated touch of Balerion's volcanic mind reaching out to mine. He was informing me, in his brusque way, that he was off to hunt whales to satisfy his hunger and unquenched thirst for game, soaring above the clouds to avoid the possibility of him getting zapped on a second occasion by lightning.

Moody fellow, that dragon of mine.

Cleaning up the battlefield and taking account of our casualties consumed the rest of the day, with the storm breaking up and the sun's rays piercing the cloudy canopy with auspicious timing, much to the relief of my waterlogged soldiers. The more superstitious of our prisoners saw it as a sign that the era of the Durrandons was over… which wasn't incorrect. Our losses here were the heaviest yet, numbering over two thousand dead and thrice that in wounded men of various degrees, albeit this factoid was blunted by our fortifications and the Maester managed triage units transforming potential fatalities into just incapacitated men. The Stormlanders had it far worse, with our defenses and archers bleeding them about six thousand soldiers who did not have the luxury of a battlefield hospital setup like the kind I had ordered to be standard. We buried the dead as efficiently with the local customs as we could, collected their armaments, and ransomed our noble prisoners of lesser import to Bronzegate (which had been undermanned and thus unable to assist their late king in the battle) before setting off for Storm's End, where the campaign to absorb this particular kingdom would be concluded, one way or another.

"It's been said that House Durrandon had once ruled the eastern half of Westeros from Cape Wrath to the Bay of Crabs" Orys stated as we clandestinely peered upon the mighty castle that was Storm's End from an innocuous distance, "Though their power has been on the decline for centuries now. The Reach Kings have been chipping away at their holdings from the west, the Dornish have been harassing them from the south, and the late Iron King of the Isle and Rivers had pushed them from the Trident to what little land lies north of the Blackwater, which is ours now. There is no better a time for us to strike, my Archon, to finish them for good and all"

Storm's End wasn't a flashy or even ascetically pleasing fortress. What a person could see of it from afar left no room for doubt as to its toughness though. Standing high atop the promontory of Durran's Point like a curled, spiked fist raised angrily towards the heavens was the colossal central drum tower of the castle. So spacious was it that guests who had been inside it observed that it contained the primary granary, barracks, armory, maester's rookery, feast hall, guest rooms, and lord's chambers all together in its confines. The outer curtain wall of light grey stone that ringed the central tower was forty feet thick at its thinnest, and double that facing seawards. Formidable battlements crowned those walls and were spaced equidistantly apart, ensuring that the kill zones received equal attention from the archers stationed at attention there. The garrison was conspicuously depleted from Argilac's last gasp, but those who remained patrolled the ramparts with professionalism, acting like it was just another day.

This was of course, an admirably conserved fiction on their end. Balerion could smell their fear from here, and that was before they saw him swoop down a stone's throw away from them. Survivors from the battle that was now being whispered about as the 'Last Storm' had flocked to the castle in scattered droves in the preceding days, desperately staying ahead of our army, thus notifying the garrison that their king had perished and that I was imminently on the way here. Given that the story of what I had done to Harrenhal had arrived here a while back, I could not blame them for being afraid of suffering the same fate.

Some interesting things of note about the castle were that the ramparts of the curtain wall were almost perfectly circular, which would require precision building techniques not readily available to people at this tech-level. The brickwork in the walls was also unnaturally smooth in its curvature, and had shown no signs of erosion despite being subjected to innumerable tempests and howling winds throughout millennia. All of these irregularities seemingly reinforced the claim that the castle was built using arcane methods and maintained by magic. Indeed, there was faint thaumatic resonance emanating from its depths to my wizard's sight. I suspected that there were efficient albeit minor enchantments woven into the castle's foundation that allowed it to withstand the test of time.

In my mind, it was the Rocky Balboa of Westerosi Castles. Not very pretty to look at, but it could take a beating and keep on swinging.

Orys and I stood on a craggy platform jutting out from a cliff side north of the otherwise impregnable bastion of Storm's End. The spot that the two of us were at wasn't large enough to hold Balerion, but the grumpy dragon could scale the rocky walls of the cliff with the ease of a gecko, where he deposited us and awaited our return trip. I initially wanted to come alone, but Orys, in a rare act of independent acting, insisted on accompanying me. As I refrained from reading his surface thoughts out of courtesy, I suspected that this action was for multiple reasons. Pragmatically, the strategist in him wanted to survey Storm's End for any weaknesses in the unlikely event that he would have had to besiege it. Socially, he did not have a chance to speak privately with me without an audience close by to restrain his speech topics. Lastly, I believe that he was naturally curious about me, a mysterious man who had shown up out of nowhere with his half brother's blessing to lead the Targaryen family with a metaphorical blank check from antiquity.

I could respect his reasons to come along.

"A wounded Stag is still a dangerous one, Orys" I told him, "Particularly when it feels itself backed into a corner, as Argella must be feeling right about now. You must be wary, lest it impale you on its horns in its desperation… or its death throes"

Orys laughed, a booming sound that I'm sure would be inherent in his descendants, "Some of our more honest noble hostages speak freely when their lips are loosened with drink. They had called their former King the Last Stag, though never to his face I'd wager, given that he never fathered any sons, not even bastards. He was a complete fool to stand against us, when we have dragons" His voice was saturated in pride for the beasts of war, unsurprising given that he was half Targaryen himself.

"Argilac had seen how effective dragons are with his own eyes. It's part of why he challenged us in the field" I reminded him, referencing Aegon's notes, "He knows that even his ancestral home, tough as it is, cannot stand up to concentrated dragonfire"

"He should have told his daughter that" Orys shrugged, "Instead of doing the sensible deed, she's declared herself Queen of the Stormlands and has barred us entry. Those gates are locked tight"

"Try to see it from her perspective" I objectively replied, "Argella Durrandon has not had the luxury of time to come to terms with her reality. Grief can and will cloud one's judgment. She's her dead father's only child and heir, a woman in a male dominated society, and the last Durrandon with a proud family history stretching back thousands of years. Would you give that up without a fight?"

Orys fell silent, his expression pensive as he considered my words. The sea winds blew around us, flaring my robes in a dramatic swirl. Balerion, perched to the side and above us on the jagged peaks, grumbled with impatience. His predatory gaze was locked onto the castle across the churning waters, wondering if he would finally get to light this one like a candle.

"I suppose not" Orys reluctantly admitted, his voice a low rasp against the wind's mournful keening, "But it's not just her life that's at stake here. There are people inside those walls who didn't ask for this war. If she surrenders, their lives will be spared"

"True" I concurred, "But those are the very people who might rally to her cause if they believe she's willing to fight for them. That's the paradox of leadership, Orys. Your decisions will impact many, yet you must often make them based on the convictions of a few. Her lords will never respect her if she gives up without a fight, and they would only use her as a pawn in their schemes to claim the lordship of Storm's End. I'm sure that she would rather choose death, over that. Like Father, like Daughter" I sighed jadedly, "The preservation of an image, unfortunately, often supersedes good sense. It's one of the many pitfalls of politics"

"Glad I don't have to deal with that" The man mumbled to himself.

"Don't be so certain of that, Orys" I shot him a wry grin, "That's going to be your seat soon"

Orys eyes nearly shot out of his sockets in shock, so gob smacked was he by this, "M-my, my Archon! I'm honored that you would consider me worthy of a Lordship in your future domain, but-"

I cut him off with a pointed stare, "Look, Orys. Bastardy means ultimately nothing to me. It does not make you inherently greater or lesser than anyone else, even the vaunted nobility cloistered in their ivory towers and keeps. Social rank in many societies is an illusion perpetuated by those above to keep those that they believe below them under their heel. I know that sounds ironic and rather hypocritical coming from your future King, but just listen to me. Regardless of what we have, what our titles are, what we're capable of… we are all human beings at the end of the day… that is who we equally are. In my personal social hierarchy, you are the equal of any trueborn Lord in the field in merit, if not their superior. Make no mistake… your future vassals will rail against having a rumored bastard as their liege lord. They'll seek to test you at any opportune moment, even through martial means. You will squash any such rebellions at every turn, and keep two of any prospective heirs as wards under your care for good measure. Within a few generations, most of them will be unable to use the excuse of bastardy tainting your right to rule to rebel against their rightful liege lord"

"I see you've thought this through, my Archon" Orys commented in awe, distractedly stroking at his growing beard, "If that is your Will, then I shall obey. I suppose I should start giving thought to future brides to help me solidify a line of my own"

"Don't waste the energy" I pointed a finger towards the legendary castle, "She's waiting in there to be wined and wooed by some muscular, handsome rogue"

He was flabbergasted by this, "Argella Durrandon!? Even if I was not the one to slay her father, I fail to see how she would consent to marrying an illegitimate, bastard born man like me. To say nothing of what's to stop her from slitting my throat on our wedding night"

"I suppose that you will just have to use some of that rugged charm of yours to disarm her" My grin was wolfish, "If you're up to the challenge, that is"

His return grin was equally mischievous, "I can tell you that part of me is already up to the task of charming her"

The two of us shared a chuckle at the risqué byplay. The tension that was normally present in his shoulders whenever he was around me had relaxed fractionally, signifying positive progress in our companionship. His reasons for his rigidness around me were… complicated, yet simple. Fundamentally, without his brother, he was worried about his place in the family. As a bastard, his prospects were limited compared to a 'legitimate' son. His close friendship with Aegon was one of the primary reasons he would have been named Hand of the King in the books' timeline. Here, his half brother was dead, and the man replacing him was a complete unknown that somehow had his siblings' confidence. He was balancing an intricate juggling act of appearing useful to his new Archon, monitoring his intentions with his half sisters (even though he was far more fond of Rhaenys), and overcoming his inner grief at Aegon's shocking death.

"Have you given any thought to what your House's name will be?" I inquired of him.

"I have, actually" He fingered at his beard hairs, "I think every young bastard has daydreamed of having their own noble house at least once, I am no exception. I believe I want my House's name to be Baratheon… after the mother who birthed me, and the man that raised me before Archon Aerion acknowledged me as his"

'Huh, well how about that?' I wordlessly opined to myself.

As Applejack would often tell me, honesty was the best policy.

"Whatever happens, Orys Baratheon, I want to assure you that you are a valued member of the team and that you will continue to play a pivotal role in this Conquest" I leveled with him, "I doubt we'll ever share the same relationship that you had with Aegon, but I would not mind accounting you among a close knit group of friends, if that is amenable to you?"

He gazed at me for a long minute, his expression blank as he attempted to sniff out any deception in my words and found nothing, "Aye… I could do that" He agreed, his words saturated with several emotions.

I politely ignored his break in stoicism as I extended my hand to him, and he shook it with a firm grasp.

The trip through the skies back to our army was spent in silence, for nothing else needed to be said between us.

"Are you certain we should send the Archontessa to parley with them, my Archon?" Questioned Lord Crispian Celtigar as we watched Meraxes take off and glide casually over the walls of Storm's End. The man was absolutely loyal to me after I gave him the lacquered box containing the preserved hands of the late Storm King, which I was informed he gleefully jested over the open contents of in his tent while drinking wine with his entourage.

"They would have to be suicidal to even attempt trickery at this stage" I replied, having my soldiers go through the motions of setting up a camp, but not a siege camp, "Also I shouldn't have to remind you, Lord Celtigar, that Rhaenys and Meraxes can take care of themselves" I lightly rebuked him, which the aging man accepted with grace.

The vicinity of Storm's End had some farm fields and stony ridges that only moderately slowed our setup. The fields were not even stripped of their golden bounty, though I instructed my lieutenants to leave them alone anyway. With Argilac's army defeated and scattered, our supply lines were largely left unmolested. There were, however, bands of broken, hungry men too far from their homes to realistically return that had turned to banditry infrequently popping up that my Starsworn cavalrymen had been subduing with prejudice. It was a sad reality of war in this world, but the rule of law demanded that such men be caught and hung as an example to others who might be considering doing likewise.

The parley did not endure more than a quarter hour before Meraxes exited the main yard of Storm's End, the curtain walls being tall enough that she was fully midair before appearing over the edge of the crenellations. The sight of the silvery dragon sailing in the breeze with the style of a racing yacht was breathtaking, as ever. The massive dragon, scales gleaming in the afternoon light, wings outstretched as she soared unbothered over the fortress was easily the most beautiful of the three. My mind thrummed with anticipation as I watched her descend, Rhaenys astride her neck, an elegant figure and nigh peerless dragonrider. She dismounted gracefully, her expression unreadable, but I could tell from the tension in her posture that she was unsuccessful in securing the surrender of Storm's End.

"I take it Argella was not receptive to our overtures?" Was my rhetorical question to her.

Rhaenys huffed and tucked an errant strand of silvery hair behind her ear, "A starving dragon would have been better company. I was told in no uncertain terms by Queen Argella that we might take her castle, but that we would win only bones and blood and ashes for they would fight to the final man"

"Have to admire her grit, if not her lack of wisdom" Orys muttered to himself, "What is our response, my Archon?"

"We wait" I shrugged uncaringly, "Have the men establish camp, same procedures for patrols and standing watch"

"By your command" He left to do so.

"You look thirsty" I commented to Rhaenys, "Care for a drink?"

She smirked charmingly at me, "Read my mind, did you?"

What followed were the pleasant passing of hours as Rhaenys and I drank a few carafes dry and she talked about her youth on Dragonstone.

"The walls of that dark castle, every stone reeked of sea salt and brimstone, and some areas were terribly drafty… but it was home" Rhaenys reminisced, her violet eyes gleaming with a spark of nostalgia, "As whelps, we used to play hide and seek in those halls. Aegon was always too competitive, it ironically made him easy to find, but Visenya… she had a knack for blending in"

There was a pause, and I could sense the specter of her lost brother looming over us. I watched as she filled her cup again, the liquid body of golden Arbor wine splashing against the chalice's confines rhythmically like the sea against the cliffs just outside.

"Each place tells a unique story, doesn't it?" I spoke softly as I sipped at alcohol that wouldn't affect me, "Dragonstone, Harrenhal, Storm's End… they all have their tales to tell"

She nodded thoughtfully, scrutinizing the bright yellow of her drink, "And yet how many stories remain untold? Could have been told, if things were different?" She uttered quietly under her breath before she took a mournful swig.

Before another word could be exchanged between us, a commotion arose from the exterior of my personal tent. Orys then raced inside with immediacy.

"My Archon" He rasped, "Your attention is required"

I followed him outside to the limits of the encampment, where a gathering of my soldiers was surrounding a group of men in Durrandon colors who were restraining a person. To convey their peaceful intentions they had wrapped themselves in rainbow hued sashes that showed as faded in the torchlight of the sentries. Upon seeing me approaching, they none too gently pushed the restrained person in my direction into a clumsy tumble. The erstwhile Storm Queen was roughly cast at my feet, grunting as she hit the grassy floor. She was bound, gagged, visibly bruised by her brutish treatment, and had been stripped of all regalia, leaving her naked and shivering from the cool evening wind. Even humiliated as she was like this, she glared pure venom at everyone that was present, with myself receiving the full brunt of her ire.

Without prompting, Orys removed his crimson cloak and draped it around her like a true gentleman. He guided her to her feet and nonverbally asked my permission to shelter her in my tent, which I gave him with a gesture. As he led her away, her chains audibly clinking with each shuffling step, I guided my focus to the men that had brought her here… men that had sworn their fealty to House Durrandon.

"Explain yourselves" I directed to them in a chilling tone that had the weaker willed among them literally piss their breeches.

It seemed that some people were simply too stupid to feel fear, as one of them, a bald headed knight based on the quality of his finery, proudly announced, "Wot's there to explain? We brought ya the daft bint that would sooner sacrifice 'er men and castle than surrender to a vastly superior force at 'er doorstep. Storm's End is yours. Think that might be worth something, don't cha agree?"

I raised an eyebrow at his accent, "And you are?"

"Ser Barristan Storm, newest elected Captain o' the Household Guard, at yer service" He brashly introduced himself, a smug grin spread across his face, "I led the men who had an understandable disagreement with the Storm Queen's decision to have us roasted alive" He spat a wad of phlegm to the side.

He had the particular aura of arrogance reserved for men who believed they'd won a great moral victory on top of a physical one. The others behind him seemed more hesitant, their eyes darted between myself, and the tent where Orys had taken Argella with the reception of a guest rather than a prisoner.

"Tell me, Ser Barristan" My voice resounded ominously in the hushed fields as I began my slow pace around them, "What would cause a knight, one sworn to protect his charge and his castle no less, to turn his cloak in such a manner?"

He frowned, "I jus' explained it to yah, did I not?"

"What you explained," I monotoned as if I were educating a class of dimwits, "is that you and this gaggle of ruffians betrayed your oaths, led an uprising of sorts, lay hands violently on a noblewoman, stripped her of her dignity as a Queen and a human being, and brought her to her father's killer with the expectation of a reward. To not only save your own skins, but to profit from it? Am I correct?"

His triumphant grin had evaporated completely by now, finally sensing the depth of my displeasure. The realization of what he had done and how it registered to me gradually dawned on him as he drooped under my scathing stare. The other men behind him looked even more anxious as they witnessed their ringleader being put on the spot.

"What would ya have had us do? Die pointlessly because tha' twat couldn't accept tha' the Durrandons are done with!?" He hissed, his face reddening.

"Your duty is not to question why, but to do and die" I paraphrased a famous poem.

As he went to open that big mouth of his and spew further idiocy, I preempted him. The man flinched as he caught the loaded pouch that I had tossed to him. He looked disbelievingly inside of it before he upended the bag into his palm, leering at the coins in his hand greedily.

"Thirty Silver Stags for your… service" I began, before parting his noggin from his shoulders faster than anyone could blink with my sword, "Death… for your treason" I said with the same casualness as if noting the weather as the man's body collapsed bonelessly. The turncloak's features were forever frozen in that same mien of avarice as he departed this mortal coil.

"Do any of you lot wish to share in the same reward?" I crooked my head to his compatriots as I flicked Blackfyre once, staining the grass with traitorous droplets of blood.

They frenetically shook their heads, pale as ghosts.

I looked to one of my Starsworn lieutenants, who was watching the proceedings with a downward twist to his lips, "Clap these other collaborators in irons and send for one of the wandering Black Brothers of the Night's Watch. They're bound for The Wall"

"Gladly, my Autarch" He broke character, not that anyone noticed the faux pas, too occupied jeering at the recently deceased as they were, gesturing for the comrades under him to get that treacherous pile of filth away from my sight.

I had a very low regard for traitors.

"Have mercy, milord!" One of their number, an older one, shouted as his mobility was delimited, "I 'ave a family that needs my wages to eat!"

It was a sentiment that was echoed.

"Your families' needs are no longer your concern, they are mine" I favored them with an unimpressed countenance, "Count yourselves fortunate. I doubt Argella Durrandon will be half as willing to give your coconspirators still in the castle the same stay of execution"

With that situation addressed and example made, I returned to the command pavilion to see to my latest, queenly guest. As I pushed past the tent's flap, I found Orys talking softly to the former Queen of the Stormlands. Argella wasn't crying or pleading for leniency, just sitting there with a stiff back and head held high, defiant until the end, just like her father. There was a sobering beauty in her bravery and strength even in such a dire situation. Her manacles had been undone, the gag detached, and the chains binding her had been set aside. In the intervening period Rhaenys had seemingly lent her one of her casual riding leather outfits that only barely fit her bigger frame (Argella had a generous bust), though I did note that she retained Orys' cloak around her shoulders, likely still cold from the ignominious exposure. She was of an age with Orys, with dark black hair and vivid blue eyes like faded sapphires. Those eyes met mine and for a moment there was silence, broken only by the soft crackling of the tent's central heating brazier. Her orbs were intransigent, yet suffused with an indescribable melancholy that tugged at your heartstrings.

Seated in a nearby curule chair was Rhaenys, who looked at the former Durrandon Queen with pity.

"My Archon" Orys greeted me, "Do you require privacy for the negotiations?"

I kept eye contact with her, "What is your preference for this upcoming discussion?" I put the ball in her court, which I could intuit surprised her.

Argella fixed me with her azure gaze, her lips parting a fraction before firming into a resolute line. She glanced at Orys briefly, then turned her attention back to me, "As I am to be your noble prisoner" She pronounced carefully, "I suppose my preferences are of little consequence to the matter. However," She paused, eying the interior of the tent and then my red and black clad personage, "I would have your man here stay. He may yet learn something of highborn politics"

"And Rhaenys?" I posited.

She idly tapped at the sleeve of her ill fitting, borrowed outfit, "She was polite, in spite of my provocative efforts earlier. She can stay as well"

Out of her view, Rhaenys smirked and rolled her eyes at the woman's linguistic stiffness.

I studied her for a moment. She had an indomitable spirit in a body that had been betrayed by her own men, and while shaken, remained as firm as her home castle's foundation. A queen without a crown or kingdom, but a queen none the less. I inclined my head in acquiescence.

"Very well" I picked up one of the spare curule seats and moved it to the table before sitting across from her, "Then let us proceed"

She wasted no time, "What is to be done with me?"

"You are the rightful heir and ruler of the castle of Storm's End and its attendant incomes as the scion of Argilac Durrandon" I started with the matter of her inheritance, my tone measured and sincere, "That will stay the case, regardless of your decision"

"You would keep me a Queen, despite the fact that I am your captive and my father lies dead by your hand?" Argella's voice was edged with icy bitterness, but she did not glance away.

"Not a Queen" I refuted her, "And your father died well, as a warrior should. As a token of goodwill, we have brought his bones to be buried in your family crypt, most of them anyway"

Her brow furrowed, "Most of them?"

"His hands are being kept by a family member of a guest that he aggrieved" I interlocked my fingers, "I hope you can understand, from a political perspective"

"The Celtigar envoy?" She recalled, showing that she had the decency to remember who he was, "Is there no possibility of convincing your bannerman to return all of my father's remains to me?"

"You would have to negotiate with Lord Celtigar personally" I replied, "Seeing as it was a matter of honor and that your father violated Guest Right," Argella winced at that, "I doubt you shall succeed in budging him, even if you were to beggar yourself"

Having no luck there, she tried another avenue, "And what of the men who betrayed me? The cowards who stripped me bare and delivered me to you in chains? Are they to be rewarded for their service?" Her voice simmered with largely restrained anger.

"On the contrary, I executed their ring leader myself. The others who mistreated you are on their way to The Wall, although you will have to root out any remaining conspirators in Storm's End. I have no use for turncloaks and traitors, and neither, I suspect, do you" I informed her, and a briefly satisfied grin manifested on her lips before she suppressed it.

She drew a deep breath, her expression steady though challenging, "Good. What terms do you demand of me?"

"As I have stated, you will maintain your position as the ruler of Storm's End," I repeated, "My only non-negotiable demand is that you swear fealty to House Targaryen. Refuse, and you are free to live out a comfortable life under House Arrest, or be exiled with an adequate pension from my coffers"

She stared at me for a prolonged while.

"Swear fealty" She eventually echoed, her words barely above a whisper, "To the man who killed my father?"

"To the man who showed you clemency" I firmly corrected her, "Who publicly avenged your dishonor by punishing those who had betrayed you" I crossed my fingers together, "I am being magnanimous to a defeated opponent here, do not give me reasons to act otherwise"

Her eyes flickered, not with fear, but a calculated determination. Still, she hesitated in her response.

It was Rhaenys, then, who broke the silence, "Argella" Her lilting voice conveyed a softness that masked the steel underneath, "We do not seek to be your enemies. We do not wish to deprive you of either your dignity or legacy. Instead, we want to extend to you a place in the new world that we are creating, one where you would be in superior standing as a High Lady of the Realm than as a Queen of the Stormlands"

Argella's scrutiny shifted to Rhaenys, her stern features softening ever so slightly. She then twisted her neck back to me, her countenance unreadable, "And what would this new world entail? More wars? More ruthless political maneuvering to keep the kingdoms under Targaryen dominion?" She questioned curtly, her bitterness seeping through.

"Ideally, I envision a land where war is deemed a last resort instead of a constant shadow hanging over everyone's heads. A unified realm where the common people's lives aren't tossed aside like expendable rubbish for the petty squabbles amongst lords and kings. A land with a system of laws in place that is not so vulnerable to the predation of capricious interpretation. A land that is connected via a vast network of professional roads that ties the continent together with trade and allows even the tiniest of hamlets to flourish. A land where no one goes hungry, though the winters endure for years, because we can grow so much food that the excess will be used to stuff the granaries full to bursting. I'm under no illusions that I won't have to spill lakes of blood to achieve even a quarter of that vision. I don't expect it to become some kind of perfect utopia," I shrugged broadmindedly, "but given the status quo that is already in place. I don't believe we could do worse"

A lull lingered in the chamber, interrupted only by the distant echo of a nightingale's song. Argella looked at me, truly looked at me then, her eyes reflecting the dancing firelight as they analyzed my face, seemingly searching for any trace of falsehood in my bearing.

"That is… an ambitious vision," She murmured, her voice contemplative and quiet, "One could even say deluded"

"Perhaps," I conceded with a nod, "but they probably said the same thing about your ancestor erecting a castle that could withstand the constant fury of storms, yet there it still stands after thousands of years. Dare to dream, Argella Durrandon, mayhaps you'll also create something that can withstand the test of time"

"I've already lost so much of what was dear to me" She whispered morosely, tracing a finger along the surface of the tabletop, "Family, the sanctity of my home, my honor… I fear there is little left for me to dream up"

"Maybe" I responded softly, "But rebuilding often comes after destruction. Your family's royal legacy may be at its terminus, but it won't completely end. A household guard can be replaced and their successors vetted. And as for your honor," I paused, leaning forward slightly, "that is not something that can be taken from you. It can only be surrendered, and that is not something I will entertain from you. Indeed, I would sooner have vassals that retained a measure of honor than opportunistic lickspittles"

"After all, honor is like a honed blade" Rhaenys smoothly continued where I left off, her violet eyes locked onto Argella's, "A weapon to be wielded in defense of your beliefs and core values. You and your father fought for your legacy, your homeland, and your people till the very end, with honor intact. There is no disgrace in that"

Argella sat in contemplation for a while, absorbing everything that we had discussed before coming to a decision, "Very well, King Zenith of House Targaryen, I hereby swear my fealty to House Targaryen. I will abide by your laws as your noble subject, and I will not raise my armies against you lest you be severely remiss in your sacred duties as my liege"

I couldn't help but admire her resolve even in defeat. Though her royal reign was short, she had the heart of a true queen, no doubt about it.

"I accept your fealty, Lady Durrandon. You shall warm yourself at my hearth, have bread at my table, and I will request no service of you that would bring you to dishonor" I formally received her surrender, "Rest assured that you shall find me a responsible overlord"

Her eyebrows became hidden by her hairline, not foreseeing a lord's oath in return from me. Rhaenys beamed at me from the sidelines, indubitably pleased that her 'coaching' was paying off. In soothe, I already had familiarity with these things, but it made the woman feel appreciated, so I let it be.

"Such an alignment of interests merits a gesture of legitimacy, no?" The rechristened Lady Argella spoke up suddenly.

"It would certainly help, yes" Rhaenys grinned, emptying another goblet of wine into her gullet.

"Is your man Orys still available as per your predecessor's proposal of marriage?" The Lady of Storm's End metaphorically probed the waters.

My line of sight flicked over to the man, who was surprised, but did not refute her.

The emotions wafting off of her reassured me that her intentions were genuine. There was a faint undercurrent of lust there (similar features to her and a muscular physique checked many of her boxes), but it was mainly overshadowed by duty and practicality. By tying herself to the Targaryens, even tangentially so through a bastard, she strengthened her own position as a deposed royal. If her vassals rebelled, she would have a hotline to dragons as backup through her prospective husband.

I supposed it did not hurt that Orys was a handsome bastard… literally.

"It would appear that Lord Baratheon has no objections" I wryly commented, "Anything else that you need?"

It was oddly cute how she mouthed 'Baratheon' to herself.

"I would ask for a moon to mourn my father's passing" She reasonably laid out her requirements, "And then I would wed your man here and work to consolidate the Stormlands to the cause of the Targaryens. Those damned Dornish and the pirates harassing Cape Wrath mean that I cannot offer much in the way of martial support. These are issues that will worsen, since my father denuded much of our martial might to oppose you"

"Given the present circumstances, I would be bumptious to mandate military aid from you so soon" I dismissed her worries with a wave of my hand, "Instead, use this occasion to bolster your rule and soothe your vassals with the transition to new management. If and when the time comes, we shall revisit the topic of mustering soldiers. Plans are already in motion to deal with the pirates menacing our shores"

"I shall heed your eminent council, my King" She reluctantly bowed her head like she was made of stone, "Will you be leaving the Lord Baratheon to… supervise the transition?"

"Naturally" I averred, "As a further gesture of goodwill between us, I'll waive the provision of any sort of dowry from you. With a hefty bride price to be proffered alongside Lord Baratheon to boot"

"Oh?" She curiously craned her head to the right, "And what is included in this bride price?"

Orys paled as he struggled to think of what he could possibly have to provide for this woman. Luckily for him, he had a wingman to handle that.

"I studied the topography of the Stormlands as Balerion and I were flying in" I remarked, not so subtly reminding her of the living siege engine that I had at my beck and call, "As expected of a land that experiences nigh constant rainfall, there are forests and moss covered cottages aplenty. However, I did note that expansive farm fields were not as plentiful. Do I have the right of it?"

She scratched her chin in thought, "Aye, barring arable areas like Haystack Hall, Evenfall Hall, and regions of the Marches, I will admit that the Stormlands are not the most agriculturally inclined of the Seven Kingdom. Where do you go with this, my King?"

"I have machines and equipment that can accelerate the process of cutting down trees and converting them into lumber, as well as augers that can clear out the stumps left behind by deforestation, allowing for the expansion of existing farmlands, or even the establishment of new ones in a shorter timeframe. I will even throw in some seed drills as a bonus, so that you can coax life even out of the hardscrabble" I mildly pontificated to the former sovereign. Industrializing the accumulation of natural resources was near the top of the docket of my To-Do list for ruling a kingdom.

"Such a gift would be incredibly generous" She spoke, her voice tinged with a note of wary skepticism, "But machines, you say? Like a watermill? Tools of such sophistication are rare in these lands. How can you be certain that they will function as intended?"

"They've proven their worth in the past. The machines will come with instructors on their usage, as well as written manuals and replacement parts to keep them operating for decades" I retorted without an iota of hesitation, "Give them a chance in your personal farming plots. If there somehow winds up being a shortfall in essential produce, I will compensate you the difference in gold or goods"

"Why farming and forestry machines for the bride price?" She neutrally inquired.

"Because no person should ever go hungry in my kingdom" I declared factually, "An excess of foodstuffs and access to distribution centers to diffuse these essential commodities will mean that there is no excuse for there to be a depleted population after even a harsh winter. Accomplishing this will not be as simple as that, but that is the basic idea. I'm not just here to conquer… I'm here to affect beneficial changes"

For the first instance in the negotiations, a glint of real respect flashed through her features, "A man of conviction with the power that you wield is something that I look forward to watching" She rose from the table, "If that is everything, will you escort me to my home, Lord Baratheon?" She directed to my dark haired commander, "I have recently discovered a rat infestation in Storm's End, and could use your assistance in eradicating them"

I made a shooing motion at him, "Go on then, Orys. That rat problem sounds positively dreadful"

Orys did his best impression of a goldfish.

In the background, Rhaenys stifled a drunken giggle behind her dainty knuckles, very amused by her half brother's discomfort and eagerness to make a good impression on this woman that I had essentially betrothed him to. T'was my legal right as the acting head of House Targaryen, and we had conferred on this prior, so he had no excuse to act so blindsided.

Orys recomposed himself and stood, his face a mixture of relief and trepidation. He bowed slightly to Argella as he replied, "It would be my honor to assist you in clearing out these… rats, Lady Durrandon"

"Please, call me Argella when we are in private" She charmingly adjured at him, "You are to be my future husband, after all"

He smiled pleasantly at her, their eyes meeting with a flicker of mutual understanding, neither of them fully trusting nor dismissing the other right away, but there was potential for growth there.

When they departed and it was just Rhaenys and I, we had a debrief session. As a leader of my political branch, I had insisted that we review these happenings whenever possible, which she took to with gusto.

Rhaenys leaned back in her chair, "So, Zenith, what do you truly think of Lady Argella? She seemed more open to negotiations than I anticipated, what with how coldly she received me in her courtyard"

I poured myself two units of wine, letting the rich aroma kiss my nostrils before taking a sip, "When you remove the prideful exterior, Argella is a pragmatic person, much like ourselves" I began, choosing my words carefully, "Even factoring in me treating her with the velvet touch, she deftly maneuvered herself into as advantageous a spot as she could reach"

I admired the fingers that the wine made on the glass as I swirled it, "I didn't even have to convince her to take Orys into her household, she did so herself"

Rhaenys tittered to herself and clapped her hands once, "Oh, those two will be adorable together!"

I placed the glass on a side table and reclined backwards myself, "Adorable they may be, but do not let that cloud your perception, Rhaenys. Argella is no coquettish ingénue, no shy maiden waiting to be swept off her feet. She is a antlered Stag in her own right, and Orys will need to match her strength of character with his own if he wishes to truly earn her respect"

Rhaenys nodded thoughtfully, her violet eyes pensive as she considered my counterpoint, "And what of the smallfolk? Do you believe they will embrace these changes you speak of? We are, after all, foreigners who will be imposing new ways upon them in all aspects"

"There will be staunch traditionalists among them that will resist our ways, sure" I acknowledged, "But as the new means and ways generally improve their harsh lives, that nurtured positive regard of us will trickle upwards to their lords through their staff, who are smallfolk themselves. If the righteousness of our rule fails to convince them to accept us as their rulers, then the fear of what will befall them should they revolt will"

"How did you put it?" Rhaenys tapped her chin, "The carrot and stick?"

"That is a metaphor for Hard and Soft power" I elucidated, "To either co-opt, or coerce someone to do what you want with a reward or punishment arrangement. It's grossly simplistic, but people tend to be grossly simplistic creatures no matter where you go"

She laughed, a soft, musical sound that was as pleasing as ever, "Grossly simplistic creatures indeed! And yet, for all the complexity of our own plans, their execution is rather simple"

"You discredit your efforts, Rhaenys" I retorted, "I may not seem like it, but I far prefer the clashing of swords to words any day of the week"

"Could have fooled me back there with Argella!" Rhaenys riposted, "I was shivering in my boots and I was not even the recipient of your political prowess. You played her like a lute, Zenith, and she knew it. Yet, she still twirled to your tune"

"That was because the song was tailored to her liking" I countered smoothly, "Argella's defiance was never a senseless rebellion; it was a justified stance towards aggressors invading her family's ancestral lands. She respects strength, but also values wisdom. I offered her both, and so she conceded, tying herself to our cause to clench the deal"

Rhaenys' eyes twinkled, the mirth there quickly giving way to a steely determination, "Then we must ensure that our song continues to be one that appeals, not just to Argella Durrandon, but to all the lords and ladies of these fractured kingdoms. Every note must resonate with their desires and fears. All shall submit to the House of the Dragon"

It was moments like these that reminded me that for all their differences, Rhaenys and her sister were cut from the same cloth.

The following months after the submission of the Stormlands were used to amalgamate levies from the lands under our control and get them up to snuff; equipping them, training them, regimenting them with lords whose leadership styles were at least capable of coordinating when directed to. With the news of Harrenhal's infamous Deathfog event propagating throughout Westeros, the reclusive Houses of Crackclaw Point were quick to swear subservience to the Targaryen cause en masse, much to Visenya's satisfaction. Given the influx of troops from those lands and from the southernmost Riverlanders, our levied personnel at the mouth of the Blackwater River had swelled. Not content to be sitting idle, my construction inclined Starsworn had set themselves to breaking ground on the tallest hill, which I had officially named Aegon's High Hill in honor of my predecessor, laying the foundation for what would eventually become the main Targaryen seat of power on the continent. The naming of which I had put off until it was more pertinent.

They had previously erected a Hacienda style Manse not too removed from the High Hill as a sort of warm up session. It had all the features common to a hacienda, such as white stucco walls, red clay roof tiles, classical archways, rustic wood accents, and mosaic tiled floor patterns accentuating the Targaryen occupants it was meant for. In keeping with local traditions, it was about seven times the size of what would be considered a palatial hacienda in my birthworld. It could accommodate hundreds of guests in spacious rooms that were furnished with featherbeds, lacquered wooden tables, carved timber cabinets, and candle lit chandeliers. The uncommon aesthetics drew the envious attention of my lords, but I decreed it to be a private, invite-only dwelling and had the Targaryen household guard patrol it vigorously. Rhaenys was especially taken by the place and its novelty, while Visenya was slower to appreciate it, finding it an 'eye watering contrast' to her favored home of Dragonstone.

While it was an infinitely better spot to sleep, I still conducted the majority of my business from a personal tent, that way I was still accessible if needs be by my lords.

My industrious fake-mercenaries had put up scaffolds and tarps to keep their work shrouded from prying eyes as the main bulk of the camp was shifted eastwards. I could ascertain that my lords were curious at what they got up to behind those sheets, but their distaste for soldiers of fortune kept them from getting too nosy. Day in and day out, that cordoned off sector of our encampment was alive with the discordant symphony of hammers, saws, pickaxes, and the sizzling of campfires as my Starsworn settled into a biologically programmed rhythm for the glory of their Autarch. From a vantage point atop a wooden foreman's platform overlooking Aegon's High Hill, I had once surveyed this organized hive of activity below. The Starsworn there were tireless in their efforts, their superhuman precision and dedication evident in every timber beam they notched and stone they carved. Yet, there was unease among the vanilla levies and nobles alike, a sense of anxiety heightened by the whispers and rumors that disseminated like wildfire through the superstitious rank and file. The thin veneer of my 'mercenary army' was beginning to flake as they showcased unnerving dedication and dumbfounding skills that outshone their Westerosi peers by leagues.

The Faith of the Seven had yet to gravitate to my war camp and establish a presence here, but when they inevitably did, I would need to have their leadership in my pocket before they began some ill advised inquisition to discredit me. I was going to bring changes to this land using mostly mundane means and while accusations of witchcraft would be funny to me, they would also be incredibly inconvenient.

In other news, with the Vale's navy subdued, and on the recommendation of Flag Captain Cysko, Lord Admiral Valeryon's subsequent lightning raids into Arryn territory spent pillaging valuables and being a general menace to the Valemen kept them penned in and unable to leave their lands in significant number to contest us, not that they could with the liberated Riverlords keeping a watch on the roads leading to the Bloody Gate. There were verifiable rumors of the King in the North, Torrhen Stark, mustering his men, but given the sheer territorial scale of his kingdom and lackluster population of fighting age men, it would take quite some time for the Stark monarch to march south. More pressing was the fact that the Reach and the Westerlands had reached an accord and had formed an alliance to oppose our 'foreign' invasion. The Westerlands would take a few moons to muster a presentable force, but the Reach lords could call upon tens of thousands in short order. Already there were accounts of them testing our newfound borders with skirmishing probes, nothing serious, but the great game was visibly afoot there.

After the prescribed month of mourning, Orys and Argella hosted a quiet wedding in the private Sept of Storm's End where the bride had scandalously led herself to the alter and cloaks were exchanged. The Stormlander lords in attendance there quietly fumed for a quantity of reasons, but our dragons just outside glued their traps shut. Grandiose speeches were made about how the blood of Durrandon would persist through Argella, and how Orys had humbly decided to take the Words and Sigil of his wife's House as his own. At the end of the wedding feast, the spread of which was blander than others I've partaken in, and shunting another tradition that she found distasteful, Argella vociferously denounced the bedding ceremony and swore upon her gods that no daughter of hers would ever be subjected to the grasping hands of any man not her husband within her ancestors' halls ever again before grabbing Orys by the scruff of his neck and dragging him to their bedchambers in a cavewoman-like fashion, where they proceeded to loudly and repeatedly announce the fact that they were married for several hours straight.

Those two had impressive stamina for baseline humans, that's for sure.

I almost pitied Lord Paramount Baratheon as he wobbled to the breakfast table with a contented, if strained expression the next morning. He stayed another month to assist his newfound wife in educating their vassals with the new way things would be run while I made driftwood out of their pirate problem to reinforce our image of worthy rulers to any naysayers cowering amongst the Stormlords. Balerion took an especial glee in turning that slaving scum into flinders, sensing my stance on the topic and sharing my disregard. The Baratheons had also tested my unconventional wedding gift of agricultural and landscaping machines as a side project. As discussed, the machines generally functioned as they were intended, with there being promising signs of increased crop and forestry output by a notable margin. Not needing additional convincing, House Baratheon, namely Lady Argella, adopted them for personal usage, with drafts drawn up to introduce them on a wider scale once events had calmed after the Conquest. The graying Maester of Storm's End was especially taken with them, marveling at how no lord had conceived of fabricating these 'wondrous' machines beforehand. I had no doubt he would share his findings with his compatriots at the Citadel via raven assisted skymail, but it was not an acute issue to me.

The rails of canon events remained on course, for now.

While I could wait for the two kingdoms of the Reach and the Westerlands to meet us jointly in the field and then burn them all to ashes, I found that plan to be incredibly wasteful. While it would set a frightening example to all of Westeros what resisting people with dragons at their beck and call meant consequence wise, I was seeing it in the longer term. If I went with the brute force route, the tens of thousands of maimed, horribly burn scarred men would be tending the farms in the future while operating at reduced efficiency or not at all, which did not suit my plans to induce positive change going forward. The loss of the ancient and storied Gardener line also invited increased instability in the noble ranks of the Reach, who each believed themselves more capable than the up jumped Tyrell stewards that Aegon had appointed in the books' timeline. Sure, the Tyrells were probably the ones subtly running the Reach from the shadows in Highgarden, given what I had read and heard of the mediocre performance from many of the Gardener Kings in the past, but legitimacy in a provincial governing House was important.

For instance, King Garse Gardener the Seventh was slain by Argilac the Arrogant at the Battle of Summerfield, and Orys had written me that Argella had shared a story with him at dinnertime regarding her late father's thoughts of the man, which had amounted to 'He was a puffed up oaf of a king, self assured, but with no substance. It was confounding how the man managed to even wipe his own arse without being instructed how to do it'. He was a reported blundering fool of a man, but the Reachmen under him followed him into that disastrous battle anyway because he was their King and his name was Gardener. Despite their questionable competency as a whole, they represented the rightful ruling house of the Reach. Getting them to yield their sovereignty to House Targaryen without killing off a multitude of Reachmen in the process would necessitate some… finesse.

However, these were problems for later, as something else was demanding my immediate attention. Namely, that Rhaenys and Visenya were starting to show.

While their enhanced biology prevented silly symptoms like morning sickness, soreness, and all the other uncomfortable things women put up with when pregnant, it did not stop the telltale bump from poking out at the half year mark. To say the Targaryen sisters were confused and-or irate at this development was an understatement, which is why they ambushed me in my personal office tent one fine, swelteringly hot, summer day.

Thankfully, my apprentice gave me some advanced warning before scurrying off to practice her runecraft privately.

"Care to explain why my sister and I are with child, Zenith?" Rhaenys not so amusedly inquired, sipping daintily at her wine. With her improvements, it would not harm the developing life in her womb, but it was still rash of her to do so.

I couldn't resist this opportunity, "Well… when a man and woman love each other very much, they-"

Dark Sister was shoved in my face, "Cease your ignoble prattling and answer the gods be damned question!" Visenya hissed at me, "Rhaenys I could envision sharing our brother's bed before we unmoored for this endeavor, but Aegon hardly ever touched me!"

Rhaenys cast a mildly pained, stricken glance at her sister, who did not notice. It seemed to be a source of contention between them, intentional or not. It was not a jumbo sized can of worms that I felt like opening.

"Spoilsport" I grumbled, signing off on another distribution form for the allocation of five hundred spears to our relatively underequipped Riverland levy, "You are both pregnant because the establishment of this unified kingdom under Targaryen rulership would be pointless without proper successors to rule it after me. So I engendered Targaryen blooded heirs in both of you using Aegon's… physical essence I suppose one could call it"

That was the crudest way of putting it. The fuller truth of it was that I took Aegon's DNA, which already had traces of magical tampering to it wrought by his ancestors, and further modified it to my purposes. The prior, kludged work was amateurish, by the way, akin to a blind man painting a self portrait on a dinner plate, whereas I was a regular Picasso on canvas. What the Valyrians did accomplish with their limited means was impressive in its own right though, stumbling onto a means to avert genetic disorders from the inbreeding that they were so fond of. This 'bloodline protection' was tied to their dragons though, which accounted for the mental degradation of many Targaryens that occurred in the books' history after the dragons initially died out.

The siblings traded a flummoxed countenance between themselves.

"How is such a guarantee possible?" Rhaenys gaped, a hand falling protectively to her bump.

"Do you want the simplified explanation or an hour long lecture on the abridged subject of genetics?" I proffered, not looking up from my desk, which was absolutely plastered in parchments and scrolls. Everything from logistic reports, to payroll authorizations, to banal requests from lordlings high on their own supply crowded my desktop.

'Void-damned paperwork. Can't escape it no matter where I wind up sojourning' I mentally bellyached, incensed at this multiversal burden on my patience.

"This is your wizard magic at work then? That's why you were so confident with your wager" Visenya pieced it together from our previous bet, not as awed as her younger sibling as a result, "Why did you not see fit to inform us of this?"

"Would you have pursued our shared goal as diligently knowing that you had special cargo to protect?" I replied, knowing what their response would be as they both frowned for differing reasons, "While your direct participation in this conquest is not strictly necessary for us to achieve our aims on this continent, would you have been happy to sit it out on the sidelines?"

"Nay" Visenya instantly denied, "I would not!"

"I second my sister's feelings on this matter" Rhaenys demurely concurred, "I have grown fond of my role in this conquest, and would despise 'sitting it out' as you put it"

"And therein lies the dilemma" I said, setting aside my pen and meeting their eyes squarely for the first time since their intrusion, "Had I informed you, the knowledge would have weighed on your minds, perhaps altering your decisions in diplomatic exchanges or in the heat of battle. You might have hesitated, and that hesitation could have cost lives, yours included"

Visenya huffed angrily, but tellingly kept herself muted.

Rhaenys pursed her lips in thought, her fingers drumming lightly against her goblet, "While I cannot readily disagree with your assessment, it is still difficult to reconcile with the secrecy of it, Zenith. Also, while it is Aegon's essence quickening within us… you are technically the father of our children, yes?"

"That is a liberal interpretation of it" I paused, "But I fathom that I was technically the primary factor in their conception, in a broad manner of speaking"

Visenya's mauve eyes narrowed, her grip on Dark Sister tightening before she gradually lowered the blade, though she did not sheath it, "You meddle in forces that even our ancestors, the Dragonlords, dared not tread lightly upon. Do you think yourself a god to decide our fates and those of our children without so much as consulting us?"

I sighed deeply, experiencing the weight of their rightful indignation press against me, "I do not claim godhood nor omniscience, Visenya. But what I am is a strategist, a pragmatist who sees farther down the road than most. These children will ensure the continuation of this vision we all share, an enduring Targaryen dominion over a flourishing Westeros. An establishment of a renewed dynasty of Dragonlords with greater prestige than your ancestors ever had"

"Your ambitions are grander than I initially estimated, Zenith," Visenya remarked, the steel in her voice softening but not disappearing, "But remember this, even the grandest flame can be extinguished by the unforeseen, as the Freehold discovered for itself at the end. I hope that you know what you are doing"

"Such a lack of confidence in me" I morosely shook my head, "Would you rather I allow the Targaryen legacy to die out with the two of you?"

Rhaenys' eyes grew misty and distant as she considered my words. The firelight flickered across her face, casting shadows that undulated like wisps of uncertainty, "We do trust you, Zenith" She finally spoke, her tone barely above a whisper, "But trust by itself does not equate to blind obedience. We need to know what stakes we are placing upon ourselves"

Visenya nodded in agreement, her grip on Dark Sister relaxing as she stowed it in her scabbard, "We are Warriors and Queens, not cat's-paws to be utilized without our knowledge. If we are to carry on the Targaryen legacy with the dignity it deserves, it must be with full knowledge and consent"

"I apologize if you felt slighted by this" I verbally relented, "But you cannot argue its necessity in good faith. Too much depends on this. If I ever have plans to do something like this in the future, rest assured that you will know beforehand"

Visenya's icy demeanor thawed just a fraction, and she took a step closer, her piercing gaze locked onto me, "Very well, I accept your apology, my Archon" She inclined her head to me, her speech still bearing an edge, but it was lightened, "Let us continue this path together. But remember, Zenith, our confidence is not an impervious thing. Break it, and the consequences will be dire"

Rhaenys moved to stand beside her sister, "We are bound by destiny and now in blood," She murmured, "But let us ensure that our bonds strengthen through honesty and understanding, not secrecy" She laid both hands on her belly, "For our children's sake"

"You don't need to guilt trip me" I deadpanned, "I made an oath to your brother, and I will keep it"

"Of course, my Archon" She demurred, "I would not imply elsewise"

"This does bring up an important topic though" I opined, "Namely that the Reach must be subdued before they can combine forces with the Westerlands in their entirety"

"Such an endeavor cannot be accomplished before we are to give birth" Visenya noted, "But I see that you have a scheme in mind?"

"What do you know about the Reach?" I delayed outlining my so-called scheme.

"I am well acquainted with its riches and resources, seen them for myself" She scoffed, "Its fertile lands are gracious to the farmers and its trade routes prosperous. It's ruled by House Gardner, who have been Kings of the Reach since the Age of Heroes"

Rhaenys added from beside her, "Their Knights are known for their chivalry and honor but the utmost of them would be the knights of the Order of the Green Hand, which are claimed to be as fearsome as any in Westeros. They have a great love for tournaments and songs, and many a poet and minstrel thrive in the Court of Highgarden"

"Indeed," Orys chimed in as he entered the tent, "The Reach is also home to Oldtown; the center of knowledge and faith"

"And the married man hits the closest to the point I want to make!" I crowed, enjoying how the Baratheon's cheeks reddened at the reminder, "Oldtown also sports the Starry Sept, where the High Septon resides. The same man seen as the head of the Faith that the majority of the people on this continent seem to follow"

"What makes you believe that this revered holy man would support our plans, knowing how foreign we are?" Visenya reasonably posited.

"His opinions of us are irrelevant" I replied, "What matters is that the Gardener Kings have an important image of being devout, and are liable to listen to his suggestions, if only to keep it that way"

"What are you suggesting, my Archon?" My most loyal vassal and field commander asked me.

I steepled my fingers, "There's a means to get the Reach, and possibly the Westerlands as well, to yield to us without despoiling it on the battlefield. It involves a bit of subterfuge, pageantry, and religious browbeating… but it's mostly bloodless and quick in a method that discourages future revolts at perceived illegitimacy"

When no one saw fit to break the suspense in the atmosphere, I did it for them.

"We have the High Septon petition the monarchs of the Reach and the Westerlands to settle their differences with me by a Trial of Seven" I divulged, "We meet at the closest confluence of our current territories, which would be the town of Stoney Sept. We have the Faith mediate as a neutral party to ensure 'fairness' on all sides. I will meet those Kings in the Ring of Honor, and they will be humbled"

"You have a devious mind, Zenith" Visenya sounded almost approving as she digested this information, "How will you get them all to play along with this grand mummer's farce, though?"

"I wrote a special letter to the High Septon that is guaranteed to be read by him for multiple reasons" I spun my pen between my fingertips in emphasis, "Once he has, he will be 'divinely inspired' by his god to see this scenario happen with the conviction of a zealot. To him, our invasion will be a god-sent test of the two king's right to rule, as evidenced by both Black Harren's and Argilac's downfall, one of which was a heathen and the other an ostensible follower of the Seven. He will spread this ideology to his priesthood, who will proselytize this to all, be they Lord or Smallfolk. To back down from this challenge of authority issued by their religious head would be an unacceptable blow to their image"

"Could we not ensnare Dorne with this too?" Rhaenys reasoned.

I shook my head, "With much of their population living along the Greenblood and the Orphans of the Greenblood having never given up their religion and refusing to acculturate, the Faith of the Seven is figuratively watered down in Dorne due to heavy Rhoynish refugee influence. You can see evidence of this just from a casual visit. The statue of the Mother rides a turtle in many of the Septs there, the Maiden is depicted wearing a shift woven from river currents, and in some of them the Father and the Warrior are shown explicitly wielding water magic, which contradicts the widely recognized interpretation of canon. Their Kings and Queens are addressed as Prince and Princess, they practice absolute primogeniture, and partake in other customs that they imported from the Rhoyne"

I gestured to all of them, even Orys, "Your Valyrian ancestors destroyed the greatest cities of the Rhoynish realm, triggering the diaspora that saw those Rhoynish refugees under Nymeria incorporate themselves into Dorne. Even if House Martell agreed to wager Dornish independence to an ancestral enemy and they lost, their own subjects would overthrow them, necessitating a bloody conquest there anyway. No… Dorne will have to be brought to heel by hook and by crook"

Visenya's violet eyes glinted with a measure of respect, "You have thought of everything, haven't you?" She remarked dryly, crossing her arms before her chest.

"I try" I replied modestly, garnering a chuckle from Orys.

Rhaenys was thoughtful, "This plan… it is cunning and strategic. It employs our strengths while exploiting the weaknesses of our enemies" Her voice held an undertone of major concern though, "But it is also very risky, Zenith, this venture could backfire horribly on us. If we were to lose this Trial of Seven, it would mean political suicide for us. By the High Septon's metric, his Gods would denounce our Conquest in the eyes of everyone who follows the Faith of the Seven, our own Westerosi subjects would have a platform to rebel against us, and if you were to perish… we would lose Balerion as well"

I quirked an eyebrow, "I would be insulted if I did not know that this came from a place of care. Rest assured that once those Kings and their Champions set foot in that arena, their fates will be sealed"

"Arrogance," Visenya warned, her icy beauty lit with a touch of fire, "is as fatal as any sword"

"I do not intend to fall from either" I retorted wryly.

"Your intentions and the whims of the Seven might not align, Zenith" Rhaenys chimed in, her expressive features locked onto mine.

She had a minor point. This was an immense gamble, not only pitting myself against two kings but also challenging the very gods they worshiped, who may or may not be up jumped elementals. Yet in my mind, I saw no other path that would ensure the further unification of the Seven Kingdoms without rivers of blood. As someone who cherished life over death, I was willing to take this… risk.

"I will make them align" I audaciously avowed.

Rhaenys still seemed apprehensive while Visenya seemed resigned. Orys, on the other hand, thumped his chest and declared boisterously, "Aye, if Zenith says he can pull this off then he can. He has already gotten us this far, and I can vouch for his sword arm… even if I wish he would wear some gods-be-damned armor"

"Cramps my style" I shrugged insouciantly, "Also, I don't need it"

What nobody in that gathering knew was that the means to carry out my plan was more sinister than I let on. The letter that I wrote to the High Septon was inundated with magic that affected the mind. Not only would the Hightower Maester who reads it make it his critical priority to see it into the hands of the High Septon, as would everyone else along the way, he would forget that he passed it on to begin with, as would the other messengers in the chain, but the gradual favoritism towards House Targaryen would remain. The High Septon would not even realize that he read a letter from me to him containing some innocuous instructions. The Holy Man would unequivocally believe, heart and soul, that he had to get the Kings of the Reach and Westerlands in the ring with me… with his divine vision favoring myself and House Targaryen as the best thing for this continent since sliced bread. With this action, I would convert the High Septon into a House Targaryen fanboy, with knock-on effects towards the overall Faith itself.

It was the kind of underhanded methodology that would have a certain Apple farmer slap me upside the head for the deception, but then hug me for the conscientious reasoning.

"Of course, I will be one of your six Champions" Orys forcefully volunteered himself.

"I accept your self appointed nomination" I agreed with a lenient grin.

"That still leaves five slots to fill" Rhanys pointed out, "There will be no shortage of Lord and Knights that would fight alongside you, if only for the favor you would show them and their family"

"Any recommendations?" I queried the politically savvy woman.

"Ser Desmond Dondarrion," Rhaenys began, counting off on slender fingers, "is a formidable swordsman and had sworn his loyalty to us abreast with his Lord brother sooner than his fellows did. He would make a fine addition to the list"

"A Stormlander?" I intoned curiously.

"A Marcher man, first and foremost he told us" Rhaenys insisted, "He bears no ill will towards us for his kin's death in battle, though the same cannot be stated of House Morrigen for the death of Ser Dickon Morrigen"

"I think I'm the one who slew the Dondarrion offshoot" Orys recalled, stroking his growing beard, "Bastards killin' bastards" He morosely grunted.

"You are a Lord Paramount now, Baratheon" Visenya commented neutrally, "Not a bastard"

"Aye" Orys agreed after a moment, shooting her a conflicted glance, "Still getting used to that, is all"

I surveyed Orys, observing his struggle with his identity. To go from a bastard to a Lord Paramount overnight was no small change in status. He carried the weight of the newborn House Baratheon on his broad shoulders, a burden he had never sought for himself. But there was something admirable about the man that he did not balk at this newfound responsibility when I had saddled him with it. In fact, the Baratheon was stepping up with commendable aplomb.

"House Darklyn has also exhibited their willingness to fight alongside House Targaryen" Visenya suggested, "I remember that young Ser Robin, in particular, seemed quite taken with you, Zenith"

"I think he was more taken with your dragon" I joked.

"Well, Vhagar is indeed magnificent" Visenya shamelessly promoted her mount, "But this does not detract from his willingness to back us. Youth aside, I could tell from his mannerisms and bearing that he trained relentlessly as a knight, the kind of drive that would be well suited to your entourage"

I nodded in approval, appreciating the potential allies as they presented themselves, "That gives us Ser Desmond Dondarrion of House Dondarrion, and Ser Robin Darklyn of House Darklyn," I recounted, "These two nominees seem sound, but I would like to see them personally before anything is fully determined"

"We should also consider including nominees from the Riverlands and Narrow Sea Houses" Rhaenys suggested, "The message to our detractors it would send, that we stand United, cannot be understated"

"Well said" I praised the woman, to her barely concealed delight, "Such tacit messages can be as impactful as the articulated ones"

"Perhaps it would be better for us to hold auditions in a tournament of sorts" Rhaenys endorsed, "Many warriors are captivated with the idea of glory and honor, but fewer showcase the mettle when faced with the harsh realities of battle"

I mulled over her suggestion. It held some merit, as I did not want fair weather knights at my side. Standing tall in the face of adversity was a requisite trait for any who would join our cause and represent it on a sociopolitical stage.

Still…

"It would take too long and distract our bannermen when they need to stay focused" I vetoed the idea, "We will just have to compile a list of those with the right combination of skill at arms and loyalty"

"Perhaps," Visenya interjected, her frosty gaze meeting mine, "it would be wise to also gauge their standing among the smallfolk. A Knight that is beloved by the people could sway hearts and minds more effectively than one with the sharper sword"

I found myself smiling at that. It was a sentiment so human, so unlike the iron willed Queen that Visenya often presented herself as. It seemed even the stern Targaryen woman wasn't immune to the diplomatic art of popularity contests.

"An excellent point, Visenya" I granted her, leaning back in my chair as I pondered her words, "A decently known Champion could undeniably do much for our cause. I presume you know of such a person?"

Rhaenys clapped her hands together excitedly at that, "I know who she speaks of! House Velaryon's Ser Rodrik is admired amongst the smallfolk of our islands for his deeds and generous character. As a former pirate hunter in Blackwater Bay and well traveled trader, he has made many friends, near and afar. None have ever gainsaid his skill in battle"

"And Lord Edmyn from House Tully" Orys added gruffly, his blue eyes serious as he scratched his manicured beard thoughtfully, "He's a decent sort, shared a tankard of ale with him once or twice. Got a good head on his shoulders and the people of the Riverlands adulate him for ridding them of the ironborn pests"

"You want me to include my River Marshal on the team?" My tone was dubious.

"Why not?" Orys hitched his shoulders, "He's not as busy as he was a few moons ago. The ironborn are all but purged from the Riverlands, the Mallisters are keeping a close eye on the seas in case they return, and the Freys are watching to see if the Falcon stays in its cage. The Stoney Sept is also under their purview, is it not?"

"A landed knight of theirs," I corrected, "but nominally, yes. How would you rate him as a warrior?"

"He'll survive long enough that you won't have to appoint a new River Marshal" Orys damned the man with faint praise, "It would not hurt us to have him there. He's cautious in the yard, which means we won't have to watch his back. At a minimum, it guarantees that he won't protest at having a contingent from the Westerlands and the Reach in his domain"

"That's fair" I conceded, my sightline flicking between the gathered council, "It appears that we have ourselves a preliminary list then. Ser Rodrik Velaryon, Lord Edmyn Tully, Ser Desmond Dondarrion and Ser Robin Darklyn"

"That still leaves us one short" Visenya observed, "Who shall be our last Champion?"

"Since we're going to be aiming for inclusiveness, I have a nominee of my own" I indicated with a grin, "One that has already fought by my side and proven his allegiance"

"You mean Aelan?" Orys surmised correctly, "I would have recommended Ser Quenton… but I cannot find it in myself to disagree with your assessment in good faith, he wears armor, for one" The cheeky man jested.

"A smallfolk in your retinue? Incredibly bold" Visenya expressed, "But Aelan has been nothing but a faithful servant of House Targaryen for as long as we have been acquainted with him. You should know though, that Aelan reveres the Fourteen Flames, not the Seven"

"Do you think that I care about that detail?" I alluded to my separate beliefs, "One does not have to be an anointed knight or even a card carrying member of the Faith of the Seven to be a Champion"

"I agree" Rhaenys affirmed, silvery gold hair glinting in the dappling sunlight pouring in through the roof slits of the tent, "And given the opportunity, Aelan would happily perform as a symbol of consensus between smallfolk and nobility. He has already proven that he can hold his own with sword in hand and it would demonstrate that we do not just value pedigree and lineage, but any who would render leal service to House Targaryen"

"Such sentiments would be for naught if he perishes…" Visenya's voice trailed off, an unspoken warning hanging in the air.

"That won't come to pass. This is less a matter of strategy, and more of a spectacle. I would not chance a good man so carelessly" I paused, letting my vision wander across the faces of those here, "Aelan of Dragonstone will be our fifth and final Champion"

It was decided then.

My Machiavellian plan to entrap the High Septon worked without a hitch, even managing to entangle Lord Manfred Hightower over to our side (implying that he read my mail that I routed through him to the Starry Sept, which served him right). I may have overdone the enchantments on the instructions though, because the thoroughly charmed religious leader practically engaged in a crusade to see this Trial of the Seven happen. He incited both branches of the Faith Militant, namely the Warrior's Sons and Poor Fellows to supplicate House Gardener and House Lannister to see the 'Crone given Wisdom' of this Trial. House Gardener, ever the Faith abiding bunch, yielded to the High Septon's entreaties with little complaint. House Lannister however, was not as easily convinced and only begrudgingly agreed to participate when King Mern IX unexpectedly threatened to break their alliance and even assist us in subduing them should we emerge victorious versus them. At the news of a united agreement, the High Septon reportedly crowed in delight, fervently praising the heavens for the guiding light of the Seven working in the hearts of men. His proclamations were echoed throughout the streets of Oldtown by his faithful flock, reaching the ears of every man, woman, and child who dared to listen.

As the storied city of Oldtown buzzed with religious fervor, so too did our camp as our Champions arrived from their summons. Aelan took to his new role with admirable stoicism, holding his head high, standing tall, and training harder than ever before, like a man possessed. Ser Desmond was cordial, though concerned about Dornish activity in the Marches that his brother stood vigil over, appreciating Orys' promises to increase border patrols utilizing a detachment of my Starsworn Cavalry Scouts, who relished the opportunity to do some hunting. Ser Robin was ecstatic and 'truly honored' to be chosen, and, in short order, put half a dozen older, grizzled knights on their asses in the yard in a display of martial aptitude that proved Visenya's instincts correct about his capability. Ser Rodrik was not as impressive in comparison as a swordsman, but the seagoing knight emanated a swashbuckling charm paired with an easygoing nature that made him fast friends with the other Champions. He also made known his desire to Captain a ship in my Royal Navy, the plans of which I had only shared with his Uncle Daemon.

Lord Edmyn, having a higher number of responsibilities as a Lord and as my River Marshal, dutifully presented himself along with his Household Guard and personally reported to me the status of the Riverlands, highlighting the ever decreasing bands of ironborn raiders that stubbornly stuck around to cause trouble. The Mallisters had repelled scattered attempts to reinforce these raiding bands, while the Freys and their subordinates saw no activity at the Bloody Gate other than elevated patrols and rumors from passing merchants of the Mountain Tribes raising hell in the Vale more than they normally did. Apparently sinking the Arryn Navy and harassing their shores had emboldened the tribesmen, who sensed vulnerability in the Valemen. It was something I would have to take care of once the Vale was assimilated into my domain.

In a few weeks' time, our Champions would ride forth towards Stoney Sept for their grand unveiling.

It would be an attention-grabbing team up, and they coordinated well enough in practice sessions that I didn't have to worry about them mucking things up and getting themselves foolishly killed, which would only harm the message I was aspiring to convey to all adversaries. I could only hope that our sub-goal to captivate our audience would take root among the populace of Westeros; that they would see in this diverse cast, a mere commoner, a pirate hunting trader knight, a rebel rousing lord, and two regular knights, the embodiment of the concord and strength that we sought to project to these divided kingdoms. Ultimately, these were side objectives, however. I was gambling on whether these Kings, or their successors, would honor the agreement to bend the knee to us when they were subdued in the ring.

The stipulation that I would have to cede vast swathes of territory to them and swear to not invade their kingdoms for a period of seven years in the unlikely event that my party lost the trial was acceptable, as they could not reasonably demand that I simply hand over the Riverlands, which I had technically liberated from the ironmen and who had eagerly sworn themselves to me. It was a wager that heavily favored House Targaryen, which the two Kings of the Reach and Westerlands no doubt noticed, but could not voice objections against without angering the High Septon and the Most Devout, who had bought into the High Septon's Divine Vision. That I openly welcomed the Sword and Stars into my lands to inspect and green light the wood and stone arena in the shape of a septagon that my Starsworn Engineers erected within a week alleviated some of their apprehensions of blatant favoritism.

To ensure that the possibility of violence after the Trial was curtailed, the High Septon had his Faith Militant outline that no King was allowed to bring an entourage of greater than seven hundred and seventy seven men with him, with an exclusion zone of seventy seven miles in any direction of the Stoney Sept for any armies to encamp themselves. The Warrior's Sons provided legitimacy and lines of communication between the Faith and the Westerosi lords, but it was the Poor Fellows that supplied the bulk of the muscle to enforce the notion of 'fair play' amongst kings in accordance with the High Septon's wishes. When we entered the vicinity of the town of Stoney Sept, there were thousands of tents and hastily built temporary shanties dotting the locality. While I would have loved to have flown in on Balerion, it would violate the spirit of this arrangement and maybe even spook our opponents into withdrawing, High Septon's vision be damned. So while Bucephalus was the less prestigious means of travel, it was a necessary compromise to end this animosity with the Reach and Westerlands early.

The grossly incandescent sun beat relentlessly overhead, underscoring how Summer was the prevailing season in the weird cycle that this world had going on. This portion of the Riverlands was bathed in its golden rays, occasional gusts of dry wind carrying whispers of wheat and barley from the nearby farm fields. The poorly maintained roads to Stoney Sept were packed, bustling with traders, smallfolk, and minor members of the nobility keen to witness the once in a lifetime phenomenon that lay ahead, even if they were barred from the arena itself. Banners of multiple houses fluttered in the parched air, placed there by the Warrior's Sons to pay homage to the nobility, each stakeholder represented in this grand stage where faith and sword collided to determine the sovereignty of Kings.

The hotness of midday made the landscape shimmer with the hazy heat effect, the towering grasses of the fields reflecting a green so bright it was almost painful to look at. My entourage, replete with the selected seven hundred and seventy seven, had begun to drag their feet halfway into our journey, their horses laboring under the punishing sunlight. But they marched on, their duty driving them forwards. From my saddle atop Bucephalus, I glanced rearwards at the stream of knights and squires, lords and ladies that were cherry-picked by my advisors to accompany me. Their banners fluttered in the gentle breeze, with the red and black of House Targaryen flying proudest amongst them. To my right rode Orys Baratheon, my trusty commander, his black stag on yellow, once Durrandon, now Baratheon, conspicuous amongst the sea of house colors. His face was set in a hard line as he endured the heat with practiced stoicism, beads of sweat dripping from his brow as he kept hydrated with an embroidered waterskin.

At the outskirts of the town, we were met with riders bearing the Rainbow Sword Standard of the Warrior's Sons, their meticulously polished, seven pointed star embossed armor glinting harshly in the daylight, faces shadowed by their unclosed helmets. Polychromatic capes trailed behind them, fluttering in the draft of their galloping. The leading figure rode out to us, a man of extensive years with scars etched across his face like a map of battles from long ago. He surveyed us with his stern grey eyes before bowing slightly.

"Seven blessings to you, Archon Zenith of the House of Targaryen, and to your companions" He intoned in a gravelly voice that echoed from his helmet.

'They did their homework' I noted their usage of my customary title as the head of a Valyrian noble house.

I returned the gesture with an inclination of my head, a sign of respect, "And to you, Ser Knight" I replied, keeping my tone measured, "We come at the invitation of your High Septon, for the Trial of the Seven"

I refrained from broaching the fact that the town was squarely in my territory.

"Aye" The gruff knight, who refused to properly introduce himself thus far, responded crisply, "The High Septon has been awaiting you within Stoney Sept's walls for a fortnight now, compelled by the gods to personally officiate on the proceedings here. Your party will be accommodated there, at a courteous distance from the other parties, until the Trial occurs in earnest in the morn"

"Before we continue on," Rhaenys piped up at my left on a white mare, "might we know the name of our escort?"

The man visibly suppressed a grimace before doing so, "I am Ser Alaric from Oldstones, Captain of the Warrior's Sons chapterhouse in Stoney Sept"

"Well met, Ser Knight!" Rhaenys chirped, oblivious to the hoary man's discomfort. I got the feeling that he was only tolerating our presence here.

With a curt nod and a gesticulation of his gauntleted hand, Ser Alaric beckoned us onwards, leading our group through the gates of the walled town and into the stone paved streets. The townsfolk milled out from their homes and market stalls, gathering by the wayside to rubberneck at our procession with awestruck expressions. Whispers of 'Liberator' and 'Dragons', punctuated by the gasps of children, floated to my ears above the clattering hooves. A reminder that Holy Trial or not, we were still a marvel to be beheld.

Stoney Sept itself was a blend of rustic charm and medieval grandeur. Its thoroughfares were lined with mismatched buildings built of stone and timber that seemed to rise haphazardly on either flank of the road. On a hill stood an aged sept from which the dwelling drew its name, towering over the town with its seven pointed spire stretching towards the firmament. At the heart of the town was a modest market square with a was fountain that was painstakingly carved to resembled a leaping trout, further emphasizing that this town was ultimately administered by the Tullys, despite its distance from Riverrun.

Our lodgings were at the Holdfast of the knight whose name only Lord Tully remembered. It was indicative of the oversized natures of castles on this continent that a Holdfast here would be comparable to a sizable castle from my birthworld. As it was constructed at the foot of the local church, the grey Holdfast was in the proximity of the stone built sept, and if you listened attentively, you could just about hear the invocations to the Seven that are One. The landed knight who oversaw this town came out to greet us, rivulets of sweat running down his pudgy face as he stuttered over his words and made a general fool of himself, acknowledging his direct feudal superior before his primary liege, which was a huge faux pas. It got so bad that Lord Tully had to take the man aside and educate him on noble etiquette, which was just embarrassing for everybody involved. My River Marshal apologized profusely to me for the poor manners of his vassal, which I waved off with a forbearing chuckle.

The schadenfreude was a spot of amusement after a boring trip.

As my men worked to secure the perimeter of the Holdfast and prepare it as a transitory means of hosting my unofficial court, Ser Alaric conveyed a request from the High Septon to break bread with him, which my companions and I graciously accepted. The inner hall of the Stoney Sept itself was spacious, illuminated with warm rainbow hued light filtering in through expensive, Myrish stained glass windows that depicted scenes from the Book of Holy Prayer, which was a supplemental, apocryphal text for the Seven-Pointed Star, which was the local equivalent of the Bible. The life sized granite statues of the Seven Who Are One ringed an inner enclosure where a table brimming with foodstuffs was situated. At the head of that table sat an elderly man that was adorned in opulent robes of shining white, his bald head gleaming under the noonday luminescence as he rose to welcome us with a benign smile. The High Septon came across as frail yet amiable, his eyes holding a softness that sharply contrasted with Ser Alaric's hardness, who even now kept a hand close to his blade.

"Ah, Archon Zenith," He began genially, extending his arms wide in an inviting motion, "I am so very glad that you took me up on my offer. Please come, join me"

My Champions and I did so, taking seats at his table where an impressive spread of food lay before us. While the simple fare could be loosely interpreted as humble, consisting of breads, cheeses, fresh fruits, and roasted fowl, the lavish way it was arranged and presented to us was anything but. Each dish was punctiliously cooked and seasoned with a variety of herbs that no smallfolk could accumulate on their nonexistent spice rack. That our silverware was actually golden flatware only exacerbated the gaudy pretentiousness on display in this Sept. It sent a perplexing message to anyone reading between the lines. The High Septon had clearly gone to great lengths to showcase both his hospitality and the enormous wealth of the Faith to us. While he may have been under my 'spell', I did nothing to alter his mannerisms. Did he do the same for the other two Kings?

As I bit into a piece of freshly baked bread smeared with sweet apple jam and Orys sampled an exotic wine from Essos, the High Septon spoke again, "I trust your journey was not too harsh? The Riverlands can be unwelcoming at times, what with its bandits, reavers, and… other threats, lurking about"

"With the death of the Hoare King and his get, the power that the reavers held over the Riverlands is shattered" I diplomatically rejoined, "So our journey was quite uneventful, Your Holiness"

"I heard about that!" The crinkly man's eyes lit up, "It is unbecoming of any man, regardless of his station, to wish ill upon another, but may Black Harren's wretched soul rot in the Seven Hells for his sins against the godly people in his kingdom"

"Hear, hear!" Lord Tully heartily concurred in between bites of his baked pheasant.

I hummed, "I guarantee you that Harren Hoare had rotted well before departing the mortal coil"

The High Septon chuckled vindictively, "I heard about that too. Harren Hoare's monument to excess now lies squarely in your hands. I would ask what you intend to do with it, but such secular matters are not my business, and therefore irrelevant"

"I pray for all Kings and Lords everyday, beseeching the Crone to bestow her wisdom upon them and for the Warrior to grant them his strength," The High Septon recited by rote, "For the Father's Justice to prevail in them, and for the Stranger to gently call them home when their time here is done"

"Your orison of benediction is most appreciated" I politely commented. I did not believe in these Westerosi deities of theirs but it would have been thoughtless of me to visibly dismiss their beliefs outright.

If anything, I would pull a Paul Atreides and use it to my advantage.

"While I am pleased to make your acquaintance, Your Holiness, I must inquire as to the purpose of this meeting" I kept my tone neutral.

"These are trying times" The elderly man murmured with a slight sigh, "When the news of House Targaryen's invasion of Westerosi soil reached my ears, I shut myself into my private chambers and prayed for seven days and seven nights for guidance from the Seven Who Are One, nourishing myself on mere bread and water to clear my mind to best hear their voice" He glanced about himself at the statues in emphasis, "When I emerged, I announced to my flock that we would not oppose House Targaryen, for to do so would be to condemn Oldtown to dragonflame!" The Warrior's Sons standing vigil shifted uncomfortably around us, "When news came that the previous Targaryen Archon was replaced by a man whose features matched that of his dragon, I was confused. When that same man felled two kings and frightened the storied royal lineages from the Reach and the Westerlands to unite in opposition against him, the Crone's Lantern once again shone with Wisdom"

His features were alight with religious fervor, "The gods raise and remove kings at their discretion. The last two kings were slain, but thousands perished with them! The Mother weeps bitterly for every son that is lost! So they showed me a solution that limits this bloodshed in the form of an ancient rite dating to the days of Holy Andalos. The Trial of Seven! And charged me with the sacred duty of seeing it through"

"The Seven Who Are One work in mysterious ways, Archon Zenith. They have shown to me that the Dragon is not an enemy of the Faith, but rather a vessel of change. Righteous change that will lead us to shared prosperity that pleases the Seven Who Are One" He paused and turned his gaze towards me, his features smoldering, "However, every divine message can be a riddle and understanding its true essence requires wisdom that only the gods can impart. I invited you here to better understand, Archon Zenith. You who are the Kingslayer. For I believe that you are the catalyst of this divine change. You have proven it before, you will prove it in the Trial, and you will prove it ever onwards"

He mildly clasped his hand together as he alighted from his emotionally electrified speech, "But I cannot disclose the details of this Seven-sent vision without risking the Kings of the Reach and the Westerlands withdrawing from the Trial, hence… this private breaking of bread"

The revelation had a profound effect on all within earshot. The Warrior's Sons who were initially skeptical were thoughtful, while my Dondarrion and Darklyn Champions looked upon me with something resembling reverence. Orys, who knew the impetus behind this, was disturbed, while Aelan and Ser Rodrik were stone-faced, their inner opinions hidden. Lord Tully, meanwhile, was nodding sagely, as if this was nothing new to him.

"Then I suppose it is up to the Seven to conduct King Mern and King Loren to this realization in the Trial" I finally spoke, breaking the silence that had descended upon us, "When shall it take place?"

"On the morning of the seventh day from today" The High Septon revealed, "You have your Champions selected I see, though the two Kings who are nominally allied yet squabble over who can stand beside them, and which Kingdom shall have four representatives instead of three" There was a note of derision in his voice, "If they cannot come to an agreement before the day of the Trial, then I will declare their cause forfeit in the eyes of the gods and man alike"

"Let them bicker" I mused, "It will only serve the better for us" A faint smirk tugged at the corners of my mouth, but I quickly smothered it. It would not do to appear overly confident or dismissive.

"Would you be so kind as to acquaint me with the proceedings of this Trial, Your Holiness?" I inquired, shifting the conversation back to the High Septon, "I am… not wholly familiar with this Andalosi tradition"

"Why certainly, Archon Zenith" His wizened voice sounded gravelly as he continued, "As this is an argument betwixt kings and all could be notionally be accused of wrongdoings, I would have this method of Law and Justice framed as a contest writ small. The Trial of Seven involves each party bringing seven champions to represent them in combat. The fight endures until every man on one side is either incapacitated, yields, or is slain. With the Holy Number invoked, The Seven Who Are One are believed to guide the hands of the Just and that their judgment would manifest itself in the trial's outcome. It is a serious thing to cite the gods in such a way, which is why it occurs so rarely"

"The champions, do they fight on foot or mounted?" I wondered aloud.

"On foot" Replied the High Septon, "This is not a tourney joust, but a trial of righteousness through combat prowess. It is advised that all fighters come armed with their weapon of choice, though any man who coats his weapons in poison reveals himself a craven and that the Father's Justice is not in him. My men will check for this without exception"

"Bah! Poison is the weapon of women and eunuchs!" Ser Rodrik scoffed, having been to the city of Lys, where such underhanded things were commonplace.

"Try telling that to the Dornish" Ser Desmond groused at his seagoing comrade.

"Duly noted, Your Holiness" I returned, discreetly glancing at my champions. Ser Rodrik seemed impatient, and Aelan was uncomfortable in a foreign house of worship. Ser Robin merely inclined his head to the left, wordlessly calculating the odds of our victory. Orys and Ser Desmond were ensuring that their meals did not go to waste, while Lord Tully was contemplative.

"Is there anything else that you would like to discuss, Archon Zenith?" The High Septon inquired, folding his hands on top of his ample belly.

I thought for a moment, considering if there was anything else that needed addressing.

"I think not" I stood up, "My men and I will prepare for this Trial of Seven. Thank you for the meal, Your Holiness"

"The Smith and the Warrior both smile on those that prepare" Came his platitudes, "We shall convene at the Septagon at the break of dawn on the seventh day" He intoned solemnly, "May the Seven Who Are One be with you"

We took our leave then, exiting the old and ostentatiously decorated sept to go to the quarters assigned to us in the Holdfast. The walk back was characterized by an uneasy quietude, each man lost in reverie and no doubt mentally girding himself for the inevitable clash that he was summoned for.

The next few days elapsed doing intense groundwork. My Champions and I trained tirelessly, away from prying eyes in a secluded field. We honed our teamwork skills, studying potential strategies and counterattacks, as well as solidifying our load-outs. Orys eschewed the sword and picked up a two handed warhammer with a wicked spike on one end, his reasoning being that it was easier to make a shield bearing opponent regret blocking when the spike pierced the shield and his forearm. Tully and Darklyn stuck to the classics, Velaryon went with a morningstar, while Dondarrion interestingly went with a flail, which he deftly wielded by manipulating the chain, enabling him to strike in unexpected ways. We drilled mainly in a defensive posture, with each man keeping apprised of who was where and how to react if one of them was singled out by two or three opponents, which I simulated by having my Starsworn assistants metaphorically beat the stuffing out of them. If the two kings of the Reach and Westerlands had a modicum of sense, they would behave likewise and train vigorously.

Aforementioned kings had residences set apart for them in the town, though the majority of their retinue had to share camping space with the Poor Fellows, which had to gall them. Their armies respected the unnamed demilitarized zone enforced by the Faith, though separate statements were issued in the fact that King Mern had over ten thousand levies march with him, while King Loren had half that number, but in richer accommodations. Everyone was trying to one-up the other it seemed.

During the nights, my champions and I congregated in one of the Holdfast's private hearths to share stories, songs, and enjoy general camaraderie. I discovered that Ser Rodrik was an astoundingly talented singer, with a warm and mellifluous voice that could recite ballads as well as sea shanties as he strummed at his lute. Lord Tully was not given to much talk, but when he did speak, his words carried weight and wisdom from his struggles under Black Harren's roughshod rule. Ser Robin, enthusiastic as ever, regaled us with tales from his past duels and exploits. Orys and Ser Desmond emptied casks of the cheap watered down wine that was on offer, while Aelan impressed everybody with his literacy as he read Valyrian obscure poetry aloud and translated it for those that weren't polyglots. As I basked in the companionship of my champions, my mind was simultaneously occupied and unoccupied.

There was some disquiet, not for myself, but for them. Their lives were now irrevocably entwined with mine, their fates uncertain in the clash of steel and blood that loomed over us all and was my idea, razzmatazz be damned. I found some solace in Aelan's gentle presentation of that Valyrian poetry, the lilting tongue a sweet melody in an orchestra of anticipation.

The eve of the Trial approached with a heavy inevitability, coating every interaction with an austere manner. To alleviate the tension, I arranged for a hearty feast to invigorate my champions and gave stirring speeches that invariably centered on one's duty, and how honor springs forth from that. I discoursed with each man, reaffirming their commitment to this cause and laying bare any lingering doubts that might affect their performance on the morrow.

There were none.

Dawn saw us readying ourselves for battle. The typically jovial atmosphere of our group had evaporated like the cockcrow's mist. There were no songs or tales now; only the solemn whispers of prayers under every breath and the clanging noise of armor as it was affixed to each man, save for myself.

We then made our way to the Septagon mutely, watched by the town's occupants who mentioned their entreaties for our triumph.

As we entered the Septagon, the mood inside was palpably dense with anticipation. The Faith, in their swarming numbers and splendid vestments, filled the stands reserved for them, while nobles from nearly every corner of the Seven Kingdoms occupied the others, engrossed in hushed conversations that ceased as we entered. I could feel their gaze on me, speculation, judgment and even envy in their eyes as they took in my towering figure swathed in an elegant robe of red and black, a stark contrast to my fellow champions, who were clad in steel armor that glinted dully under the sun's light, surcoats proudly demonstrating their heritage. Our party had arrived first, and we took up position by the portal that we had emerged by.

A collective murmur rippled through the sept as the opposing team made their own entrance. King Mern was conspicuous with his green, enameled armor, lavishly adorned with intricate engravings of vines, flowers, and trees. His eyes met mine across the sept, an unspoken promise of retribution hanging between us. King Loren remained impassive behind the visor of his gaudy, lion themed armor, though I knew he was observing every detail of the proceedings closely. Their champions followed closely behind, and I could intuit that they were seasoned warriors all of them, each carrying an aura of ruthless efficiency. It seemed that the Reach had secured the coveted fourth slot, while the Westerlands had the fiercer looking fighters.

Chief among the Westermen was a man with a brindled boar on his tabard that stood a full head taller than his teammates and was almost twice as wide. The other non-royal teammate sported seashells on his chest, indicating that he was from House Westerling. On the Reach portion, I saw the sigils of a red huntsman and a red fox's head respectively. Their fourth was a senior member of the Order of the Green Hand, given how his armor was approximately as verdant as his king's. With the exception of the Crakehall, he was the most dangerous member of the opposing team. Their expressions varied between wariness and masked contempt but their postures were stiff with the formality required of them for these religious ceremonies.

Weapons wise, almost every single man on the enemy team stuck to the sword and board combo. The notable exception was the Green Hand Knight, who wielded a plain longsword.

In the middle of the septagon, a stoic High Septon stood, his resplendent robes of white spotless and his crystal crown catching the light as he raised his hands to hush the crowd. His fancy hat gleamed nacreous, an apparent beacon of divine providence as the Seven's speaker in the world. The soft conversations among the crowd ceased as he began to speak. His voice carried across the septagon, resonating with an ominous blend of gravity and gravitas that echoed off the cold stone.

"Seven blessings upon us all of us who are present here" He chanted, his words placid as still water, "We gather here today in the sight of the Seven to bear witness to this Trial of Seven. Three kings bear grievances here, and have graciously chosen to settle them between themselves, in doing so they exhibit the Crone's Wisdom and the Mother's Mercy. May the gods' divine insight guide these champions and may the Father's justice be served"

As the High Septon finished his invocation, he beckoned us to him. One by one, we stepped into the centermost section of the septagon, metallic sabatons echoing eerily on the stone tiles. As I came face to face with King Mern and King Loren, I felt a shiver of anticipation course down my spine. This was it, the moment that would decide the fates of the Reach and the Westerlands, provided these two and their heirs were men of their word. In each of us, I could sense the resolute determination of those who knew that they stood at the precipice of something monumental. Warrior stood opposite warrior, king against king, all bound in the sober understanding that only this microcosm of blood and battle would yield victory.

"As this is a lordly Trial, you may present your grievances, face to face" The High Septon commanded, his imperious voice bouncing against the walls. He held a crystal vial filled with seven sacred oils, one for each of his Seven Gods, to signify that our claims bore severity in both mortal and metaphysical realms.

King Mern did so first, his emerald armor glistening. His stare remained fixed on my crimson eyes as he voiced his accusation, "Archon Zenith of House Targaryen, you aspire to usurp lands that have been ours for untold centuries, and impose upon us and our descendants rulers not of our choosing" He declared with an puffed up air of righteous indignation. Despite his fervor, I detected a note of uncertainty hidden beneath his bravado. I think the fact that I spurned armor unnerved him.

Either I was crazy arrogant, or I was crazy skilled.

I was stolid, not reacting to him, other than looking askance at his fellow royal.

King Loren accepted my signal with a polite nod. He moved with a predatory grace that contrasted sharply with Mern's flamboyant fortitude. His lion themed helmet generally concealed his eyes but I felt their weight upon me as he spoke, "Your House has declared war on ours without just cause, and would threaten the sanctity of our governance" He accused, his voice cold and unyielding as Valyrian steel.

"Indeed" I responded, my stentorian voice clear, "I would impose upon you a governance not of your choosing. I would impose upon you, King Mern, a governance of uniform law, which your lands have been deprived of. And you, King Loren, we have declared war on your House for the very reason that it threatens the sanctity of good governance itself. Both of your Houses are guilty of an undue sense of superiority urging you on to internecine warfare. The wanton desire to inflate your kingdom's territories jeopardizes the wellbeing of the Westerosi people as the cycle of violence continues to grind innumerable human beings like grist under a millstone"

Both kings looked taken aback as I held my ground, my rhetoric unwavering.

"In a world such as this, no man is truly safe from the whims of another" I admitted, "But if we are to have any hope for a lasting peace, for profuse prosperity, then it must be under one rule. Not fractured and divided amongst insular families who seek only their own gain at the expense of others"

I shrugged, "But words are wind. Actions are what speak the loudest of one's convictions. So draw your swords, and pray that you live to see that peace"

With that, I turned my back on both of them, striding toward our corner of the septagon. My Champions gave me a thumbs up, which was a gesture whose meaning I shared with them alone. As I took my place besides my companions, the atmosphere was quivering with anticipation. Both enemy Kings exchanged swift, uncertain glances before Mern bobbed his head to Loren, pointing to their own corner of the septagon which awaited them.

The High Septon raised his crystal vial high, allowing the sanctified oils within to reflect the divine light of the seven-pointed star, "In the sight of the Seven, may justice prevail, may mercy endure, may wisdom abide, may innocence be preserved, may the wrongs of the world be mended to right, may courage take root in your hearts, and if death comes... may the Stranger be swift" He announced, his voice was drowsy yet steadfast, much like an old tree standing unbowed in a storm.

A deafening silence fell over the makeshift arena as the two teams tensely waited for combat. The world outside the septagon could have been aflame, and we would not have known nor cared. Our world was right here, within this holy space with two kings who dared challenge my vision.

After what seemed like an eternity, the High Septon's voice cut through the quietness like a gunshot, "Begin"

No sooner had he spoken than King Mern came for me, rapidly crossing the distance, his movements a stark contrast to his earlier demeanor. Every trace of pomp was lost now as he committed himself wholly and irrevocably to this fight.

Despite his sudden agility, I made no move to meet him head on. Instead, I ducked around his wild swing and slashed at his exposed flank with my Tantō in the same movement. He jerked back in stunned surprise but not before my blade left a noticeable cut in his emerald armor.

"A cheap shot" King Mern snarled at me, recovering from his initial shock as he experimentally palmed at the wound, his hand coming away red.

First blood went to me.

"The Seven judge the cause, not techniques" I retorted, my gaze already shifting to King Loren who watched us with a cautious look in his eyes as he moved to support his ally. There seemed to be an unspoken agreement between all present that the Kings in this match would face off without interference.

I sheathed my Tantō, withdrawing Blackfyre with one smooth motion. The presence of the smoky looking blade paired with the fact that it had already tasted the blood of kings made the two men take a subconscious step back. In the background, my Champions squared off with Reachmen and Westermen, utilizing their numerical superiority to their advantage as they played defensively. Orys had caught on to the danger that the Green Hand Knight and the Crakehall represented, and was focusing them down. The swings of his warhammer making the Crakehall man regret blocking with his shield as it rattled the bones in his arm. The clanging of steel reverberated throughout the septagon, each clash resonating like a tolling bell against the sanctified walls.

Mern's armor gleamed green, now tarnished by a streak of crimson. He lunged again, this time with a calculated precision. His decorative arming sword, no doubt an heirloom of House Gardener, flashed once. I leisurely met his strike with Blackfyre, resulting in a rent in his sword's forte.

His eyes bore into mine with unbridled anger, "You speak of unity" Mern growled through gritted teeth as he fruitlessly pressed his weight against mine, "But what you truly seek is dominion"

"Unity and Dominion are but two sides of the same coin" I replied pedantically, deflecting his blade and spinning away from his attempted follow up strike, "The distinction lies in administration"

King Loren advanced now, closing the gap between us with practiced steps. He was no less a warrior than Mern, and his graceful economy of motion preceded him. From the corner of my eye, I noted Ser Desmond's flail whirling through the air, keeping at bay a particularly aggressive Florent knight.

Loren's first blow came swiftly, aimed at my shoulder with murderous intent. I parried with Blackfyre, redirecting his blade just enough to throw off his momentum. His eyes met mine, cold and calculating, as he tested my defenses with a series of frenetic strikes. The arena was alive with the music of conflict as I danced with the two Kings. Orys's warhammer rose and fell like the wrath of gods incarnate while Ser Robin utilized his youthful vigor by deflecting and weaving between blows with astonishing agility for a vanilla mortal. Aelan ambled with quiet efficiency alongside Ser Desmond, their juxtaposed combat styles complementing one another perfectly as the Dragonseed got behind and hamstrung the Tarly Knight, which left him vulnerable to Ser Desmond's flail, which smashed into the man's helmet with ruinous force, denting the metal inwards and sending him onto his back, where he weakly struggled to remove the helmet as he made choking sounds, before slumping still.

Sensing they were now at a disadvantage, the opposing team redoubled their efforts, with the Crakehall and Green Hand Knight forcing Orys backwards with coordinated attacks, leaving him few openings to counterattack.

Mern's next move came in a silvered blur, his emerald armor shimmering with every strike. Blackfyre met his blade with unwavering resolve, each parry a testament to Valyrian craftsmanship and my own well honed skill. Loren slowly synchronized his attacks with Mern, the two Kings moving like twin serpents, closely coordinated in their deadly duet. King Loren's analytical strikes grew more relentless, each stroke searching for a chink in my defenses. The cadence of his efforts was like that of a well rehearsed dancer, but no rehearsal could match the raw experience I held in this field. I moved with premeditated fluidity, Blackfyre a seamless extension of my will as Form III contemptuously fended off the two King's probing attacks.

"I think I have your measure" I said as I put a foot onto Mern's shield and pushed him into his blonde ally, leaving the two in a regal body pile.

I planted my feet wide and held Blackfyre upright with both hands as I assumed one of the rooted stances associated with Form I, otherwise known as Shii-Cho. The elegance of this ancient Lightsaber Form was its simplicity, innovated during a transitional period when Force wielders still had metal swords similar to the ones that we were hacking away at each other here. The attack patterns were simplistic, but as such each strike in this Form was like the crashing of a tidal wave on an island. As the two Kings agitatedly got to their feet, I went on the offensive, hewing and slashing at the main body target zones. Attacks that were blocked with wooden shields only reduced their future effectiveness as they splintered and creaked with every impact. I presented no sign of stopping as I laid into the two Kings equally with the relentless fury of a hurricane. Each blow chipped away at their resistances, Mern's once pristine armor now marred with indents and gouges. Loren's parries became slower and less precise, the cold fire in his eyes dimming as fatigue set in.

For them, this was a fight to an increasingly likely death. For me, this was an excuse to brush the dust off a neglected Lightsaber Form.

The battleground was an orchestra of chaos, the symphony of war writ small playing out in every junction. I could hear Orys bellowing commands to the men amidst the cacophony, his warhammer striking out with brutal efficacy. The Florent knight was the proceeding man to fall, crumpling beneath Ser Desmond's flail as his breastplate dented inwards, while Ser Robin deftly moved with cat like sprightliness to intercept another adversary in the form of the Westerling Knight who was aiming for the flagging Ser Rodrik, whose morningstar's spikes got wedged in the meat of a shield, forcing him to disengage to avoid a blade to his gorget. Honestly, excluding yours truly, Ser Robin may have been the MVP of this match.

"Their resolve wavers men!" Orys shouted over the din of battle, his voice tinged with encouragement for our allies.

"Press on!" I commanded them, my voice carrying the authority of years spent in warfare, "Break their spirits!"

Loren made another attempt at disarming me with a feint followed by a swift thrust aimed at my torso. Predictable. I shifted my weight and redirected Blackfyre upward in a seamless motion, catching his blade and forcing it up, destabilizing him momentarily. Seizing the opportunity, I swung Blackfyre in a wide arc that forced both Kings to retreat several steps lest they be parted of their heads. Their retreat was my invitation. I closed the distance in a heartbeat, bringing Blackfyre down with a savage vertical slash intended to cleave through the remainders of Mern's shield. His eyes widened beneath his helm as he barely managed to lift the battered shield in time, but the impact drove him onto one knee, the shattered wood groaning under the strain before giving way. The Gardener King yowled as Blackfyre bit into his vambrace and his forearm.

Mern's eyes glinted with a mixture of rage and desperation as he unsteadily regained his stance, his breathing coming in labored gasps. Loren, though equally winded, clenched his jaw with grim determination. Their alliance of necessity was beginning to fracture under the relentless pressure of my assault. Sensing the shift in their cohesion, I pressed the advantage, advancing with mechanical efficiency.

With as savage roar, Orys shattered the Crakehall knight's femur with a crushing blow from his warhammer, leaving the man writhing in agony on the ground. The sight infused our men with renewed fervor, sparking an aggressive push against our wilting opponents. Like wolves scenting blood in the air, we collectively surged forward.

The two Kings gambled one last coordinated foray, their blades converging toward me in a pincer like movement meant to overwhelm my defenses. But battle hardened instincts saw me through. I stepped inside their reach, parrying Mern's blade up and to the side while Loren's thrust went wide. With an almost effortless grace, I slid Blackfyre into Mern's exposed flank. His armor gave way with a sickening screech as the Gardener King let out a guttural scream and crumpled to the ground in a boneless heap.

Loren's eyes widened in horror at the sight of his fallen comrade, but there was no room for mercy here. Before he could react further, I launched myself at him with preternatural speed. Blackfyre sung through the air with lethal exactitude and struck true; Loren's shield dropped from his grasp as my blade sank deeply into his shoulder, severing tendons and rendering his arm useless. Loren forsook his sword as he tried to stem the bleeding with his working hand.

I graciously held off of a killing stroke, "I would suggest yielding while you can still conceivably save that arm"

Loren glared at me with coldly defiant eyes, his regal pride warring with the pain that now racked his body. Internally the vanity of a king wrestled with the pragmatism of a soldier. The combat trial about us was reaching a fever pitch, but in this moment, it seemed as if the world had narrowed to just the two of us. His gaze flickered to the dying Mern, whose life was ebbing away in a crimson pool, then, to the deceased Reachmen, then to his own men, their faces marred with despair and fatigue. He had lost in the political arena, and now he had lost in the actual arena.

The decision was clear, etched in the lines of defeat crisscrossing his brow.

Sluggishly, he sank to his knees, releasing his grasp on his grievous shoulder wound and raising his good hand in a gesture of surrender, "I yield" He spoke, voice barely audible than a whisper, "For the sake of my people, I yield to the Black Dragon!"

I nodded once, acknowledging his submission with the gravity it deserved, "Your nous does you credit, Lannister" I solemnly accredited him, "Get yourself to a healer"

The paling blonde man nodded wanly, lacking the strength to do otherwise.

"My King!" The Green Knight feverishly shouted, noticing that his liege was slain and breaking away from Orys after skillfully leveraging his longsword to riposte into Orys' left poleyn with a half-sword thrust, failing to penetrate his knee but temporarily hobbling him.

"Foul blackguard!" The iridescent man cursed at me, "Have at thee!"

The knight's eyes burned with righteous fury behind his helm, an unyielding beacon of loyalty to his fallen king. Despite the grievous wound Orys had sustained, he struggled to his feet, his warhammer held aloft in defiance as he sought to resume his quarrel with the capable knight.

"Stand down, Orys," I commanded him sharply, "This one wishes to avenge his master. Do not deprive him of this"

The Baratheon hesitated, his perception darting between me and the knight, but eventually he nodded and retreated, favoring his wounded leg.

The Green Hand Knight wasted no time. With a primal scream akin to a direwolf's howl, he charged at me, his longsword arcing through the air with deadly swiftness. There was no real method in his movements, only raw emotion supercharged by grief and vengeance. But unsteady emotions often clouded prudent judgment.

I juked and strafed around his initial string of attacks, Blackfyre occasionally deflecting his blade with a resonant clang that echoed across the septagon. His murderous momentum carried him past me, and I used that to my benefit, pivoting quickly to slash at his exposed back. He twisted at the last moment, an instinct born of rote practice, narrowly avoiding a killing blow but not the strike entirely. Blackfyre bit into his armor with a shrill screech, carving a deep gash along his side. He staggered but did not fall; instead, he turned to face me again with undiminished, single minded wrath.

"Your valor does you credit" I intoned solemnly as we circled one another, "But this battle is lost for your team"

"Not while I still draw breath!" He barked back at me.

"You fight well," I complimented him, "but this can only end one way"

"Your arrogance will be your downfall!" He spat with vitriol, launching himself at me with reaffirmed vigor.

I met his charge head on. Our blades met anew in a maelstrom of flashes and savagery. But this round, I did not let him gain any ground; the strictures that Form V posed on him essentially locked him into losing exchanges with me. With an intricate series of feints and counters, I steadily repelled him, demonstrating that I was the superior duelist, which infuriated him, if his growing desperation said anything. Inevitably, one misstep, with him being a fraction too slow in raising his guard, provided an opening. With a sure movement of preternatural grace, I brought Blackfyre down upon him in a Falling Avalanche. The magically charged blade cleaved through his helm and down into his skull with a sickening crunch that resonated throughout the battlefield like a knell.

His body crumpled to the ground lifelessly, dislodging itself from my sword in the process, as though it were made of mere parchment and ash.

I stood over him for a moment in a silent tribute to misguided gallantry before refocusing on the last man standing. The Westerling Knight, likely the lord of the noble house, given how intricate his armor was, wobbled with bone deep fatigue as he was surrounded by my men, who were primed to end his life with just a signal from me.

"I trust that you'll see the sense in yielding?" I posed to the quivering man, "I would rather you return to your family in person, rather than in a box"

The Westerling Knight, his breathing ragged and body language wild with the vestiges of fight or flight, dropped his ornate arming sword with a metallic clatter that echoed across the blood soaked stones. His shoulders slumped like a weathered tower finally succumbing to time's erosion, and he nodded solemnly.

"Honor compels me to accept your mercy, oh Black Dragon" He replied, voice creaking like a young sapling in a gale. His gauntleted hands trembled as he raised them in surrender.

I sheathed Blackfyre, the resonance of its ensorcelled steel sliding against the scabbard making a satisfying rasp, "Take him to the healers," I ordered, signaling my men to escort the defeated knight away, "Ensure that he is treated with respect"

Taking that as his cue, the mind whammied High Septon moseyed into the center of the arena, carefully stepping over the cooling corpse of the late Florent Knight as he addressed the crowd, "And so the Seven Who Are One have declared unanimously that the Kings of the Reach and the Westerlands have proven unworthy of their Crowns. Thus they have appointed this man, Zenith from the House Targaryen, who fought as if he were the Warrior himself, as your rightful Monarch! Hail the victorious King! Hail the Great Unifier! May the gods above bless his reign and that of his heirs in perpetuity!"

The field grew eerily silent as the official recognition and church sanction of our victory sank into the marrow of all those who bore witness. The banners of House Targaryen fluttered triumphantly in a brisk wind, casting long shadows over those present. I could feel the weight of countless eyes upon me, some filled with awe, others with hatred or fear of the unknown.

Orys limped toward me, his face etched with both relief and pain, "A fine set of duels, Your Majesty" He remarked gruffly, wincing slightly as he adjusted his stance to ease the pressure on his injured knee.

I gave him a curt nod, "You did exemplary keeping our fellow champions coordinated and alive, Orys. I will tend to your wound privately once we retire to our quarters"

"There's no real need to, my Archon" He stubbornly refused, "Maester Vaeron's administrations will suffice"

"Orys, just accept the help" I lightly chided him, "I can't have my right hand man off his game when he'll need to be at his best"

He inclined his head in gratitude but uttered nothing more, knowing well that this was neither the time nor the place for extended discourse.

Wrap up after the Trial of Seven had its smooth moments and not so smooth moments. The High Septon personally assured me that his people would spread the news far and wide of the flawless Targaryen victory, denouncing any attempts by anyone to resist our rulership as heresy. The death of Mern IX meant that I had to deal with his son and heir Prince Edmund, who was less than thrilled to become a 'Lord Paramount of the Verdant Greensward and Warden of the Reach', but, like his sire, was dutiful and pious enough to swallow his pride to accept his new title while he handed over his younger brothers Gawen and Grenn Gardener as Wards of the Targaryen Crown to accompany their deceased father's physical crown, which was an oddly humble black steel headpiece of leaves, red roses with thorny vines, and floral filigree.

Loren I was harder to convene with on account of the wound I gave him, which I was sure might sour future interactions on top of how I dethroned him. His personal maester decided to amputate the arm from his shoulder after hints of infection manifested rather than risk it becoming gangrenous. Already unkind names such as the 'Mauled Lion' were being bandied about the unwise, though never within earshot of the Lannister party, who also made good on their word to relinquish the Lannister Crown to me. It was a gaudy thing of gold and prancing lions for spokes, but it still represented the sovereignty of the Westerlands and so I treated the hand over ceremony with all the dutiful solemnity it required. Loren had yet to father any sons of his own, so he sent his only teenaged brother Tybolt Lannister to be House Targaryen's Ward and Hostage to House Lannister's good behavior.

I doubt our current accommodations for these hostages at the Blackwater would meet with their approval, but I was a Conqueror on campaign, not a maître d'hôtel, so they would just have to suck it up. As for the wards themselves, Gawen and Grenn Gardener shared the classical Gardener features, shoulder length brown hair, an average frame prone to potbellies, and fair skin that seemed to be bereft of freckles. They were polite, but obviously kept a figurative distance from me since I was the one to slay their father. Of the two, the only real resentment I sensed was that from Gawen, who I was informed had a young son of his own that was in his tweens. I took the man aside and promised that he would be able to visit his wife and son regularly, which seemed to sufficiently appease him. As a third son, Grenn Gardener had fewer prospects even when he was a Prince, so the idea of being a Ward to House Targaryen, which was rapidly establishing supremacy over all of Westeros, actually invigorated him, not that he divulged this to anyone.

Conversely, Tybolt Lannister was a different sort altogether. At barely sixteen, there was a fire in his eyes and a lion's pride that defied taming. Though he sported the regal bearing of House Lannister, his youth made him more brash than wise. He had impudently attempted to challenge me to an Honor duel during our first dinner, an ill advised endeavor that was quickly curtailed by Orys, who volunteered to step in for me. His mere presence caused the color to drain from the lion cub's ruddy face. Stories of how the Baratheon had ruthlessly crippled Lyman Crakehall in the Trial of Seven had circulated in all camps, which seemed to please my dark haired friend. He had taken to carrying around that warhammer in a sling on his back, which was even now being nicknamed 'Boarbreaker'. I was sure there would be plenty of occasions in the training yard where I would have to put him on his ass to keep him humble, but the buttoned-up Baratheon was in high spirits.

I was in elevated spirits myself, for I had made great time in the Conquest of Westeros relative to the unspoiled timeline, albeit I had no recourse but to speed-run it with Visenya and Rhaenys pregnant and at reduced functionality. I told my River Marshal to go home and maintain vigil on the North, and to a lesser extent, the Vale. My other Champions though, they collectively insisted on joining my retinue on a semi-permanent basis on security detail, and thus the future Kingsguard would trace its origins there. The only reason that they were semi-permanent was because there are places a King has to go where they could not follow, especially when he is on dragonback. The first example of this would be important matter for us to attend to before I had little choice but to suspend military operations for a brief period as my two uncrowned queens gave birth and recovered from the experience.

The morning air around the mountain named the Giant's Lance was crisp and cool, even with Summer in full swing. Balerion lazily glided along the airstream along with our two companions trailing in our wake. We cast wicked shadows below us that likely scared the bejeezus out of any smallfolk who managed to glimpse our passing. Already I could spy riders being dispatched from Holdfasts and Castles along the route to warn of our coming, not that it would truly matter. The wind current whipped through my hair, carrying with it the scent of pine and damp earth from the fertile valleys underneath us. I glanced at my familiar, Balerion, whose obsidian scales shimmered in the bright rays of the sun. His massive wings beat with steady, effortless power, propelling us towards our destination, the nominal seat of House Arryn in the summertime years, the Eyrie, which was on the horizon.

The diminutive white castle was indeed perched precariously atop a shoulder of the Giant's Lance, a towering peak in the Mountains of the Moon, which themselves reminded me of the Alps. The Giant's Lance was akin in size to Mount McKinley, though with a pointier profile similar to the Matterhorn, and was an apt name. The only conventional way up to the Eyrie was an increasingly narrow, winding path that was often carved into the rock face itself. Guarded by three formidable waycastles named Stone, Snow, and Sky, an invading force would be unable to bring its full might to bear. Even if these hypothetical invaders threw away thousands of men and somehow succeeded in dealing with these initial defenses, the Eyrie had few entrances and full sightlines for the castle garrison to feather any unfortunate mountaineers trying their luck. It was probably the least desirable castle to put to a siege on this continent, though Casterly Rock was not far off in that ranking, with it being built on top of and into a mountain.

As we flew closer to the summit, more details could be made out of the notoriously hard to crack castle, such as its flush base with the craggy shoulder it rested upon. The Eyrie was indeed an impressive feat of engineering, its seven snowy towers shining like alabaster in the morning light. Its aesthetics were eerily reminiscent of an overly exaggerated version of Neuschwanstein Castle, which was a personal favorite of mine. From above, one could see the main structure of the castle, a cluster of elegant halls and stout keeps that were enclosed by a high, steeply angled curtain wall that merged seamlessly with the sheer cliff faces. The only visible conventional access was a harrowingly slender manmade bridge spanning a yawning abyss, the trail connecting the castle proper to the waycastles nestled further down the mountain. A winch mechanism on the side facing outwards enabled supplies and guests to be ferried up to the castle. Overall, it gave off the impression of a perched falcon, stolidly surveying the land that it reigned over.

As we circled the castle, I could see the Arryn banners flapping in the wind, a sky blue falcon soaring against an ivory moon on a field of cream. Their words were 'As High as Honor', presumptively with these banners being the most honorable of them all. We had yet to be spotted by the Eyrie's sleepy garrison, with us taking pains to keep our arrival as stealthy as could be given the sheer size of our mounts. I urged Balerion into a lower glide, the air zipping past us as we descended towards the inner courtyard at the base of one of the Eyrie's main towers, one that was connected to the balcony that a certain boy king liked to play on. Vhagar and Meraxes followed suit, their riders' silver-gold hair glinting as they did so. As we alighted on the stone, the tower sufficiently sturdy to take our weight, the dragons' massive wings kicked up swirling eddies of dust and grit. Balerion let out a low rumbling growl that echoed off the blue streaked marble bricks, almost announcing our presence like a herald's trumpet.

I jumped out of the saddle with a backflip so that Balerion could vacate and give the smaller Vhagar and Meraxes space to allow their riders to dismount comfortably. I would have preferred to do this with just Visenya for company, but Rhaenys insisted on accompanying us and I hadn't the heart to deny the woman, who was becoming visibly clingy as the days wore on. While I could attribute this to her developing pregnancy, I had a hunch that there was more to it than that. As I landed on the cool stone tiles of the courtyard, I caught sight of the lithe shadow of Visenya dismounting Vhagar with a grace that betrayed her warrior strength in spite of her extra cargo. She flicked her silver hair back with a casual gesture before proceeding toward me to stand next to me. Rhaenys wasn't far behind her, her face displaying clear signs of strain as she attempted to hide her aches. My gaze lingered upon her for an extra moment, my concern momentarily overriding my sense of duty.

A dozen feet away, wielding a wooden sword in his hand and clothed in regal garments stamped with the Falcon of Arryn was the boy king himself, Ronnel Arryn. The young lad was about eight years of age, with his light brown hair kept in a bowl cut that made his hazel eyes seem even larger in his scrawny face. He inherited some features from his mother, such as her high cheekbones, obscured as they were by lingering baby fat, and button nose that only slightly detracted from his regality. Near him was a straw stuffed dummy that looked beaten to hell, having been wailed on by the boy king for several months at this point. He gawked at us, his innocent eyes wide with awe as he beheld our dragons with the wonder inherent in a child who had been sheltered from the crueler realities of the world he lived in. So sheltered, in fact, that he lacked a household guard or two monitoring him at all hours like he should have been.

"Hello there" I greeted him in my best Kenobi accent.

His wooden sword clattered to the ground as he dropped it, his cheeks burning red with embarrassment before he remembered his courtesies and cleared his throat, "I greet you, noble visitor. Be welcome to the seat of my ancestors, the Arryn Kings of old"

"Well met, young Arryn" Visenya returned the greeting, applying a somewhat uncharacteristic smile to her lips, "We had been meaning to visit this grand home of yours for some time now, though business elsewhere has kept us occupied"

The boy king, disarmed literally and figuratively by Visenya's friendly demeanor, seemed surprised, "You have? Mother made no mention of any important guests. Especially pretty ones with such wondrous mounts"

Visenya's smile morphed into something a bit more genuine, "Vhagar's scales are quite wonderful to look at, are they not?" She motioned towards a stone bench closer to the balcony overlooking a scenic valley landscape, "Would you like to learn about them?"

"Oh oh, can I!?" He chirped, clapping his hands together in excitement, "I would like that very much, my lady!"

Normally a flicker of irritation would flash in Visenya's features from the incorrect form of address, but she easily disregarded it, picking the boy up like a sack of vegetables and sitting him on her lap, minding her baby bump, as she regaled him all about her dragon Vhagar, and why he was so amazing.

"I feel oddly invisible" Rhaenys remarked, a pout forming on her mouth.

"Don't feel too put out by it" I shrugged, "Children tend to have short attention spans"

"I cannot decide if I find that charming or alarming" She said, laying a caring hand subconsciously on her own ballooning belly.

It was a few minutes before the Queen Regent joined us with a dozen guards on her tail, a note of urgency in her step.

The Queen Regent of the Vale of Arryn was indeed a looker, her portrait failing to encapsulate the true depth of her feminine beauty. She was tall for a woman at a couple inches shy of six feet, and was clad in a short sleeved dress of the signature Blue and White Arryn colors with transparent shawls wrapped around her biceps and connected to her lower back. The fabric of that dress tapered into wispy falcon wings at the shoulders, which I thought was a nice touch and nod to the family that she married into. She owned a perfectly proportioned hourglass figure that multiple women would kill for in my birthworld. Ringing her head was a golden coronet, as befitting her status as Queen Mother and Regent. Flanking her were the household guard, who all wore plate armor and trailed capes decorated with the Arryn sigil. Reinforcing this special status were the falcon emblems embossed into the castle forged steel ovular shields that were strapped to their off arms.

I tapped into her surface thoughts, partly for information gathering, and partly for my amusement.

As she entered the courtyard overlooking the misty Vale, the Queen Mother came to a dead stop, likely noticing the three uninvited guests in her home, one of whom was hosting the underage King of the Vale on her knee, diverting him with colorful tales about dragons, dragonlords, and other stories endorsing her Valyrian heritage. The other was standing off to her side and admiring the fabulous views, of both the valley and Andalish castle architecture. The last was towering over everyone else and eyeing the Queen Regent with the imperious nature that those associated with dragons were wont to possess. Sharra's blue eyes widened to the size of dinner plates before she swiftly reigned her shock in, her breathing picking up in pace as she hurriedly walked over, her protective instincts as a mother allowing for no less. The inquisitive boy keyed in on the sound of his mother's footsteps and whipped his around to favor her with a starry eyed, imploring stare that young children use to sway their parents to their whims.

"Mother!" He cried, not in fear, but in mild annoyance, "How come you did not tell me that we had such illustrious company coming to visit us?"

"Do not hold your mother accountable for that, young Arryn" Visenya patted the small of his back, "We wished to keep this visit a surprise" Her violet orbs fixed on the rapidly paling woman with casual maleficence.

Her guardsmen stood a politely fearful distance from us, eyeing Vhagar and Meraxes anxiously. But to their credit, they were not paralyzed. It seemed that they awaited a signal from the Queen Regent on how they were to act, even if it meant an assured death by dragonflame.

The poor woman swallowed the lump in her throat, "Y-yes, my sweet son. That's exactly it. I hope you like your surprise"

"I surely do, mother!" The Arryn Eyass nodded vigorously, "Archontessa Visenya has been recounting stories about what its like to be on dragonback!" His callow countenance brightened as the boy got an idea in his head, "Oh, mother, mother! May I go with the nice woman on her mighty dragon? That way I could fly like a real Falcon! Please!?"

It was slightly impressive to me that a boy who was raised and told all his life that he would be king of the Vale would use the word please in any sentence. Point to his mother for raising him to be well mannered, despite his royal station.

Sharra's comely face paled further at her son's seemingly innocent request. Her eyes darted between Ronnel's excited features and the impassive expressions of the Targaryen 'Guests'. She opened her mouth to speak, yet no words came out.

Meanwhile, Visenya locked eyes with the Queen Regent and gave her a chilling grin. The unspoken threat was hanging in the atmosphere like an executioner's axe. Of course, I would never permit any undue harm to come to the boy, but violence perceived was as good if not better than violence achieved.

"Such a weighty request of Vhagar is not to be taken lightly, young Ronnel. There are only a handful of people in this world's history who can make such a claim as soaring through the sky on the wings of a dragon" Visenya sagely highlighted, "Such an honor requires a commensurate exchange"

"I guess so…" The boy's exuberance dimmed, "I know! I'll trade you something for it! I have something just as rare that you might like" He smugly pointed out, "The Crowns of the Arryns!"

I doubt he realized the significance of that trade and what it meant, but his mother certainly did.

At this declaration, the blood drained nearly completely from the Queen Regent's mien, but she stiffened her posture as she knelt in front of her son in a gesture of surrender and motherly concern, "If that is what you desire, my son, then I will make it so"

"Thank you mother!" Ronnel Arryn beamed, "You're the best mum ever!"

The stressed out woman's return smile was bittersweet, "Anything for my son and heir" Sharra then laid her hands on her son's arm and directed a question of her own to Visenya, "Is it safe for my son to fly with you?"

"Of course" Visenya assured her, "He will be in firm hands with me"

Sharra then glanced up at me, attempting to read my blank expression to no avail. To say that we were negotiating from a position of strength here was a gross understatement. At this moment, we were as high above the Queen Regent as she was above her subjects in the valley below us. Goodness, she looked so helpless, as if she was a doe trapped in a fence while a predator got ready to snack on its misfortune. With glassy eyes that were close to tears, she nodded her ultimate assent to her son, who was bouncing giddily like someone who had won the lottery.

Deciding to have a bit of mercy on the poor woman, I interjected, "The Eyrie has Seven Towers that are dedicated to each aspect of the Seven Who Are One, yes?"

Sharra, dumbstruck by the outwardly random question, only bobbed her head once in confirmation.

"Seven rotations around the Giant's Lance ought to be plenty then" I made a show of thinking aloud, "Do feel free to take your time, Visenya" I grinned at Ronnel, who marveled at my height once he was reminded that I was there, "Have fun up there, young man. As Visenya has previously stated, there are not many people in this world who will ever experience the joys of flight like you will"

"Thank you, Archon Zenith!" He verbally gushed, quivering with excitement.

"Off you go then" I gently shooed them away, "Your mother and I have very boring adult things to discuss. Don't forget to enjoy yourself up there!"

Visenya inclined her brow in acquiescence to the formal command as she lifted the soon to be former boy king in her arms, speaking the Valyrian phrase for 'Kneel' to Vhagar before mounting her scaly steed and securing the Arryn chick in her possession. Ronnel looked as if his nameday had come early, so ecstatic was he. Once they were fully affixed in the saddle, Visenya with another Valyrian command urged Vhagar skywards, who waved leathery wings and sent a great gust flowing through the courtyard, causing the guardsmen to momentarily stumble and Sharra's dress to flap much like the wings of the Falcon on the Arryn Sigil.

Once the young king was in the air and out of earshot, shrinking to the size of a fingernail on the horizon, Sharra's entire demeanor shifted. Her blue eyes flashed with barely contained fury as she addressed us, "I suppose I should be flattered that the great Dragon King and his Queens have deigned to grace us with their presence" She sniffed, voice dripping with sarcasm, "To what do we owe this unexpected honor?"

"Come now, Your Grace," Rhaenys replied with a disarming smile, "Surely by now you've heard many tales of our Conquest. Did you truly think that we would overlook the Vale?"

Sharra's jaw clenched, "I had hoped our natural defenses and armies might discourage you" She begrudgingly admitted, "Clearly, I was mistaken"

"No, it was a reasonable assumption to make on your part" I acknowledged considerately, "But as you can see, mountains and armies confined to the lower valleys pose no obstacle to dragonriders"

"Be that as it may, if you harm so much as a single hair on my son's head!" Sharra hissed at me, a step away from hysteria, "I swear to all the gods that I will-"

"Do nothing" I finished for her, unfazed by her motherly ferocity, "If I wanted to cause your son harm, it would have already been done. I am many things to many people, but a deliberate murderer of innocent children is not one of them. Now calm yourself. Such hysterics are unbecoming of a woman of your stature"

Sharra sucked in air through her teeth at the rebuke and visibly struggled to hush the retort that she so desperately wanted to expel.

"Are you taking my son away from me?" She inquired in a low, scared voice.

"One of them" I answered truthfully, "You might see reason before the hour is up, but I will still require leverage against your lords to entice them to behave regardless"

"So you would steal my Jonos from me instead?" Sharra resentfully spat, "That is a cold comfort for me… your Grace" She added acidly.

Good, she saw the wisdom in submitting, not that I ever doubted it.

"The new term of address is Your Majesty. And its all the more motivation for you to get your bannermen to comply with the change in rulership with as few difficulties as possible" I explicated, "Besides, your other boy will have access to unique opportunities while in my care, opportunities that even the fledgling Ronnel might also trade his Crown for, if he knew of them"

"I see that I have little choice in the matter" Sharra muttered, watching the distantly circling dragon with barely concealed dread, "Then I shall gather up my son's Crown and the Falcon Crown of Mountain and Vale that he would have worn in another life" She divested herself of her coronet and kneeled, formally presenting it to me, "I trust that this gesture will prove sufficient for now, Your Majesty?"

I accepted the coronet, observing the Falcon and Seven pointed star themed wrought metalwork with vague interest, "It shall, Lady Arryn. I also require that you present me with all the swords of your garrison… delivered to us by your servants, of course" I jested, though it was deficiently received given the Lady's immense frown.

"You would have my Household Guard disarm themselves as well?" She scowled, "Is it not obvious enough that we can do nothing to resist you?"

"Peace, Lady Arryn. It is for a vanity project of his" Rhaenys explained, partially ruining the future reveal, "You know how some men can be"

"Ah, like my late husband's odd obsession with Essosi hunting trophies" Lady Arryn remarked with a hint of acrimony, "Very well, Your Majesty. I shall have the swords gathered and brought to you forthwith"

She turned to her guards and gave the order to yield up their weapons. The men looked understandably hesitant, but they dutifully obeyed their liege lady's command, relinquishing their swords and filing out of the courtyard to spread the word throughout the Eyrie.

After a servant brought us Bread and Salt and customs of hospitality were observed, Lady Arryn, who was emotionally exhausted from the prior tension strained minutes, occupied the bench where her son was sat earlier and all but collapsed on it. Her eyes would keep darting to the sky, tracking Vhagar's flight path apprehensively. Though she tried to maintain a composed facade, the slight trembling of her hands betrayed her worries.

"Your son is perfectly safe up there, you know" I reassured her, "Visenya is an expert dragonrider. She's more at risk of mussing her hair than allowing harm to come to a child in her care"

Sharra's gaze snapped back to me, surprise evident in her features, "I… thank you for that assurance, Your Majesty" She intoned stiffly, clearly uncomfortable with accepting comfort from someone who was recently an intruder.

Rhaenys stepped closer, her voice gentle, "We understand that this is difficult, Lady Arryn. But I promise you that we mean your family no ill will. This transition need not be painful"

An embittered laugh escaped Sharra's lips, "No ill will? You come here uninvited, on the backs of beasts out of legend, to strip away my son's birthright. How else am I to view this?"

"As a newfound prospect for House Arryn" I interjected smoothly, "The Vale has long stood apart from the other kingdoms of Westeros, isolated behind its mountains and hidebound honor. But now, you get to be part of something greater. To help shape the future of all Westeros"

Sharra's eyes narrowed skeptically, "These are captivating words, Your Majesty. But words are wind. What assurances can you offer me that the Vale will not simply become another conquered territory, bled dry to fuel your ambitions?"

"Well, other than calling off the naval forces that are harassing your shores afore the termination of the week. How does safer travel through the mountains for your people sound?" I proffered.

She blinked, "I beg your pardon?"

"The mountain ranges of the Vale are a double edged sword" I began fastidiously, "They are a natural barrier to invading armies, yes, but they are also home to thousands of people composing dozens of mountain clans and hill tribes that utterly despise the lowlanders and opportunistically reave them at will"

"Savages, all of them!" Sharra Arryn scrunched her face in distaste, "I have witnessed raids before. Even their women comport themselves like animals!"

"The point is, they are pests that threaten the safety of travelers on the roads and mountain trails" I pertinently presented, "As the future monarch of this continent, it will be my responsibility to eradicate the presence of raiders and insurrectionists that oppose Crown Law"

"Generations of Arryns before me have attempted to achieve this feat" Sharra specified her predecessors, "None have succeeded. The clansmen of the mountains know their territory better than us. They strike swiftly and fiercely in ambushes before fading into the hills like ghosts"

"The Arryns of old did not have the advantage of flying siege engines" I retorted with the minutest of my advantages, "I will have greater ease rooting out the clansmen and bringing them to heel. They can either bend the knee and assimilate… or be destroyed. Either way, their lawlessness will stop, and the Valemen will have fewer troubles at home"

"Those are bold claims, if they are true" Sharra replied, her tone still laced with doubt, "I suppose time will tell if they prove of substance"

At that moment, servants began arriving with armfuls of swords. They deposited them at my feet, bowing low before scurrying away. Before Visenya and a visibly elated Lord Ronnel had returned from their flight, a sizable pile of sharpened steel had accumulated. Thankfully, the three of us all had lockable trunks with us to transport our goods. Lord Ronnel detached himself from Visenya and rushed into his mother's waiting arms; gushing about how amazing it was to be on top of the world. The overcome look on her face spoke volumes, even as she tried to share in her child's joy. With a simple dragon ride, we had won the loyalty of her son and all but cemented Targaryen rule over the Vale. The ancestral crowns of House Arryn were then also given to us, which we placed with great care into our luggage with all the somber formality the occasion necessitated.

Relieved that she held her firstborn son to her bosom again, curiosity finally got the better of Sharra Arryn as I made to summon my familiar, "What… exactly… do you intend to do with all of those blades, Your Majesty?"

"Metalworking" Was my vague reply.

Once Visenya swung by our fleet and informed them on my behalf that offensive operations against the Vale were to cease, we made a triumphant reappearance at our main base of operations by the Blackwater, carrying the garrison blades of the Eyrie, the Arryn crowns, and a sniffling, five year old Jonos Arryn, whose mother had bid him a tearful farewell before our departure. While we had secured the Vale's submission without any real bloodshed, young Jonos's muffled sobs as we flew away from his home and his family weighed heavily on the conscience. I knew taking him as a ward was a necessary political move, but it didn't make the boy's understandable anguish any easier to bear. It was the uglier side of feudal politics, and one that I saw happen often in Gryphondria.

As we landed in the delineated dragon-corral and seen to by the Dragonkeepers, I gingerly lifted Jonos from the saddle on Balerion's spine. His small frame trembled against me, face buried in my chest to hide his tears. Unlike his older brother, he couldn't find any pleasure from being in flight for even longer than his brother had.

I spoke softly to him, "I know this is difficult, Jonos. But I promise that you will be well cared for here. And you will see your mother and brother again before too long"

The boy sniffled and looked up at me with red rimmed eyes, "Y-you swear it?"

"I gave them visitation rights" I assured him, "I suspect your mother will come as soon as possible"

Jonos nodded wordlessly, seeming to take some comfort in the vow. As we walked towards the Manse, I motioned for a servant to attend us, "Please show Jonos Arryn to the guest chamber set aside for him and see to it that he's made comfortable. Have the kitchen staff prepare his favorite foods for supper, whatever he's in the mood for"

The servant bowed and gently led Jonos away. I watched them go, hoping that time and good treatment would ease the boy's homesickness. For now, there was work to be done involving political consolidation, oath hearings, title confirmations, royal writs to be penned, spy reports to be read, and about a dozen other things that oft made rulership feel like a mixture of a Mob Boss and Human Resource manager.

All of these things kept us busy until we had to go to Dragonstone at the yearnings of both of my Queens, who while heavily pregnant, could still fly their dragons with only some discomfort. My apprentice (who had expeditiously attained literacy thanks in part to the Cervidian Apprenticeship Ring boosting her learning rate) had elected to linger at the Blackwater, immersing herself in books of arcane subjects that I had imparted to her as a self-study portion of her education while I was preoccupied in the Narrow Sea. I was proud of Ylisse. The teenager had made allowances for all the challenges of being the Conqueror's secretive pupil with nary a peep of complaint. It did not hurt that here she did not have to hunt for her meals on a daily basis, nor habitually huddle by a firepit to retain body warmth. Her robe's enchantments warded off undue attention from others, but they did not make her wholly imperceptible. Eventually there would be inquiries about this girl who had my personal attention when there were an endless number of lords who wanted the same privilege.

These were issues for after the Conquest.

I had never been to Dragonstone before, only having vague knowledge of it from the books that was partially filled in by both Visenya and Rhaenys, who generally had good things to say of it, biased as it was. As we approached Dragonstone from the air, the island's distinctive, volcanically formed landscape came into view. The craggy cliffs and dark sand beaches were stark against the blue-grey, brackish waters of Blackwater Bay. By the center of the island and on the face of the active volcano named the Dragonmont loomed the imposing castle of Dragonstone itself, its stone towers shaped like dragons reaching skyward and snarling. The midnight black curtain walls were sharp and angular in many areas, giving it the impression of a star fortress. The magical resonance of the castle stood out to me even at this distance, speaking of its arcane origins as its Valyrian builders utilized blood sorcery and dragonflame to erect an enduring monument to their power and prestige. If they went to these lengths for a glorified outpost, one could only imagine the grandeur put into the Freehold's capitol itself.

We alighted in the most expansive of the courtyards, our dragons' wings stirring up billows of dust and sand before brimstone and salt infused air took its place. As I dismounted Balerion, I took in the ancient Valyrian architecture surrounding us. Every surface seemed to be adorned with intricate carvings of dragons and statues of other fantastical creatures like basilisks, cockatrices, horned demons, griffins, hellhounds, manticores, minotaurs, and wyverns. The very stones of the castle strongly radiated a potent ephemeral aura, which would cause the magically insensitive to feel unnerved by their environs. Above us, the peak of the Dragonmont was wreathed in wisps of sulfurous smoke, its innards churning with magma.

"That was an exhilarating experience, My Archon" The aged Maester Vaeron said as he carefully dismounted from the saddle, "Though I wish I were two score younger. The cool air amongst the clouds makes my joints ache cruelly"

"I could have had you ferried by sea, but I wanted a seasoned physician on hand in case Rhaenys or Visenya initiate an early childbirth" I reasoned.

"The chances of that happening are low, My Archon" The elderly man waved off, "I have been checking in on them regularly and the two are in startlingly good health"

I hummed, "I am pleased to hear it"

As we made our way into the castle proper, I could not help but marvel a bit at the craftsmanship on display. Every inch of the interior seemed to be adorned with intricate cuttings and reliefs, depicting scenes from Valyrian history and mythology. The floors were inlaid with precious stones and metals, forming mesmerizing patterns that seemed to shift and change as we ambled over them. Torches flickered in sconces that were shaped like dragon claws, casting dancing shadows across the walls. Visenya and Rhaenys led the way, intimately familiar with the layout of their ancestral home. They moved with purpose, guiding us towards what I assumed were the private family quarters in the imposing Stone Drum tower. As we padded through the premises, I noticed servants and guards eyeing us curiously. News of our Conquest had steadily reached this isolated castle even if it came by boat or raven, and they seemed collectively unsure how to react to their new Archon, let alone their new King.

We arrived at a set of ornate double doors, inlaid with intertwining draconic imagery. Visenya pushed them open, revealing a spacious solar beyond. The room was dominated by a massive, roaring stone fireplace, above which hung a tapestry depicting Aenar the Exile sailing with a fleet of ships to Dragonstone, which would forever be the home of House Targaryen after the fall of the Valyrian Freehold.

This was evidently where the Master of House Targaryen conducted lordly affairs.

"Welcome to our home, Zenith" Rhaenys declared, a hint of pride in her voice, "This was where we spent all of our childhood"

"It is quite impressive" I acknowledged, running my hand along the smooth surface of the Archon's desk, "I can see why you speak so fondly of this place"

Visenya moved to stand beside me, her violet eyes reflecting the dancing flames from the hearth, "This castle has stood for centuries, a bastion of our heritage in a foreign land. Now it will serve as the cradle for the next generation of our dynasty"

Rhaenys settled herself into a plush chair near the fire, her hand resting on her swollen belly, "It feels good to be home" She sighed contentedly, "Though I must admit, I had grown rather fond of our latest holdings on the mainland, exotic as they were"

"As had I" Visenya echoed, though there was a hint of something else in her tone, perhaps nostalgia or wistfulness.

I turned to face them both, my expression serious, "This place will always be important to House Targaryen, culturally and geographically. But its future lies in uniting the Seven Kingdoms under one rule, and that can only be effectively done on the mainland. Dragonstone will remain a stronghold and retreat for the Targaryen family, but it can no longer be the primary seat"

The sisters exchanged a glance, a silent communication passing between them. Finally, Visenya spoke, "We understand, Zenith. The Conquest has changed everything. This is one of those concessions that I have little difficulty agreeing to"

"As our Archon wills" Rhaenys started to reach for a wine decanter, before thinking better of it.

Over the next few days, we fell into a comfortable routine at Dragonstone. The queens rested and prepared for their impending births, while I familiarized myself with the castle and island. I spent hours poring over the ancient Valyrian texts in the library, gleaning what knowledge I could about magic and dragonlore that I hadn't observed for myself with Balerion as my familiar. Balerion himself actually seemed pleased as he napped by his favorite steam vents and hunted the odd, unfortunate migrating whale pods, transforming the charred leftovers into chum. I also uncovered the Chamber of the Painted Table, a cavernous circular room that was at the top of the Stone Drum tower. At its center stood an enormous carved wooden table in the shape of Westeros, painted in meticulous detail to show all the rivers, mountains, forests and castles of the Seven Kingdoms. It was an impressive feat of craftsmanship, and I could intuit that the Targaryens played aerial cartographers in order to get it as accurate as possible.

In the evenings, we would frequently huddle in the Chamber of the Painted Table to discuss our plans for the future of our growing realm. The Conquest was nearly complete, with only the North and Dorne (The Iron Islands that were in the midst of a minor civil war ensuing the extinction of the Hoare Line and the rebellious Three Sisters in The Bite excluded) yet to be absorbed, but there was still plenty to be done in terms of groundwork for us to adequately govern the Seven Kingdoms. I split my attention between overseeing these arrangements and continuing to manage the affairs of our growing domain via raven messages.

It was on one such evening, as we were hunched around the Painted Table discussing how we could facilitate the integration of the fractious Riverlands, that Rhaenys suddenly gasped and clutched at her belly, stumbling as she swiped at the table for an anchor. Visenya was at her side in an instant, her usually stern features etched with familial concern.

Rhaenys nodded, her face slightly pale yet determined, "I do believe my water just broke. There is a trickle streaming along my thighs"

I stood attentively, "I'll summon Maester Vaeron. Visenya, help her to the birthing bed"

Visenya nodded, tenderly helping Rhaenys to her feet. As they made their way out of the chamber, I hastened to find the aged maester. Thankfully, he was in his study, poring over a tome on medicinal herbs.

"Maester Vaeron" I addressed him with some urgency, "Rhaenys has gone into labor"

The man rose with unexpected agility, gathering the supplies that he diligently kept on his person, "I will attend to her at once, Your Majesty. I was there for her birth and I will likewise be there for the birth of her progeny"

Together, we hurried to the birthing chamber. Rhaenys was already on the bed, her brow damp with sweat as she breathed through a contraction. Visenya sat beside her, holding her hand and murmuring uncharacteristically soft words of encouragement.

"Best to let me and my assistants handle it, Archon Zenith" Vaeron advised me, "It would not do to overcrowd her"

I heeded him, waiting outside in stoic vigil.

The hours that followed were a blur of activity and tension. Maester Vaeron and the midwives worked tirelessly. While Visenya comforted Rhaenys, I grabbed whatever was needed by the midwives to expedite the process. The air became thick with the scent of blood and herbs, punctuated by Rhaenys' pained cries. While I had enhanced the Targaryen sisters to superhuman levels and knew they would be fine, it was still anxiety inducing to listen to.

Ultimately, as dawn's first light began to creep over the horizon, a new sound filled the chamber in the form of lusty wails from two newborn babes. Maester Vaeron held up one of the squalling infants, a grandfatherly smile creasing his weathered face.

"A healthy boy and girl, Your Majesties. Twins! Truly the Targaryen family is blessed!" He trumpeted.

Rhaenys, exhausted but radiant from the ordeal, extended her arms for her son. As she cradled him to her breast for him to feed, tears of joy streamed down her cheeks, "Aegon" She whispered the name she had selected for a firstborn son, in honor of her deceased brother, "Welcome, my little prince" She twisted to her fussier daughter who was calmed by her mother's milk, "Aelena, my precious jewel"

"Congratulations on becoming an aunt" I needled Visenya, who chose not to lash out and took it in good stride.

Visenya genuinely smiled, a rare saccharinity gracing her features as she gazed upon her newborn niece and nephew with boundless pride, "They are beautiful, Rhaenys. True dragons, both of them"

I moved closer, marveling at the tiny, pinched faces of Aegon and Aelena. Even now, hints of the signature Targaryen silver-gold hair were evident on their heads. As if sensing my presence, Aegon's eyes fluttered open, revealing a startling shade of violet.

"He has his eyes" Rhaenys murmured to me, her voice thick with emotion.

"Given who their gene-sire is, that is no surprise" I murmured back.

Rhaenys perked up, "They will be excellent heirs, Zenith. With you as their Father and King, how could they not be? We will raise them to be strong, wise, and just. To rule not only with Fire and Blood, but with Wisdom and Grace"

I hummed neutrally, leaning down to press a dry rag to her moisture slicked forehead, "You did incredible work today, my Queen. Rest now. You have more than earned it"

Rhaenys beamed up at me, her eyelids sagging with exhaustion, "Stay with me a while? With us?"

"Of course" I reassured her, setting up a chair aside her and the newborn twins. Visenya sat on her sister's other flank, the three of us cocooning the newest members of House Targaryen in a circle of warmth and protection.

Normally there would be a feast or some type of celebration in honor of the births, but with a war on, neither of the Targaryen women wanted to broadcast this news to potential enemies, not that any would get through after I had altered and reinforced the wards on Dragonstone to the degree that it was overkill for infiltrators of this world's caliber. But it paid dividends to be prudent, so only the castle's staff knew of it, and none of them would spill a word.

It was Visenya's turn to give birth within the same week. Like the warrior she was, she bore with the parturition pains like they were an inconvenience and not excruciating. By my design, she gave birth to fraternal twins like her sibling. The strapping boy was named Aelyx by his doting mother, while the daughter was named Valaena, after her grandmother.

Speaking of, I got to meet the former Velaryon. She was an unassuming woman that seemed to have aged quickly after the death of her husband, the Archon before Aegon. Valaena Targaryen née Velaryon was a woman who had seen a lot in her life, yet she still retained a quiet refinement and dignity of nobility. Her lengthy, silver-gold hair, now streaked with grey, was elegantly coiled atop her head, and her weary violet eyes had a depth of wisdom that was born from enduring both triumphs and tragedies. When she looked upon her newly born grandchildren, those eyes shone with a fierce, protective love as she regained much of her fire.

"They are wonderful, my daughters" Valaena crooned, her voice low yet resonant with pride, "Twins are uncommon in this family, let alone sets of twins. I believe this to be a sign that they are destined for greatness"

Rhaenys and Visenya both grinned at their mother's praise, a rare moment of unguarded affection passing between the three Targaryen women. I kept back, allowing them this precious family bonding time, marveling at the newfound strength and resilience of the Targaryen matriarch. Where before it seemed a like a stiff breeze could knock her over, now it would take a team of oxen to do it.

Later, as the babes napped and their mothers slept, I found myself walking the windswept, darkened battlements of Dragonstone with the elder Valaena. The salty sea breeze tugged at our skin and clothes, and the crashing of the waves against the rocky shore far below provided a constant, soothing backdrop characteristic to the island setting.

"I must thank you, Archon Zenith" Valaena said suddenly, breaking the companionable silence, "For all that you have done for my daughters, and for House Targaryen"

I respectfully inclined my head, "Think nothing of it. I swore a promise to your son to be a steward of the Targaryen family's wellbeing"

"Indeed," She nodded sagely, "if Aegon had not made you his Advocate, my family would be in an infinitely worse state"

"So you do not contest my control over House Targaryen?" I tested her.

She smirked at me, "Who do you think taught him of that ancient tradition?"

My eyebrow hitched, "Not his father?"

She scoffed roughly, "I loved Aerion, but he was a bit of a wastrel, and given to bouts of dolefulness. I am thankful that my son had mostly inherited his features and skills at introspection" She frowned, "I wish I could have bid him a farewell to his face, and not his urn"

I was silent at that. The subject of Aegon's death was raw to everyone who knew and loved him.

"You have accomplished a tremendous amount in a short time, My Archon" Valaena changed the topic as we peered out over the churning grey waters of the Narrow Sea, "Uniting five of the Seven Kingdoms through conquest and guile within the span of a year. It is no small feat"

"There is still an abundant amount of work left" I replied, my mind shifting to the challenges yet ahead such as efficiently governing this vast new realm, integrating the defeated kings and lords into a restructured order, and the inevitable push to bring the North and Dorne into the fold.

Valaena mumbled sagaciously, "My Aegon had grandiose ambitions, but I fear he did not fully grasp the complexities of rulership. Power is a curious thing. It is not enough merely to acquire it. One must know how to wield it, for the sake of the realm"

"And that is a lesson that I intend to impart to my heirs, when the time comes" I vowed earnestly.

I could vaguely envision Aegon and Aelyx, Aelena and Valaena, grown up and robust, astride intimidating dragons of their own, ready to carry on the Targaryen legacy. But they would need to be more than just stalwart fighters; they would need to be leaders, statesmen, and guardians of the peace.

"My grandchildren will be fortunate to have you as a father figure and mentor" Valaena susurrated softly, laying a leathery hand on my arm, "I see in you a strength and wisdom beyond your years. Tempered by tribulations and hardship, yes, but also by compassion and foresight. The makings of a truly great king"

Her words stayed with me long after she departed for her private bedchambers.

As the weeks passed on Dragonstone and Rhaenys and Visenya recuperated from childbirth, I took on most of the responsibilities of ruling that I usually delegated to them, handling matters of state via raven scrolls, validating oaths of fealty sworn via the same airmail, and notating future plans on parchment. The twins, Aegon and Aelena, Aelyx and Valaena, grew hardier each day under the watchful eyes of their mothers and grandmother. Unsurprisingly, Valaena proved to be an invaluable source of maternal guidance and support, drawing upon her own practice as a mother to aid Rhaenys and Visenya in navigating the challenges of motherhood. A sense of domestic tranquility pervaded Dragonstone as the two pairs of twins swiftly became the delight of the castle. It helped that they were exceptionally well behaved infants, rarely kicking up a fuss or screaming the ears off of their caretakers, whom I had thoroughly 'vetted' to guarantee their loyalty. To be fair to them, the active servants of House Targaryen were devoid of the slightest hint of treachery, but now they would be fanatic in their service and assurance of their safety.

The timing of a letter from my River Marshal detailing a sizeable force of Northerners spotted emerging from the marshes of The Neck thankfully coincided with my Queens' restored ability to fly on dragonback. The recent mothers were understandably reluctant to leave their children behind so soon, but they understood that their duties would periodically demand this of them. At least there were trusted wetnurses on hand to see to their feeding and general care. I dispatched letters to my River Marshal and Sharra Arryn ordering them to rouse the fastest of their forces and link up to contest the southward march of the Northmen. Large armies cannot migrate speedily, and there were several trifling river crossings that would additionally slow their progress. With the Freys strategically placed to lock up the Green Fork, the Northerners would have no recourse but to travel along the bumpy foothills at the base of the northernmost Mountains of the Moon, which was overseen by the Frey's vassal House Haigh. Being a minor House, they could only delay the invaders at best and inconvenience them at the worst.

There were no reports of the Northmen committing a siege to any castles or minor holdfasts in their path, and even their foraging for supplies was kept unusually civil. This behavior made some sense as I thought about it and recalled the scant collection of history books that were written about them. The Northmen rarely came south, and when they did, it was under the realization that they could not hold any territories below The Neck for an extended time. The men were needed to harvest the farmlands in the summer seasons, and the greybeards were generally the ones to fight and die raiding richer lands for supplies in the winter seasons, ensuring that their families had fewer mouths to feed. Now that the Ironborn, with whom the North had a bitter state of contention with, were all but evicted from the Riverlands, they were treading carefully through a land that was under different, unknown management.

As we took wing and soared over the lush green landscape of the Riverlands, I couldn't help but reflect on how hastily events had unfolded. Just weeks ago, I had been cradling overly energetic babies in my arms at Dragonstone. Now, we were flying to confront an army from the North tens of thousands in number. The wind whistled past us, carrying with it the smell of apple trees and river water. Beneath us, the terrain was a patchwork of fields, forests, and winding waterways. The scenery was as lovely as ever, and would hopefully entice the Rivermen into safeguarding it with all of their being.

I had sent my Starsworn cavalry under Field Captain Valentus (Darius was occupied supervising the construction efforts at the Blackwater) beforehand to prepare defenses on the meridional bank of the Trident, where the current flowing towards the Bay of Crabs was the weakest. The position was several leagues from the town of Saltpans and in the vicinity of Harroway Town. Valentus (who was developing a reputation in the Simu-Net for devious tactics) seeded the crossing with deadheads, which would impede mounted men from charging into battle without laming their steeds and injuring themselves. It would moreover breach the shallow draft hulls of any boats that they used to ford the river. Fortified platforms for archers to have interlocking sectors of fire were erected and were liberally allocated barrels stuffed to the brim with professionally fletched arrows. River crossing actions were always a risky proposition for an army, and that was before factoring in a heavily dug-in opponent that only had to defend in order to win.

My Queens landed where I indicated my Starsworn army to be so that they could rally the incoming Riverlanders and Valemen into something orderly while I went on to scout the Northern army. As Balerion and I neared the location of the Northern host, I spotted the glint of sunlight on armor and weapons. The army of Northmen was stretched out underneath us, an enormous sea of soldiers, wains, and horses that were sluggishly making their way south. Their advancement was indeed slowed by the unfavorable terrain, forcing them to wind their way through the foothills to keep cohesion rather than take a more direct route across the rivers. The Northmen marched in good order, their discipline evident even from this high above. Banners fluttered in the breeze, with the grey, loping Direwolf of House Stark prominent among them, but also present was the black battle-axe of the Cerwyns, the Merman of Manderly, the Bear of Mormont, the Unchained Giant of Umber, the Mailed Fist of Glover, the Flayed Man of Bolton, and others that I recognized from my studies of Northern heraldry.

As we hadn't been sighted given our cloud cover and the snail's pace of the Northmen, I had Balerion return us to our army that was mustering at the Trident. The Rivermen constituted the majority of my defensive bulwark, but mounted detachments of Valemen, Stormlanders, and even Westermen and Reachmen had arrived piecemeal to lend to the defense of the realm.

It felt like a preview of what a United Kingdom of Westeros could achieve.

As we descended towards our assembled forces, I could see the distinctive banners of House Tully fluttering alongside those of their vassals, the Silver Eagle of Mallister, the Twin Towers of Frey, the Dancing Maiden of Piper, and many others. The knights of the Arryns were easily identifiable by their panoply of sky-blue cloaks and falcon crested helms. Orys Baratheon stood at the forefront with his detachment of Stormlanders, his imposing figure unmistakable even from this height.

Balerion touched ground with a thunderous impact, sending up billowing palls of dust. As I dismounted, Orys approached, his face flinty.

"Your Majesty" He greeted, bowing his head, "The army is amassed and almost ready. Our scouts report that the Northmen are but a few days march from here. I have overseen the defensive measures that your Starsworn wrought before our coming. Their handiwork is impressive as usual"

I nodded, surveying the troops milling about, "Convey my thanks to them, Orys. How are the men's spirits?"

"High, Your Majesty. The sight of you and House Targaryen's dragons has bolstered their courage immensely" He grinned roguishly at me, "Everyone has heard tales of the Black Dragon and Kingslayer"

"Tasteless titles, all of them" I shook my head, "Have the commanders of the separate companies gather for a war council. We need to ensure that everyone has the same agenda when it comes to the defense of the realm"

The command tent promptly filled up with the leadership of our coalition army. Lord Edmyn Tully, still adjusting into his role as River Marshal, stood to my right. To my left was Lord Admiral Daemon Velaryon, my appointed Master of Ships who had sailed upriver with a contingent of armsmen from Driftmark. Ser Rupert Royce, the son of the current Lord of Runestone, was present as well as the Arryn appointed commander of the Valemen, though he looked somewhat overwhelmed by the gravity of the situation. Lord Lyman Lefford represented the Westerlanders at the behest of House Lannister, and Ser Darick Tarly led the Reachmen. Orys took his place at the strategy table as the Lord Paramount of the Stormlands. If I were a petty ruler, I would see the noticeable lack of Lannisters, Gardeners, and Arryns as an insult and challenge of my authority, but I knew better that they had their hands tied both practically and strategically. Sharra Arryn was no battlefield commander, Loren Lannister was convalescing from an amputation, and Edmund Gardener had begged off to keep an eye on the Dornish at his borders.

"My lords" I began, once everybody had been accounted for, "The army of the North marches on us, led by King Torrhen Stark himself. Our scouts can confidently estimate their numbers at around thirty thousand"

There was a murmur among the combined leaders as they absorbed that.

Lord Tully spoke up, "Your Majesty, even with the forces that we've managed to scrape together on such short notice, we outnumber the foe by nearly twenty thousand"

I acknowledged his input, "True, and we have the advantage of situation and preparation. Not to mention three dragons" I gestured to the map marked with tokens, "The Northmen will have to cross here, at the Trident. It is the only feasible crossing point for an army of that size. We've fortified our position and sown the river with obstacles. They will be forced to attack us head on, across open ground, within clear lanes of fire from our archers"

Ser Rupert examined the map with a keen eye, "That would indeed be a reckless undertaking for them, Your Majesty. But Northmen are known for their stubbornness as well as their ferocity in battle. They might just attempt it anyway"

"Foolishness!" Ser Darick cut in, his bushy eyebrows furrowing, "We have sufficient bowmen to bleed them by the thousands before they could make it halfway across! What if they try to bypass us? Make a play of keeping us distracted here while elements of their rearguard snoop by our flanks?"

"We have the men to spare for patrolling the fringes of our held ground" Lord Lefford stroked at his magnificent mustache, "We can afford to thin our defensive line if it means that we avoid an ambuscade in the night"

I scratched at my chin, considering their arguments, "All valid concerns. We shall set up patrols along our flanks to prevent any unwanted surprises. But I don't believe King Torrhen will endeavor to try such a perilous maneuver. From what I know and have heard of the man, he's the cautious and pragmatic sort. He will want to assess our strength before committing to battle"

Orys grunted in agreement, "Aye, and when he sees our numbers and superior placement, not to mention the dragons, he may think twice about engaging us at all"

"Ha!" Lord Tully chuckled, "The Direwolf running with its tail between its legs? That would be the day"

"That would be humorous" I concurred with Edmyn, "But our greater goal here is not to rout the Northern army, but to convince King Torrhen that resistance at all is futile. If we can achieve this without bloodshed, I would deem that a victory"

"And if diplomacy fails, Your Majesty? What then?" Lord Admiral Velaryon interjected.

I met his question readily, "Then we give them a demonstration of Fire and Blood that The North will forever remember"

There was a moment of silence as the implications of my threat sank in. The congregated lords exchanged glances and shivered, a mixture of astonishment and fear in their body language.

"Very well" I continued, "If there are no further suggestions, we will maintain a defensive posture here and wait for the Northmen to arrive. I want regular scouting reports on their movements from all parties here"

The meeting concluded shortly afterwards, with each commander returning to their troops to relay my orders and prepare for the coming days. As the tent was vacated, Orys lingered behind.

"You truly believe that you can end this without a fight? Like with the Arryns?" He asked me, his voice muffled.

I sighed, running a hand through my hair, "I have to try, Orys. These are to be our people too. I would rather not commemorate my reign by slaughtering thousands of them"

Orys bobbed his head, expecting that, "I understand, My Archon. But these are the realities of warfare, so you should anticipate the worst. The North is a proud and ancient kingdom. They have never bent the knee to a southern king before"

"No southern king ever came with dragons before, nor have they secured the surrender of so many other kingdoms" I reminded him with a wry smile.

Orys chortled at that, "No… they have not. First time for everything… I suppose"

The next few days proceeded in a flurry of activity as we fortified our position and drilled our troops. The Northmen's march was slow but steady, like the stalking of a hunting Direwolf, and the tension mounted as they drew ever closer. Finally, on the morning of the third day, my scouts reported that the vanguard of the Northern army had come into range.

I mounted Balerion, my Queens following suit with their own dragons. As we took to the sky, I could see the vast host of the North arrayed before us. Thousands upon thousands of men, horses, and supply wagons stretched back as far as the eye could see. At the forefront, I espied a group of riders advancing ahead of the main force. Among them was a tall, broad shouldered man with long dark hair and a stern face. He wore plain steel armor and on his brow was an open circlet of hammered bronze that was incised with the runes of the First Men, surmounted by nine black iron spikes wrought in the shape of longswords. At his side was a pale man with dark eyes who shared the majority of his Stark features. This person I intuited to be his half brother, Brandon Snow, who Joran Mormont had told me about. This made the man with the austere crown King Torrhen Stark.

The party of riders stopped on a hillock and observed the opposing force that was practically half again the size of their army warily. I could see the King's advisors making a note of all the banners belonging to the conquered kingdoms and clutching their reins tighter for it. The King stoically bore the brunt of their recommendations before commanding that the army set up on the riverbank opposite of us, but not so close that our archers could pick them off. To emphasize our own presence, I had Balerion loose an eardrum rupturing roar that was mirrored by Vhagar and Meraxes, causing all within the Northern army to look to the sky with alarm or fright.

Shaken, the northerners spread out transversely from us, their weapons held in a white knuckled grip as winged monstrosities circled overhead that could swoop down at any moment and turn them to ash. As the Northern army settled into their encampment on the river, I monitored their responses from atop Balerion. King Torrhen's advisors appeared to be in heated discussion, gesticulating wildly as they debated their next move. The king himself remained passive, his gaze fixed on our location, mentally noting our numbers, our stone covered defenses, and even the deadheads that we sank into the foundation of the river itself. He swiveled on his heels and walked away to his tent without a word, much to the consternation of his counselors.

Hours elapsed as thousands of men had a tense staring contest. My orders to stay defensive were strictly adhered to, even as we saw the Northmen setting up preliminary defenses of their own. Nobody wanted to be the moron to initiate battle, in spite of the glory hounds that were present in the two armies. Not us, who held favorable ground and greater numbers, and not them, with their inferior numbers and caution of the three dragons who made their active presence known. The sun was starting to set and so far no one had made any overt movements. There were no skirmishes, or envoys from either army making diplomatic overtures. It was safe to assume that King Torrhen was taking counsel with his bannermen and advisors that would have multiple solutions to this stalemate. I was too was somewhat chary of assuming events would play out as they did in the books' timeline.

There was no Field of Fire to instill fear into the hearts of men compared to the mild Trial of Seven, and the Deathfog of Harrenhal was a harder story to believe than melting a castle like an oversized pile of wax that had been sitting in the sun all day. As a counterpoint, I had saved the life of one of his lords, minor though Jorgan Mormont was. With how forthright, albeit politically keen the he-bear was, it was likely that he had informed the Stark about me, whether via raven, or in person once the king had rallied his bannermen to him. But how did he choose to disclose my involvement? Was I the good Samaritan that intervened when he was about to ironically become bear-food? Or was I scoping out the North in anticipation of the Conquest?

As night fell, the restlessness in both camps continued to be palpable. Torches and campfires flickered to life on both sides of the river, casting lengthy shadows across the landscape. I could see the silhouettes of men moving about in the enemy camp, their voices carrying faintly on the night breeze.

In our own camp, I gathered once more with my commanders in the war tent. The mood was subdued as we discussed the day's events… or rather, the lack thereof.

"What game is the Stark playing at?" Lord Tully grumbled, his frustration evident, "Does he mean to simply stare at us across the river indefinitely?"

"Patience, Lord Tully" I counseled, "King Torrhen is no hot blooded fool. He's weighing his options carefully"

Orys nodded in agreement, "Aye, and he can't like what he sees. Our numbers, our position, the dragons… he must know a direct assault would be madness"

"Then why not send an envoy?" Ser Rupert wondered aloud, "If he possibly seeks terms, why delay?"

I pondered this for a moment before responding, "He may be buying time, hoping for reinforcements or some change in circumstances. Or perhaps he's still convincing his more bellicose bannermen of the futility of resistance"

"Whatever his reasons," Lord Admiral Velaryon interjected, "we cannot allow this standoff to drag on indefinitely. Our own supplies are not endless"

"I concur" I agreed, "If King Torrhen has not made his intentions known by midday tomorrow, then we will shall send our own envoy under a flag of truce. Make it clear that while we would prefer a peaceful resolution, we are more than prepared for the alternative"

"What of their numbers, Your Majesty?" Ser Rupert inquired, "Our scouts report that they have thirty thousand men. But do we know the composition of those forces?"

"Mostly infantry" I replied, passing him the latest report for his perusal, "They're heavy on spearmen and lighter on archers. Their cavalry is rather limited compared to ours, but not to be underestimated. It's apparent that they did not expect to face such a sizeable opposing force barring their path, or they wouldn't act so paralyzed with indecision. Ensure that our sentries are on alert, in case our opponent is feeling wily tonight. Dismissed"

The commanders bowed and voiced their assent, and with that, the meeting was adjourned. As the others filed out, Orys lingered once again.

"You still think that the Stark will bend the knee without putting up a fight?" He rumbled, his tone skeptical.

"It would be preferable, Orys. The North has much to gain from a united realm, but plenty to lose from pointless bloodshed. Torrhen Stark strikes me as a man that values the lives of his people above his own pride. Remember the Stark words: 'Winter is Coming'. That is not a warning to their enemies… it is a warning to everyone, themselves included. If they commit to battle here and lose thousands of men… those are thousands of men who aren't tending the fields and stocking the granaries in The North. In a world where the winter seasons can go on for years… that can spell the death of a sparsely populated kingdom"

Orys snorted noncommittally, "We shall see. These Northmen are a stubborn lot"

"That they are" I did not gainsay him, "But even the most unyielding stone can be worn down by the relentless tide. We represent that tide, Orys. The future of Westeros is ours to dictate"

At that moment a mental tripwire was triggered, "So that's how it is, huh?" I scowled, "Orys, come with me"

He blinked in confusion, "Shall I get the guardsmen to accompany us?"

"It won't be necessary" I said dismissively, "We were just granted leverage"

Orys dutifully obliged, unholstering his warhammer and trailing behind me as I made for the temporary dragonpen. We were a bit understaffed with Dragonkeepers with how abruptly we had to relocate here from Dragonstone, so I had my Starsworn assist them with nonessential tasks, to their begrudging acquiescence. This did not mean that the dragons were unsupervised per se, but no sane person wanted to have a tent set up too adjacent to beasts that could swallow them up in a single gulp, and so the perimeter by the dragonpen was broad, with morsels of foliage and brush that some enterprising assassin could utilize to creep up on creatures that could sense body heat and detect unknown scents, and therefore would be suspicious; my own safeguards notwithstanding. I trekked up to the shrubbery where the would-be assassin went deathly still before I grasped him by his neck and threw him into the torchlight.

A hooded man with dark eyes grunted as he impacted the dirt, glaring up at me with shock and slowly growing anger at being unveiled. He had on a short bow diagonally wrapped about his shoulders along with a leather ensconced quiver affixed to his hip that I could determine a fair quantity of magical resonance was emanating from. He eschewed a sword and metal armor in favor of a stealthier black tunic and nondescript rough-spun cloak. That he penetrated this deep into my cantonment was an achievement. It would seem that the sentries on duty would need… remedial training.

I had a fair idea of who this intruder was.

"Do you not know that Snow melts in the South during the Summer years?" I verbally jabbed at the man.

Brandon Snow glowered at me, unwilling to engage in banter. He rolled to his feet with the agility of a shadowcat, his hand instinctively reaching for the knife at his belt, but Orys was quicker. With a swift motion, he brought the butt of his hammer none too gently down on Brandon's wrist, causing him to yelp in pain and drop the blade. He was then roughly forced onto his knees and restrained by my right hand man.

"I'd keep still if I were you" I warned him, my tone deceptively casual, "It would be a shame for King Torrhen to lose his natural brother before we got properly acquainted"

Brandon glared at me, mindful of his injured wrist, "How did you know who I was?"

I shrugged insouciantly, "I make it my business to know of potential threats. And a bastard brother of a king that is renowned for his skill with a bow and blade, creeping into my camp under cover of darkness? That has 'assassination attempt' written all over it"

Orys confiscated the quiver and peeked inside, "These arrows… are queer. Whiter than bones… they don't even have iron tips"

"Arrows fashioned from the branches of a Weirwood" I elucidated, "According to some ancient stories, it is rumored to have the ability to pierce even dragon scale. A desperate gambit, Snow… and a futile one. Did you really think you could get near enough to loose those arrows without being detected?"

Brandon's jaw clenched, "I had to try. For the sake of the North. We cannot bend the knee to a southern invader"

I stared at him for a second, before a grin graced my lips, "Your brother did not sanction this action… you came here on own… likely even against his orders"

He breathing hitched momentarily, "I am here on his and my people's behalf"

'Definitely unsanctioned' I mused, wondering how I could spin this development to my benefit.

"Did you know that the human body adversely reacts to deliberate deception? There are fluctuations in breathing, heart rate, skin moisture" I pedantically lectured him, "Minor little spikes of stress hormones in the blood. It takes a special kind of person to suppress these tells… and you Snow… are not one of them"

Brandon was silent for a prolonged minute, his dark eyes boring into mine as if straining to discern my intentions. Finally, he spoke, "I came to… estimate the threat you pose to the North. My brother may be the King, but it falls to me to protect our people, by any means necessary" He straightened his posture, "Kill me if you must, Dragon King"

Orys exhaled scathingly, "You thought the best way to do that was to sneak into our camp alone? Confident Bastard, aren't you?"

Careful, Orys. You know what they say about people in Glass Houses.

Brandon's gaze snapped to Orys, his lip curling like the snarling Direwolf he had no legal claim to, "I do not fear death, Stormlander. If my actions can aid my brother in any way, then it is a price I will gladly pay"

"Finally some measure of truth" I craned my neck, "But then you exceeded your remit… all for an unsubstantiated rumor, that would not actually hinder us even had it succeeded"

"Bold words from someone who personally stopped me from loosing the arrows" The Snow snarked at me, "Mayhaps you are afraid of those rumors?"

I chuckled with amusement, "Not at all" I then divested my captive of his bow and one of the Weirwood arrows, "Mind if I borrow these?"

I whistled in a pattern that my familiar was conversant with, who then emerged from the dusky darkness, as quiet as a living shadow.

"Hey buddy" I greeted the Blue Whale sized creature, "Smile for our guest"

Balerion obeyed, revealing a maw teaming with fangs and breath that reeked of singed goat hair, courtesy of a trip of them being sacrificed to satiate his consistent hunger that morning. Brandon shuddered as the foul, draconic halitosis washed over us. I nocked the arrow in the short bow and loosed it without ceremony. It flew right between Balerion's eyes, where it shattered into a dozen fragments on his dense, yet lightweight scales. Balerion chuffed with derision, mentally understanding that this was a test of his fortitude from our bond and that the vapid results were a foregone conclusion. I looked askance at the Stark Bastard, resisting the urge to sport a shit eating smirk as he paled even further, an impressive feat on its own.

"But… how?" The horrified Snow was flabbergasted, "The Old Gods-"

"Are NamelessFormlessFaceless, save for that which others assign for them on mutilated bark" I scoffed contemptuously, "Such a weak sense of identity does not lend itself well to the onus required for the deed that you endeavored to tonight" Though it did have some advantages in the right circumstances.

The potential of these Weirwood arrows to kill the Targaryen dragons before I had enhanced them was dubious at best. The way they would have worked from my cursory inspection of them was that they attacked their target at a conceptual level. It would have beleaguered the dragons' inner flame, striving to 'smother' it to neutralize them. The problem here was that there were conflicting properties in the Weirwood that Brandon had harvested for these arrows. Sure, he made them in The North, well known for its icy nature… but they were also made out of Weirwood, and wood burns when exposed to fire, a concept that the dragons embody. As it was now, this was the magical equivalent of a musket in a world of arrows shot at the upper front plate of an M1 Abrams.

Didn't even scuff the paint.

The Snow slumped in his restraints, utterly defeated. Whether from his failed, self-appointed duty, or from the savage verbal lashing that I gave his gods was unclear.

We took the now compliant Snow with us to tents that were set aside for Noble prisoners and left him there under a watchful guard. I then composed a politely worded letter in my tent to Torrhen Stark, informing him that we had apprehended his brother and that it was time for us to meet, face to face. I stamped the Targaryen wax seal on it and gave it to a messenger to deliver it to the Stark camp under a flag of truce. He returned at the Hour of the Owl, conveying the Stark King's agreement to a meet, and including nothing else besides that.

Morning came without any fanfare. As dawn broke over the Trident, the expectation in both camps was tangible. The Northern army stirred to life, soldiers emerging from their tents and congregating in small clusters, their voices low and uneasy. On our side, I had my commanders prepare our forces, not for battle, but for a display of strength. Knights (or their squires) had polished their armor until it gleamed brilliantly even in the soft, early morning light, banners were unfurled to flutter in the breeze, and our archers lined the riverbank in parade formation. Our cavalry stood ready on the flanks to come thundering down the embankments to punish any aggressive crossing of Northmen.

At midmorning, a small party emerged from the Northern camp. At its head strode King Torrhen Stark, who was skirted by his foremost bannermen, his crown of bronze and iron lustrous in the sunlight. There was a rocky outcropping that jutted out into the river on the shallower end where individuals could bridge the river, but not companies of men. My party, consisting of Visenya, Rhaenys, our dragons, Orys, and my commanders, waited patiently on the bank abutting the outcropping, as we wanted to make it clear to all watching the proceedings that the Stark was coming to us and not the other way around. The man paused at the terminus as one of his bannermen interdicted him and pleaded in his ear, but he was stilled as his king held up a hand to forestall him, then traversed the flat, water worn stones of the outcropping.

In order to be courteous, I graciously met him halfway, with only my Queens flanking me, coming to a stop on a particularly wide platform of bedrock. For a long while, we simply regarded each other in silence. Up close, I could see the weight of his crown and responsibilities etched into the lines of his face. His hair was plain, if well kempt, which was juxtaposed by his bastard brother's vaguely wild muss. On his spine in an enormous scabbard was the Valyrian Steel greatsword and family heirloom Ice. His grey eyes were sharp and assessing as they took in my appearance.

"So" Torrhen spoke first, his voice deep and resonant, "You are the Dragon King that I have been hearing so much about. The one who has conquered over half of Westeros in less than a year"

I inclined my head slightly, "I am Zenith of House Targaryen, yes. And you must be King Torrhen Stark, the vaunted King in the North"

"Aye" he replied, his expression unreadable, "I have come many leagues to meet you, King Zenith. To see for myself if the tales are true"

"And now that we've met, what do you think?" I inquired, genuinely curious about his assessment.

"I do not quite know what to make of you" The Stark earnestly answered, "How is one supposed to judge the motives a man that saves the life of one of his leal bannermen yet seeks to conquer his domain?"

"Zenith?" Rhaenys' tone was incredulous, "What does he mean?"

"It was from before we met" I explained, "I foiled a Free Folk raid on Bear Island that would have cut the life of Lord Jorgan Mormont short"

"T'is true, sister mine" Visenya confirmed, knowing vaguely about Ylisse's origins.

"And you did not think to share this sooner?" Rhaenys hissed sweetly.

"You did not ask for the specifics" Visenya shrugged uncaringly.

The Stark ignored the byplay, though a scan of his surface thoughts betrayed his mirth, "I trust that my brother is well?"

"His wrist is bruised," I disclosed, "but other than that, he is in respectable health"

"That is… good to hear" The stiffness in the King's shoulders relaxed marginally, "I was surprised to learn of his capture. My brother can be incredibly stealthy when he wishes to be"

"Stealthy to you is conspicuous to me" I retorted enigmatically, "It's difficult to sneak up on creatures that can make out prey from hundreds of feet away. Not that you approved that venture… did you?"

"Gods damn it, Brandon" The King muttered under his breath, "I hope that nothing… untoward occurred?"

"I showed him the error of his ways" I said as I recalled the astonished look on his face after I had demonstrated how foolhardy his errand was.

"What do you desire for his safe return?" The Stark disposed of verbal roundabout.

"Nothing" I gesticulated indifferently with a hand, "You will get him back regardless of your choices today"

That caught him flat footed, "Nothing?"

I gestured to my six o'clock bearing, "Does it look like I need a hostage to use as a shield against you, Stark?"

King Torrhen's gaze followed my gesture, taking in the vast array of my forces sprawled along the riverbank behind me. The Riverlanders, Valemen, Stormlanders, Westermen and Reachmen stood in faultless formation side by side, an almost unprecedented sight. Their armor scintillated in the sunshine, weapons at the ready, banners snapping in the gusts.

The Stark swallowed hard, the reality of his precarious position sinking in. He turned back to me, his grey eyes shrewd, "No, I suppose you don't need a hostage. You already have overwhelming force on your side"

"I do" I shared his opinion calmly, "But I have no real desire to use it, if it can be avoided. I am not here to subjugate The North, King Torrhen. I am here to unite the Seven Kingdoms, for the good of all"

"The good of all?" Torrhen echoed skeptically, "Or the good of House Targaryen?"

"The two need not be mutually exclusive" I rejoined smoothly, "A united Westeros, under a strong centralized authority, can bring peace, prosperity and justice to all corners of the realm. No more petty wars between kings, no more reaving from the Ironborn, no more mountain clans preying on innocent travelers in the Vale. The North too has much to gain from being part of this new order, more than it would gain from attacking here"

"Aye," The man admitted heavily, "I suppose it does. You have the advantage here in every conceivable way. Numbers, position, weapons… and those beasts of legend at your command. Even if by some miracle we managed to defeat you here, it would be a pyrrhic victory for us at best. The North cannot aspire to stand alone against the might you have gathered"

"I'm glad you realize that" I intoned evenly, "Believe me when I say that I take no pleasure in the prospect of slaughtering your people. But I will do what I must to unite the Seven Kingdoms under One Rule. The question is, will you bend the knee and spare the North from needless bloodshed? Or will you choose pride and defiance, fully knowing it will lead only to ruination?"

The Stark King was silent for a time, deep in thought, the weight of my words settling on his shoulders like a tangible burden. His bannermen shifted restlessly on the opposite bank, no doubt straining themselves to intuit the particulars of our exchange.

Finally, Torrhen spoke, his voice low but resolute, "The Starks have ruled the North for thousands of years. We have bent the knee to no southern king, not even the Andals when they came with their iron and their Seven Gods. But you… you are something different entirely. I cannot in good conscience lead my people to certain slaughter, not when a peaceful alternative exists"

He took a deep, steadying breath, then slowly lowered himself to one knee, his head bowed in one of the ultimate displays of humility, "I, Torrhen of House Stark, the King of The North, do hereby lay my crown at your feet and swear fealty to the House of Targaryen. From this day, until the end of my days, I pledge my loyalty and that of the North to the House of the Dragon. Hearth and heart and harvest I yield to you. My sword is yours, my kingdom is yours. Grant mercy to our weak, aid to our helpless, and justice to all, and we shall never fail you. I swear this, by earth and by water, by bronze and by iron, by ice and by fire"

"I accept your oath of fealty" I formally accepted his surrender, "And I, in turn, vow that you shall always have a place by my own hearth, and meat and mead aplenty at my table, and I pledge to demand no ill service of you that might bring you into dishonor"

A hush fell over both banks of the river as the gravity of the momentous occasion sank in. The King in the North, kneeling before the Dragon King, surrendering his crown without a single drop of blood being spilled. It was a scene that would be etched into the annals of history, a defining moment in the dream of a new, unified Westeros. Some men in the Northern army burst into uncharacteristic tears, such was the magnitude of what had transpired here.

I extended an open hand to him, ignoring the crown in favor of my latest bannerman, "Rise, Torrhen Stark, as Lord Paramount and Warden of The North"

Lord Stark accepted my proffered hand with a stoic face, though his mind reflected his pleasant surprise at my magnanimous action. My army began to cheer as they saw me lift Lord Stark upright and clap him on the shoulder.

"Have you given thought to how you will break this news to your bannermen?" I queried him.

Torrhen's eyes again flickered to the menacing dragons behind me, then to the vast host at my back, "I have indeed given it some thought. Many of my bannermen counseled war, some to fall back and fortify Moat Cailin, to defend our independence as we have for thousands of years. Yet I look upon your dragons, your incorporated armies… and I see only death for my people should we come to blows. I will do what I can to convince them that this is for their sakes"

"If you need any assistance, feel free to contact us" I told him honestly.

He winced, "It might be for the best if I refrain from that, My King. The prestige of my House will suffer greatly from today, necessity be damned. There are many in my family who will bitterely contest this decision, let alone the remainder of The North"

"You bent the knee where most men would spit on my terms and consign their fellows to their doom in the interests of their self-importance. That is worthy of respect. Your Honor is intact, Lord Stark" I leveled with him, "At least you won't have to juggle several different, quarrelsome cultural people groups that were once kingdoms themselves. Change will come to this continent… though it might not be apparent straightaway"

"Believe me when I tell you that I do not envy you, my liege" Lord Stark jested dryly.

The capitulation of the Northern army was extremely atypical for the standards of this continent. No weapons were relinquished, no shipment of coins were stipulated as reparations for a relatively non-damaging march, and no prisoners were granted to us as wards for good behavior. Some people would cry foul on the final point, but the King of The North had voluntarily renounced his crown and regal clout, and I wanted to reinforce the message that I was kind to those who cooperated, and harsh to those who defied our mandate. The Northern army initiated their subdued march back home, their spirits despondent but not completely broken. I watched them go from atop Balerion, verifying there were no late minute stabs at defiance or treachery from Lord Stark's hoary bannermen, but my trust in the former king to keep his men in line was not misplaced. As the last of their banners disappeared from view as they entered the causeway of the Neck, I turned my attention to the other tasks ahead.

Over the next few moons, we began the process of integrating the North into our new realm. Ravens flew back and forth between our camp at the Blackwater and Winterfell, ironing out the details of the new power structure. Lord Stark would retain much of his jurisdiction as a Lord Paramount and Warden of The North, but he would now answer to me. As an additional token of my gratitude, I waived The North's tithe to House Targaryen for the first three years of Winter, once it returned its icy touch to the land. I could intuit that the gesture had soothed some tempers, as there was a flurry of raven borne messages bearing written oaths of fealty from various Northern Noble Houses.

I also took this intervening period to convene with Brandon Snow, who had been released from his confinement per my instructions but had chosen to remain in our throng for the time being as his half brother's emissary (spy) anyway. The unspoken message here was that he was my unofficial hostage courtesy of Lord Stark, since he deemed it incredibly strange that I did not dictate any be given into my care. If it proved a tonic to his mistrust of my forbearing disposition, then I would welcome the emissary-spy into my entourage. The Snow was still wary of me, but there was a grudging deference in his eyes now.

"I misjudged you" He gruffly admitted to me one evening, "I thought you a mere invader, but perhaps there is more to you than that"

"There often is more to people than what we first assume" I replied as I poured us both a Spiced Corellian Ale from my personal stash, "I hope that in time you will see that this new order can benefit The North as much as the rest of the realm"

He toasted me, "I'll drink to that" He slammed the mug back, "It helps that you lot can brew a proper ale" He stifled a belch as he complimented people from a disparate physical existence.

My ability to amass eccentric people to my company never ceased to amaze me.

A year had passed since the beginning of the Conquest. Of the Seven Kingdoms, only Dorne remained, and it was argueably the least important one due to how much of its land was sun baked sand and barren desert. Regardless of its limited argricultural value, it would have to be brought under my metaphorical umbrella, and therein lay the challenge. The Dornish were proud of their independence, and had resisted the Targaryens in the books' timeline with fanatic fervor, engaging in dishonorable tactics and subterfuge to make up for their lesser numbers. Even when their towns and castles were occupied, the people were able to coordinate rapidly to overthrow the garrisons and make a sport out of torturing the knights who led them. I did not plan on having foreign lords occupy their abodes, but other Dornishmen. House Yronwood was the second strongest dornish nobility after the Martells, and had styled themselves High Kings of Dorne before the arrival of the Rhoynar, who boosted House Martell into dominion of Dorne. Their loyalty to the Martells was tenuous even in the best of circumstances.

The terrain of Dorne was exceedingly unfavorable to large armies, especially those that favored metal armor that would be a detriment under the sweltering sun. As I pondered the challenge of bringing Dorne into the fold, I knew that a different approach would be needed compared to our prior conquests thus far. The Dornish were an autonomous, prideful people, skilled in guerrilla warfare, asymmetric tactics, and desert survival. A direct military invasion would likely result in a prolonged and costly conflict, even with our dragons assisting us. Then there was the matter of occupation. If the very citizenry of Dorne itself opposed us, then I might have to engage in truly vile acts to force them to submit or be destroyed.

As a preliminary measure, I dispatched discreet envoys to House Yronwood and other prominent Dornish houses that had historical tensions with the ruling Martells in the past. My messages emphasized the benefits of joining a unified Westeros and hinted at the possibility of elevated status within Dorne for those who aided our cause. I also made it clear that while I preferred a peaceful annexation, I was also prepared to use devastating force if necessary. Simultaneously, I also had my spies and saboteurs infiltrate Dornish towns and villages, spreading rumors about the prosperity and stability that was starting to be enjoyed by the other kingdoms that had joined my realm. My obscure propaganda campaign was nothing too overt; they whispered of reduced taxes, increased trade, and protection from external threats. The goal was to sow seeds of doubt about continued Dornish independence. I doubted it would succeed wholesale, but if it could lace misgivings here and there and ease a transition into a unified Westeros, then it would be worth it.

While with one hand I engaged in deception, the other I stretched out in diplomacy, which was why Rhaenys and I were flying over the parched lands of Dorne on our way to Sunspear. We made note of the armies of spearmen stationed at the Prince's Pass and the Stoneway (colloquially known as the Boneway), which were almost perfect chokepoints to tie down and encircle a poorly led invading army that was ignorant of the animal trails that bypassed the watchtowers. Multiple castles and holdfasts were sighted along the northern coast that were either barely manned or empty altogether, the former occupants elsewhere, fading into the sands like desert ghosts. The wings of our dragons flapped in a steady beat as we made for the seat of House Martell, Sunspear.

The two towers of Sunspear were the first things to stick out (literally) about the walled settlement, the more important of which was the gold and leaden glass domed Tower of the Sun, with the other being the taller and slenderer Spear Tower. The fortress proper was situated on a piece of land that jutted out, the salty seas covering it on three sides and the shadow city ensconcing it on the western edge like barnacles stuck to a ship's hull. The shadow city itself was undeserving of its name, being nearer to a myriad collection of mud bricked shops, hovels, inns, winesinks, and pillow houses kludged together in such a way as to form a labyrinth of dusty, narrow alleys, homes, and bazaars. The oldest portion of the settlement was the Sandship, which resembled a huge dromond that had washed ashore and became petrified. A defensive curtain of three, towering, winding walls enclosed the settlement, which I found odd as it would require the Martells to fully crew one of them for an effective defense, or partially man all three for an inefficient layered defense.

As Meraxes and Balerion descended towards Sunspear, I could see the frantic activity below as the Dornish scrambled to respond to our unexpected arrival. Spearmen rushed to man the walls piecemeal in case we were hostile while the civilians scurried for shelter. We landed in the central courtyard of the Old Palace, our dragons' hulking forms dwarfing the majority of the surrounding buildings.

"What do you want, Dragonspawn?" One of the castle servants rudely inquired of us, shaken but not cowed by our unannounced visit.

"Mind your tongue, cretin" Rhaenys snapped at him, "Now be a good servant, and notify Princess Meria of our coming. We desire an audience"

The servant shot us a venemous glare, but wisely ran off to do as we bid of him.

Princess Meria Nymeros Martell, the Yellow Toad of Dorne as she was less than affectionately labeled by the late Argilac Durrandon (the man clearly did not think highly of his rivals), emerged from the Tower of the Sun to greet us. Despite her advanced age, corpulent figure, and balding head sparsely lined with stringy, chalk colored locks of hair, there was an intense vanity in her bearing as she approached, flanked by her guards.

"So, the Dragon King and his Queen have finally deigned to grace us with their presence" She called out, her voice remarkably hale for an octogenarian, "To what do we owe this… honor?"

I dismounted Balerion gracefully, helping Rhaenys down from Meraxes like a gentleman before turning to address the Dornish ruler, "Princess Meria, we are here peacefully discuss the future of Dorne on the geopolitical stage"

The venerable woman's virtually sightless eyes narrowed suspiciously, "Discuss? Is that what you call it when you bring your beasts of war to our doorstep?"

"Those beasts of war are also a means of transportation" I calmly retorted, "Just as horses can be used to stamp a man into the dirt, they can also bear him to his destination"

Meria snorted derisively, "Pretty words from a Conqueror. Very well, let us 'talk' then. Follow me"

She and her guards escorted us into the Tower of the Sun, to a grand circular chamber illuminated by thick windows and plenty of colored glass. The floors were composed of pale marble. Within the room were two seats on a dais that were practically identical to each other. The seat on the right was inlaid with the Martell spear, while its counterpart on the left was carved to resemble the blazing Rhoynish Sun that was said to fly from the masts of Nymeria's ships. The Martell sigil of a golden spear piercing a red sun was prominently displayed on one of the walls, while the opposing wall bore a tapestry depicting Nymeria and her ten thousand ships sailing bravely into the unknown, instead of frantically fleeing in defeat from the dragonlords. The out of shape Princess huffed with some exertion as she ascended the dais to sit upon the leftmost throne, exuding sovereignty and authority. Courtiers present in the chambers were engrossed in muffled conversations as they beheld us.

"It was brave of you and your mistress to come here" The Yellow Toad noted from her exotically carved chair, "You will forgive me if I decline Guest Right to the two of you. Of course, one could also interpret this impingement as the hot blooded arrogance of youth. Are you not aware of what we do to our adversaries here in Dorne?"

I was unimpressed by the crotchety woman's barbs, and not just because she represented as much of a credible threat to me as a toad to a baseline human, poison or not.

"I guarantee you that if you tried anything remotely treacherous as the Dornish are so infamous for, you and those responsible would perish on the spot" I stated as fact, much to the disbelieving scoffs of those in the court at what they perceived as arrogance. Poor, deluded fools. Meria must have sensed something in my tone that the temperamental Lords and Ladies around here did not, because she stiffened as though blasted with an icey cold wind.

"But we aren't here to bandy idle words with undertones of violence, but to speak frankly" I pressed on, "This is a new age for Westeros, and outmoded are the times of petty, unceasing squabbling between fractional kingdoms, or princedoms, in your case. Dorne remains the last bastion of self-rule on this continent, and while I respect the automatic response of attempting to maintain that age old state of independence, you could benefit so much more under my guiding hand, and that of the heirs to come after me. Regardless of what happens here, you will be a part of that new age, though whether you choose to be willing participants in that future, or stubbornly cling to your past and be dragged into that future, remains to be seen"

The assembled nobility let out harsh whispers and even some jeers from the braver among them, but Meria held up a hand and demanded them to be silent, some steel in her voice that was impressive for a woman of her ailing age and poor condition.

"And what of House Martell? Where would we fit into this… grand vision of yours?" The old woman questioned, legitimately curious.

"You would retain your position as the principal family representing the province of Dorne, I would even authorize you to keep your locally unique method of inheritance through absolute primogeniture, to acknowledge and accomodate your Rhoynish roots and heritage" I offered, knowing it was a bit of a risk granting the Dornish special privileges, but it was in the name of evading bloodshed, "As I did with The North, I would also consider granting tax reliefs to ease the burden of the common person laboring in the fields"

Princess Maria of Dorne contemplated this for a while, and I began to wonder if she was authentically considering this or was just endeavoring to make us apprehensive. If it was the latter, the joke was on her, I came here fully planning to be rejected. Let her think she has my measure, and that of Rhaenys. The Dornish might be atypical opponents compared to the rest of Westeros, but then… so was I, and I had a lot more tricks up my sleeve than they did.

"It is a… tempting offer" Meria conceded with false sincerity, "But the House of Nymeros-Martell have not stood as Princes and Princesses of Dorne for centuries by giving in to every tempting offer to reach our ears. This is our Home, and it is here that we shall live and die. For we are the rulers of Dorne, and not the footstools of Dragons" She echoed her ancestor Nymeria's words, much to the cheers of the assembled nobility that remained with their Princess in the nearly abandoned castle.

"I will not fight you here," She told us, "but nor shall I kneel to you. Dorne has no King… Dorne needs no King. You have worn out my limited welcome, and would do well not to remain here any longer. Get out" She commanded us gruffly.

'The balls on this woman' She was a descendent of Nymeria alright.

Rhaenys felt the need to speak, "We shall depart, but know this. We shall return, and when we do, we shall bring with us Fire and Blood"

Meria twisted her head in the direction of her opposite number in the looks department (not to mention the weight department), "Your Words. Ours are Unbowed, Unbent, Unbroken. You may burn us, Dragon Queen… but you will not bend us, break us, or make us bow. This is Dorne. You are not wanted here. Return at your peril"

The tension in the throne room was palpable. Already, the guardsmen were white knuckling their weapons, as if awaiting an order to strike.

"You know… I'm going to write a book about this whole torrid affair" I quipped to no one in particular, "I think I shall title the chapter pertaining to this moment as 'The Stubbornness of Toads'. Come Rhaenys," I spun around in an about face turn and headed for the exit, "we have further history to make"

I egressed the hall, all but swaggering out like I already owned it, feeling the multitude of outraged eyes boring nonexistent holes in the back of my head, Meria's milky ones included. We were sanctioned to leave unmolested, not that such a meagerly staffed palace could stop us if we let the dragons rampage unchecked.

We later convened in the trusty command tent north of the border at the Stoneway, reviewing our initial strategy. Rhaenys was doing a fine job hiding it, but our previous meeting with the 'That Fat Toad' had plainly riled her up, in spite of her gentler nature.

"Those ingrates!" She expressed, vexed, "Your terms were more generous than they deserved and yet they still spat on us!"

"Not every ruler has the presence of mind or modesty to surrender their regal title like Lord Stark did, Rhaenys" I admonished her lightly, "The Dornish for the most part are fiercely pleased with their heritage, and their independence. No grand speech, no matter how convincing, would have been sufficient to erode that in a single afternoon"

"Are you defending them?" Visenya hissed, incensed at Meria's reported insolence.

I sighed, "No, I am simply viewing it from their perspective"

A messenger then arrived bearing news from Orys Baratheon. The patrolling Stormlanders had engaged a Dornish outfit at the foothills of the Red Mountains within our territory. It was a relatively small clash, but Orys testified that the Dornish had fought with tenacity and malicious cunning, luring his men into ambushes and fading into the underbrush before they could counterattack. Several of his knights had slowly succumbed to poisoned arrows, screaming in agony as their flesh putrified and rotted, daunting the men who had witnessed their painful deaths.

I frowned as I heard the account. The Dornish were already employing their disreputable guerrilla tactics. It was a sure sign that they would not meet us in open battle where our numbers and dragons would grant us a crushing advantage. Instead, they would strike quickly and melt away into the unforgiving terrain that they knew so well. We hadn't even invaded yet and the Dornish were commiting psychological warfare on us. I sent the messenger back with a command for Orys to tap into the Oleander Concentrate that I had been stockpiling for this campaign. The Reach alone was lousy with the plants.

We had ten thousand Stormlanders here at the Boneway who were itching to spill Dornish blood, many of them from the Marcher Houses that had a bone to pick (pun intended) with the desert dwellers, who had frequently marauded them in the past. The two main overland passes into Dorne were among the few places that the Dornish could not afford to forsake, and so there were about five thousand spears posted at each, more than enough to rebuff a frontal assault. Lord Paramount Gardener had twenty five thousand men outside of the Prince's Pass that were waiting on guides (who unbeknownst to all, were swarthy Starsworn masquerading as shepherding locals that had sold out to the Targaryens) promised to them by me to lead them through the hazardous mountain trails, while a separate detachment would be used to distract the Dornish garrisons into thinking that they were besieging the passes conventionally.

I had repeatedly warned my commanders not to underestimate the blistering climate of Dorne, and to take precautions such as creating a water wagon supply train that they were to guard at all costs. They were also advised to dress light, donning their armor only if a field battle with the Dornish was imminent. They were fairly counseled that the Dornish would not fight fair, and so neither should they. I was sure my subordinates would think of my common sense solutions as queer, but as long as they obeyed them, I did not care. My Starsworn medium cavalry were here in totality and outfitted for skirmishing roles. With our initial land campaign plans set, I turned my attention to the more covert aspects of our campaign. The envoys I had sent to various Dornish houses were starting to bear some fruit. House Yronwood, in particular, seemed tentatively receptive to our proposals. For centuries, they had chafed under Martell rule, and thus saw our offer as an opportunity to regain heaps of their former prestige. They were not willing to turncloak immediately, as theirs was not the only House guarding the Stoneway, but should the war go ill for their overlords, the chances were high that they would shift allegiances.

From House Dayne, I could only get cryptic, politically neutral response that they would 'stand with the rightful rulers of Dorne'. Whether that meant the Martells or potentially us remained to be seen. Notably, the other major houses like Uller, Allyrion, and Qorgyle did not reply, but the envoys were unharmed, which I took as a sign they were at least considering their options rather than outright rejecting us. My network of spies and saboteurs that had been steadily infiltrating Dornish settlements for months now reported that while the common folk were cagey about outsiders ruling them, there was a growing undercurrent of discontent with the current state of affairs that had persisted for millennia. Years of border skirmishes and raids with the Reachmen and Stormlanders had taken their toll, and there were some that were tired of the constant state of warfare. A major reason that this was not worse was because their farmlands and watering holes were relatively unharmed.

I instructed my agents to subtly fan these sparks of discontent, spreading rumors of the growing prosperity that was beginning to be relished by the other provinces under Targaryen rule. They were to emphasize the reduced taxes, increased trade, and protection from external threats that came with being part of a unified realm. At the same time, they were to stress that Dorne had never faced an invasion from an integrated Westeros before. I moreover had them gather intelligence on Dornish troop movements, supply caches, and potential weaknesses in their defenses that they were to pass on to my commanders to exploit.

The other half of our overall strategy would come from the sea. My Starsworn Navy had ramped up their proliferation and had even taught the Velaryon seamen how to operate the race built Galleons that Daemon Velaryon had been salivating over. I had even given him a dozen of his own Galleons in exchange for some favorable trade concessions over the ensuing decade. With their weatherly nature and compasses (a device so critical that I swore the Velaryon family to secrecy to it on pain of death and even afterwards only allotted them two of them for the flagships that would be captained by the Velaryons themselves), a fleet that was anchored at Greenstone's port could theoretically avoid sailing in eyesight of the shore, tread the deep blue waters of the pirate infested Stepstones, and approach from the southeast to blitz Dorne by laying waste to the Planky Town and blockading Sunspear. With unrestricted access to the Greenblood, that fleet could sail upriver with relative impunity, burning farms and orchards as they went. Widespread famine would then come to Dorne, killing untold thousands in the long-term.

The Siege of Sunspear would then cut the head off the snake, leaving Dornish insurgents to fend for themselves without a coordinated central leadership. I outlined the multi-pronged strategy to my inner circle, the land invasion to seize the mountain passes, the naval assailment on the coast, and the covert operations to sow discord among the Dornish. Orys and Visenya were all onboard with the plan, while Rhaenys was coming around after hearing about the conduct of the Dornish renegades. My commanders thought it was overkill, but they soon learn that this was the minimum stance that we would have to take with the Dornish. We waited a fortnight for the fleet to cruise into position, then we initiated offensive operations (designated Operation Sandstorm in my head).

The initial push into Dorne went pretty smoothly. Our diversionary attacks at the mountain passes from the front occupied the attention of the Dornish defenders, allowing our main forces to slip by them via the secret trails with minimal resistance. While some men were lost due to the tenous footholds of the trails, they successfully emerged from the mountains and coalesced at the Dornish defenders' rear, resulting in the Battles of King's Hill and Stoneteeth respectively. At the Prince's Pass, Lord Dagos Manwoody was slain by a crossbow bolt to the temple, and four thousand Spearmen died with him as the Reachmen settled ancient grudges. At the Stoneway, Lord Edwyle Wyl was likewise slain as he tried to retreat into the desert after sacrificing three thousand of his countrymen to drive a wedge into our lines, he and a thousand others were reduced to char after a few sweeps of our dragons. Lord Yoren Yronwood withdrew into his fortress home, taking seven thousand of his levy with him, but tellingly did not sally out to contest us marching past as we committed a token force to 'siege' him.

With the two passes pried open and guarded supply lines established, we advanced deeper into Dornish territory, however, that was when the true nature of this war arose to reveal itself. Several villages were discovered abandoned, their wells blocked up, and food stores denuded. Tiny bands of Dornish raiders would strike at our supply lines to wreak havoc before being slain or disappearing into the hills and dunes. Overhead, the relentless, scorching sun sapped many men's strength and stamina. Even with the safeguards I had ordered taken, casualties to heatstroke or dehydration gradually mounted. We flew regular scouting missions on our dragons, searching for clusters of Dornish troops to engage. But after the distasters at the passes, they resolutely refused to meet us in brazen battle, instead scattering into the wastes at our appearance. It was a maddening game of cat and mouse.

The one real reprieve my troops had was that the Starsworn cavalry that I had divided into roving warbands of twenty good men (a revolutionary concept for that era) were terrifyingly efficient at ferreting out Dornish hidey holes and sanctuaries in the wilderness, slaughtering their inhabitants in the night and putting them up on stakes as a grim warning to their compatriots. They furthermore poisoned their vital water wells with corpses and Oleander Concentrate and stole away with their valuable Sand Steeds to spread to my traditional forces. Dornish Viperstrikes, as they came to be titled with vitriol, lessened greatly with every hideout that was despoiled. Some Stormlander infantrymen were starting to label my Starsworn cavalrymen as the 'Snake Skinners' and invited them to share alcohol with them by the campfires.

"This is no way to conduct a war" Orys Baratheon grumbled one evening in the command tent, "How can we defeat an enemy that is too cowardly to face us?"

"Patience, my friend" I counseled him, "The Dornish think to wear us out through attrition. But they themselves cannot hide forever, not with my best men briskly uncovering their hideaways and fouling their precious water sources. Sooner or later, they will have to stand and fight or be eliminated piecemeal"

Our naval onslaught on the Planky Town and Sunspear proved much more auspicious. Lord Admiral Velaryon's fleet, bolstered by his newfound galleons, caught the Dornish completely off guard. Their own naval ships, augmented by worthless sellsail rubbish, were no match for vessels that could outpace and outrange them, and were sunk or scuttled in their moorings. The Planky Town went up in smoke, its paltry defences smashed and its threadbare defenders scattered to the winds. Sunspear itself came under siege, cut off from resupply by sea and by land as Starsworn marines encircled it and interdicted all attempts to smuggle supplies or people into and out of the castled town. Velaryon enacted a scorched earth campaign on Dorne's most crucial river, becoming the General Tecumseh Sherman analog of my armies as he torched settlements and farmlands alike on his course northwest, branding his impact into the Dornish psyche for generations afterwards.

The Orphans of the Greenblood stayed neutral on their intricately carved and painted pole boats, though they mourned the loss of the Planky Town, which they had founded as a trading post and congregating point. I suspected that they clandestinely floated the Dornish insurgents with funds and supplies, but with the population of active agitators sharply decreasing over time, it had become a nonissue. They kept to themselves, so I mandated that the Orphans be left to their own devices.

As news of our vicious victories disseminated, the first cracks began to form in Dornish resolve. House Yronwood had officially declared for us following a half hearted siege of their castle, unbuttoning the Boneway to facilitate the flow of our reinforcements and supplies from the Marches. Other houses began to waver in their loyalty to the Martells as they learned of this betrayal, but they held fast where they could until my Starsworn warbands had unearthed their most secretive wells and sabotaged them. Still, pockets of fierce resistance remained in play. Hellholt and Skyreach in particular had become popular rallying points for Dornish insurgents that were lacking a shelter that provided for their essential needs, causing them to swell like boils needing to be lanced. I knew that to truly erode their will to fight, we would need to make examples of these strongholds.

I gathered my Queens and our dragons for an organized assault on Hellholt, which had been repelling the Reachmen siege efforts for weeks now. As we got close, I could see the defenders manning the walls, determination etched on their faces even in the face of certain doom.

"One last chance, doughty defenders of Dorne!" I called out to them, "Surrender now and you will be spared! Resist… and you will be exterminated!"

Their answer to my entreaty came in the form of a volley of scorpion bolts that clattered harmlessly off of my winged war crime's scales. Balerion growled in a manner that promised retribution, and I had to pinch the bridge of my nose at their stupidity. I then gave the command to take flight.

As we soared above Hellholt, I surveyed the fortress below. Its thick sandstone walls and elevated towers stood defiantly against the harsh desert landscape, a testament to Dornish resilience. But today, that resilience would be put to the ultimate test.

"Rhaenys, Visenya! Focus your dragonfire on the outer walls and gates" I instructed them, "I will handle the inner keep. While it's not strictly necessary, I want you to avoid their scorpion fire as best you can. Do not leave things to chance"

My Queens nodded dourly and directed their mounts into position. On my signal, streams of dragonfire erupted from Vhagar and Meraxes, engulfing the fortress walls in searing flame. The silhouttes of men and women were briefly outlined before they were erased. Reddish-brown stone cracked and blackened under the intense heat as defenders frantically tried to douse the fires with water laden buckets.

Their efforts were in vain.

I urged Balerion upwards, circling above the central keep. When the moment was right, I gave the mental command and the Black Dread unleashed his terrible breath. The great hall's domed, molten roof collapsed inwards, like a caved in turtleshell, as dragonflame poured through windows and arrow slits. Screams of agony emanated from within as those inside were burned alive or crushed by falling debris. The castle's walled in town was the next target to mirror the keep's ill fortune.

We sustained our assault for what felt like hours, systematically reducing Hellholt to smoldering ruins and distorted wreckage. When it was done, nothing endured but ash and melted stone. There were no survivors. Not men, women, the elderly, or children. The pungent stench of charred flesh made even the emotionally hardened Reachmen void their guts.

Twelve thousand people perished at Hellholt, not all of them belligerent. The main line of House Uller was now extinct. Their noble status would be subsequently revoked to rub salt into the wound for any lingering cousins.

The message to the rest of Dorne from the Scourging of Hellholt (now just a unembellished Hellhole) was clear, that this was the fate that awaited those who dared to defy us.

News of Hellholt's obliteration diffused rapidly across Dorne. The desolation of such a supposedly mighty fortress and the annihilation of its people sent shockwaves through the residual holdouts. Skyreach yielded without a fight soon after, its ailing Lady Jennesa Fowler realizing the futility of further resistance. Notably, she made the excuse that not all of her men listened to the order to relent, and they had fled into the hardscrabble hillocks. My Starsworn doggedly pursued them, and soon bloody heads with were displayed on spikes atop Skyreach's ramparts.

A rider came to my Stormlander camp (which was my primary mobile base of operations) at Ghost Hill (House Toland had a curious sigil, it was a shame they had discarded their seat); a host that was on its way to the southwest coast, notifying me that my Starsworn marines had infiltrated Sunspear in the dead of night, slew the few guards that were there, set fire to the Shadow City to smoke out its rebel inhabitants, retracted the Threefold Gate, and placed Princess Meria Nymeros Martell under house arrest in anticipation for my sentencing. The remainder of her family was 'away' as we were so often told by village elders or women that were partially ditched by the fighting men. I figured that they could not be too removed from their city, as it would make coordination via raven exceedingly difficult. Not that it mattered, as my Starsworn had apprehended virtually every smuggler and 'convinced' them to cough up the location of their backers. The Martells were sufficiently intelligent to use intermediaries, but now that those middlemen had been cut out, they were seriously lacking for options.

As Balerion touched down in the courtyard for a second occasion, the timeworn, fat faced Princess of Dorne was dragged before me in chains. Her expression betrayed little, but the raw fury was writ plain in her unflinchingly defiant stare.

"We meet in person once more, Princess" I began with false sweetness, "You know, normally I don't care about one's station in the social hierarchy of things, but when I wage war on a country, I expect them to know better than to try and wait me out in the hills… or think my water caravans unmonitored, for that matter" I motioned to the burning portions of the Shadow Town raging in the background behind her, "Heck, all of this could have been avoided had you just shown me some common courtesy. But since you and your inflexible people insisted on using dishonorable tactics… you are no longer deserving to be treated with honor"

She hocked a wad of spit at my boots, "Unbowed, unbent, unbroken" She recited her family motto, "These are not merely the words of the Martells, but of Dorne itself. Your victory here changes nothing! My people will resist you for as long as it takes to oust you, Dragon Tyrant!"

I rolled my eyes. How very droll of her, "Even more so than other Dornishmen, you Martells seem to take particular pride in your brand of headstrong foolhardiness"

Sugar became spice, "Listen to me carefully, you sodium puffy blob. I am not above exterminating an enemy wholesale if they refuse to yield against all reason. Westeros will be one Kingdom whether it likes it or not. The days of consistently warring factions and border raids are over, as I have stated. Those who break the peace I am establishing without a truly just cause will be punished harshly, by dragonflame and much, much worse"

"Dorne will never stomach a foreign King ruling over them, least of all one who leads the Valyrian

" She spat the ironically foreign insult in Rhoynish.

"Then Dorne will die" I shrugged complacently, "Every man, woman, and child, if needs be. You cannot rule over yourselves if you are naught but dust and bones"

She said nothing to that, attempting to bore through me with her eyes alone. Meh, it didn't even feature on my top ten list of menacing glares that I had received.

I have pissed off a lot of entities in my tenure.

"What do you intend with me, Tyrant?" She demanded to know, "I would sooner you slit my throat than have you hand me over to your lackwitted lackeys to be used and disposed of"

I held up a hand to forestall my men roughing the ancient woman up at her flagrant disrespect. If that was how she wished to be recorded for posterity, then she was entitled to a few lackluster insults as last words.

"I would never inflict that kind of perverse torment upon them" I shuddered just thinking about the disgusting image, "But needless to say, your days as a reigning Princess of Dorne are at a conclusion. You and your heirs could have been Wardens of the Sands, but instead your name will be remembered as the Princess whose willful stubbornness cost Dorne everything. Present her to the dragon" I motioned to my men, who complied, "Balerion tends to likes his meals nice and plump. And I dare say that he has never tried roasted Toad before" I added, and the men blanched, but got my meaning.

"You are an utter monster" Meria hissed, the faintest notes of foreboding apparent in her body language, muted by flab as it was.

"Sticks and Stones" I riposted in my best JC Denton impression.

Defiant to the very end. The final ruling Princess of Dorne died without a sound, save for the crackling of burnt fat on Balerion's incisors. According to my dragon familiar, the Yellow Toad tasted awful.

While the lords and ladies did not know it, the execution of their Princess was to be the death knell of Dorne. With each passing day, the Dornish resistance crumbled further. Villages and towns swung their gates wide to us without a fight, divulging tearful stories of dead or dying loved ones being deposited on their doorstep, the afflicted having been so at their wit's ends that they went to the sanctuaries that they knew were compromised in order to satiate their rampant thirst, only to become sick and vomit those fluids out shortly afterwards. Desperate locals, who were no longer willing to die of thirst and hunger supplying the dissenters for a lost cause, revealed safe harbors in the wilderness that they believed had been hidden, only to quiver in fear when we informed them that we already knew about these places beforehand.

The blackening of the River Greenblood resulted in refugees flocking in droves to the leftover farmlands that were firmly in our grasp. They swore undying fealty (a dubious claim) so that they could fill their bellies. On the recommendation of Lord Yronwood, we then established… what weren't quite work camps, but Yronwood monitored farming communes where the smallfolk were crammed into favela like shantytowns that were derogatorily termed Snake Traps. The casual cruelty that was demonstrated by the Yronwood overseers to their own countrymen disturbed even my troops.

I doubted that I would ever be loved in Dorne, but the Yronwoods were liable to be despised as traitors for eternity.

A month after the death of his mother, Prince Nymor Martell contacted me to sue for peace. Turns out that he and his firstborn daughter Deria had been hiding out in an underground compound dug into a butte that was located in the hills of the Broken Arm several leagues from Sunspear. They had been steadily running out of water, and the nearest wells had been ruined by my Starsworn. This, coupled with the reports vividly detailing the suffering of his people, compelled Nymor to swallow his pride and beg for parley. My Queens and I then flew to Sunspear to accept his surrender personally.

(Theme Music: Emperor's Throne Room performed by the London Symphony Orchestra)

To set the tone for the upcoming talks, I had instructed that all light sources in the court chamber be draped in the iconic Red and Black of House Targaryen. The rays from the overhead dome streamed with a soft red hue, casting an otherworldly glow on everything below. The smaller, conventional window slits were equally festooned in the colors, barring even fragments of natural sunlight from filtering through. As I made my ingress, I channeled my inner Sith Lord, pulling my beaked hood up over my head and obscuring my face in darkness. The only hint of my presence came from the faint crimson radiance of my eyes, which would play tricks on the mind of anyone daring enough to meet my regard. My posture exuded confidence and authority as I took my seat, with a subtle air of superiority that made it unmistakable that my audience was beneath me.

All these techniques I had learned from observation.

As he led his curtailed party of Dornish nobles into the throne room of his forebearers, I espied a dispirited husk of a man. One could see the cumbersome weight of defeat weighing down his steps as he was admitted into the occupied stronghold of his family. Nymor's face was gaunt and haggard from ascetic meals, his lips chapped from lack of clean water, and his eyes were sunken, betraying many sleepless nights. When he was healthier, he was probably handsome for his age, with unblemished olive skin and silvery hair. He was dressed in a ruddy, dirt caked Essosi style embroidered robe that was fraying at the edges from wear. He did not bear jewelry, nor did his companions, likely having sold the majority of their belongings to help fund the war effort that had gone so badly for Dorne.

As his gaze fell upon me lounging upon the single, expertly cobbled together throne of his ancestors, a spark of rebelliousness flickered in his expression before it was promptly quashed by the harsh nature of his transformed reality. He took in his surroundings, noting how the symbols of the conquering House of the Dragon now adorned the walls where once artworks of his predecessors hung or were painted, the missing treasures that they could not squirrel away in their self-expulsion that had been pilfered for our war chest, and the unfamiliar guards who stood watch like vigilant birds of prey, ready to pounce at any sign of deceit from the Dornishmen.

"Nymor Martell" I greeted him, my monarchical voice carrying easily in the silent hall, "I am pleased that you and yours have finally decided to see reason"

I signaled for Bread and Salt to be given to them, which I could intuit surprised them, "Unlike your late mother, I offer Guest Right even to those I dislike… should they come in good faith, that is"

He bowed his head slightly, though I could see it physically pained him to do so, "We do, King Zenith. I… I have come to discuss the terms of surrender"

"Terms?" I quirked an eyebrow, "I am afraid that you misunderstand the situation, Nymor Martell. There are no terms to discuss. You are here to surrender unconditionally"

A ripple of unease passed through the Dornish nobles that were accompanying Nymor. One of them, an older man with a tanned, weathered face, stepped forward, "Your Grace, surely there can be some negotiation. Dorne has fought bravely-"

"Fought foolishly, more like" I cut him off, "And has paid the price for it. Your armies are routed, your lands ravaged, your people starving and dehydrating in untold numbers. You have nothing left to bargain with that I have not previously seized"

Nymor's shoulders slumped in defeat, unable to contest my words, "Were it not for your accursed Desert Rangers" He muttered to himself, "What… what are your demands then, Your Grace?"

"That is Your Majesty, to you" I corrected him, "You will bend the knee and swear fealty to House Targaryen. Dorne will become part of the United Kingdom of Westeros, under my rule. House Nymeros-Martell will retain half of its lands in this region, but as a Knightly House. You will answer to House Yronwood as they will become the Lord Paramounts of the Sands and Wardens of the South. You will forswear all claims to independence and caution your brethren to do the same. Is that understood?"

"And should we refuse?" The same older noble inquired, a Jordayne given the golden quill that was stictched on his breast, though his voice lacked conviction.

"Then Dorne as it is now dies" I replied coldly, "Every castle… every community… every patch of fertile land that has not rambunctiously professed allegiance to House Targaryen… will be razed. Your people will be put to the sword or left to dessicate in the desert. And House Martell will be wiped from existence, all records of it expunged from the histories of this continent" They recoiled at the ultimatum.

"You know, none of the prior atrocities commited in Dorne would have happened had your mother simply retained the nous to choose the lives of her people over their own bullheaded cultural identity. A cultural identity that I did not threaten to begin with, if you will recall" I stated matter-of-factly as I inspected my nails, "So what is your choice, Nymor Martell? Life? Or Death?"

A heavy silence fell over the throne room as the gravity of my words sank in. The Dornish nobles exchanged uneasy glances, their faces a mixture of fear, anger, and burgeoning despair. Nymor Martell stood motionless as a statue, his sightline fixed on the floor as he wrestled with some internal struggle.

With visible exertion, Nymor lowered himself to one knee before me, "I… Nymor of the House Nymeros-Martell, do hereby forsake my title as Prince of Dorne and swear fealty to House Targaryen and the lords appointed over me" He intoned, his shaky voice barely above a whisper as he spoke an oath that would forever change the fate of his homeland, "From this day until my dying day, I pledge my loyalty and that of my house to the United Kingdom of Westeros. Our spears are yours, our sun is yours. We swear this by sand and by sea, by bronze and by copper, by ice and by fire. Dorne… Dorne submits to your rule, Your Majesty"

One by one, the other Dornish nobles followed suit, genuflecting before me with varying degrees of reluctance. I could see the shame and resentment burning in their countenance, but it mattered not. They had bent the knee, and Dorne would soon be mine.

"Rise" I commanded after a moment, "Your submission is accepted. House Yronwood will be informed of their new vassals immediately. As for the rest of you, you will return to your lands and spread word of Dorne's capitulation to your peers. Any who continue to resist will be dealt no mercy"

As Ser Nymor and the other Dornish lords rose, I pressed on, "Know that while your past transgressions will not be forgotten, they can be forgiven in time through leal service. Prove yourselves as true subjects of the realm entire, and Dorne may yet prosper under the administration of the Dragon"

The oppressed, bedraggled nobles inclined their heads, not trusting themselves to speak. They filed out of the chamber like men that were bound for the gallows and not their homes.

"We have done it" Visenya remarked breathlessly as the last of the Dornish nobles exited the throne room, "All Seven Kingdoms are now in the Targaryen domain"

"Our Brother-Husband would have been proud of this achievement" Rhaenys giddily commented as she smiled at me, "Can we let some light in now, beloved? It's quite dreary in here"

"Later" I promised her, "We'll use the balcony overlooking the ocean in the meantime"

We held a private celebration that evening, emptying the casks (prudently tested for poisons that wouldn't have affected us anyway by my Starsworn) of sour Dornish Red wines and toasting our success.

"What now, My Archon?" Visenya asked, taking measured sips from her glass.

"Now comes the follow-up. House Yronwood shall take the reins as our primary enforcers for now, with our oversight of course" I explained, "We will need to establish a strong garrison presence in coordination with the Yronwood family here for some time, official surrender or not. Rebuilding efforts should also commence as soon as the conflict subsides. It's important that the smallfolk see tangible benefits from our rule, or the embers of resentment will ignite a brushfire rebellion"

Rhaenys sidled closer to me, her expression thoughtful, "What of the Martell girl, Deria? She was not present with her father during the negotiations"

"An absence that I noticed" I replied, "Nymor had likely kept her hidden away as a contingency in case we executed them for their subversion like we did his mother. We will have to ensure that she is made a ward of the Yronwoods, possibly married to their heir to ease the transition of power. No need to have loose ends that might fester thereafter"

I paced on the balcony; my mind racing with proposals, "We will need to integrate Dorne into our broader realm economically and socially. Trade routes will have to be established, linking Dorne more thoroughly with the whole of Westeros. And we will encourage intermarriage between Dornish and non-Dornish nobles to help bridge divides and ideally bury the grudges of the past"

"I'm back. Just saw the dornish delegation on their way out. I'm guessing it's finished then?" Orys declared as he joined us, moving to stand beside me, "Do I have your leave to go home to my wife, My Archon?" He looked askance at the flesh of his arm, which was a couple shades darker than before, "I fear she might not recognize me after this campaign"

"Nonsense, my friend. Argella will love it" I grinned at him.

He chortled bashfully, "If you say so, Your Majesty. If you will excuse me, I have… duties to attend to at home"

It was cute how smitten the pair of them were becoming with each other as their marriage progressed. It was rare for political matrimonial unions to blossom into genuine affection for those involved, so the Romance of the Stags was an odd balm to all the death and destruction that had befallen the Westerosi throughout the war.

I nodded stoically to him, "Go with my blessing" I pivoted to my Queens, "In fact… I would prefer to be alone for a bit"

They both acquiesced, understanding that I desired my personal space from time to time. Rhaenys laid a comforting hand on my shoulder before she went to Meraxes for a flight. Visenya ambushed me with a searing kiss, before she did the same on Vhagar.

As I strode on the balcony overlooking the Narrow Sea, my brain was awhirl with plans for solidifying our grip on Dorne. The salty breeze cooled my skin as I contemplated the onerous tasks ahead. Mauled as it was, Dorne still had plenty to offer. Their exclusive goods like unique spices, wines, lemons and blood oranges, and Essosi style textiles would find eager markets in the other provinces. There were verifiable rumors of Bedouin-like nomadic tribes that dwelled in the deep mountains that had no love for the Dornishmen that we may want to treat with someday, similar to the Mountain Clans of the Vale. I could probably leverage the suborned Faith of the Seven to further cement the notion of lawful Targaryen rulership here, and let their militant arms share the butcher's bill for squashing the uprisings that were sure to happen. The dornish peninsula was also a stone's throw from the Stepstones, and the pirates that harassed shipping (some of them did so at the behest of the Free Cities) were a prominent wrinkle that would need addressing someday.

A Monarch's work never really ceases… but mayhaps a sabbatical would be in order.

Regardless, six moons after the costly invasion of Dorne, which had endured longer than any other kingdom, the Conquest was thereby complete. All of Westeros now bowed to the House of the Dragon. But as I gaged the vanquished Dornish countryside before me, I knew that the true challenge was just starting. Conquering a continent was one thing; ruling and forging it into a cohesive realm with a Common Law and opportunities for a man to better himself and his family's fortunes in life would wholeheartedly be a different matter. But like Frank Sinatra, I had High Hopes for the future. The road ahead would be lengthy and fraught with a multitude of obstacles, but I was determined to see my vision for an improved Westeros actualized.

We had won the War… now we had to win the Peace.