(Requested by commissioner)

Jason's brow arched as he unrolled the scroll, fingers brushing the rough parchment. Another report from the spectral spy he'd planted in the Red Keep. The faint shimmer of ghostly ink glimmered under the candlelight, a touch colder than he'd expected. Probably more nonsense about Maegor. That madman had declared war on him – on him. The King of the Western Reach. Across the sea. The fool couldn't even hold his own court together, let alone threaten an empire that stretched from Braavos to Lys and commanded a host of hundreds of thousands of living soldiers, and thrice that number in non-living ones.

His lips twitched into a smirk, but his eyes remained sharp. He skimmed the first few lines, expecting the usual: whispers of Maegor's worsening paranoia, his bizarre rituals, his court bleeding loyalty like a gutted pig. Jason leaned back in his chair, the wood creaking beneath him, and let out a low breath.

Why do I even bother with this?

It wasn't like Maegor had actually done anything yet. No ships. No armies. No assassins in the night. Just words. Words from a mad king with more enemies than allies. If Jason wanted, he could climb onto Pippin's back tonight – his White Fatalis already pacing restlessly in the cliffs outside the city – and rain lightning over King's Landing until it was ash.

He didn't, though. Not yet. Maegor wasn't worth the effort. Not until he tried something stupid.

Jason's hand tightened on the parchment as his gaze flicked to a peculiar line of text near the bottom. His smirk faded. His jaw clenched.

The spy's message was short, but it was enough to make Jason sit up straighter, the smirk on his lips vanishing entirely. His fingers tightened against the scroll, the parchment crumpling slightly under the pressure. Pippin's distant roar echoed across the cliffs, as if sensing the sudden shift in his master's mood.

Jason's fingers paused on the parchment, his eyes narrowing as he read the next line. Human sacrifice. Maegor was actually dabbling in it now. The words felt heavier, darker, though Jason's expression remained composed. A faint tick started in his jaw, his only outward reaction. Of course, it worked – sort of. Sacrifice and death held power, a principle Jason understood better than anyone. His own Necromancy thrived on it, though his methods were far more refined.

Efficient.

He flicked the edge of the scroll with his thumb, exhaling softly. Maegor, with his clumsy rituals and desperation, was no mage. He couldn't harness raw magic the way Jason could. And soul-devouring? That was a skill beyond any mortal's reach, save Jason's. A smirk ghosted across his lips. No one on this planet could rival him, and everyone knew it. That knowledge probably burned at Maegor's pride like acid.

Still, the report wasn't entirely dismissible. Jason's brow furrowed as he reread the next lines. After all his blundering attempts, Maegor had managed to reanimate a corpse. Just one. Jason almost laughed – almost. It was pathetic, really, considering how much time and blood the mad king had poured into it. The sort of accomplishment that deserved a slow clap, not genuine respect.

Jason leaned back, the wood of his chair groaning beneath his weight, his free hand tapping against the armrest.

And yet… his hand stilled. His smirk vanished. The words shifted, and so did their weight.

Kinslaying.

Targaryen nobles in exile.

Targaryen nobles with fucking dragons.

Jason's lips pressed into a thin line as he set the scroll down, his gaze distant for a moment. Across the cliffs, Pippin let out a guttural growl, the sound rolling through the air like distant thunder. Jason tapped his fingers against the table, the rhythm sharp, precise.

The Targaryen mess was coming to him now. Of course, it was. He could already picture the exiled nobles making their way across the Narrow Sea, desperate to throw themselves at his feet. Seeking asylum. Seeking his protection. Jason's shoulders tensed, and his fingers drummed faster. The whole point of him crossing the Narrow Sea and taking up roots in Essos was specifically to avoid the murderous incest lizards and their political and familial shenanigans.

"Great," he muttered, his voice low, the only sound in the otherwise still room. "Another family feud. Just what I needed."

His lips curled into a scowl as he pushed the scroll aside. The last thing he wanted was to involve himself in Maegor's bloody melodrama. If those Targaryens thought they could dump their problems on his shores, they were sorely mistaken. Still, the spark of intrigue lingered, unwelcome but insistent. If they were headed to Essos, it meant they thought Jason might care. And if they thought that, then others might as well.

He leaned forward, steepling his fingers as he considered his next move. The scroll still sat on the desk, the ink glinting faintly in the candlelight. Jason's gaze flicked to it, his expression unreadable. For now, he waited. Maegor had made his move, but the game was far from over. The best and, perhaps, wisest course of action at this moment was to send one of his vampiric Death Knights to deal with Maegor, sort of nipping the problem in the bud, ending it before it became something that was too annoying.

Jason leaned back, the chair groaning as he tipped it onto two legs, the scroll dangling loosely in his hand. A faint smirk tugged at the corner of his lips, though his gaze remained fixed on the flickering candlelight. He wouldn't admit it aloud – not even to himself – but there was something amusing about Maegor's latest antics. Human sacrifice? Dabbling in Necromancy? Jason's brows lifted slightly, the faintest glint of curiosity flickering in his eyes.

The mad king was clearly desperate, but for what? Jason's fingers tapped idly against the armrest, the rhythm slow and deliberate. Maegor could spill all the blood in the Seven Kingdoms and chant until his throat gave out – it wouldn't matter. He'd never raise more than a handful of shambling corpses. Certainly nothing that could stand against Jason's legions, whose skeletal ranks stretched for miles when summoned.

Jason's smirk deepened. Maegor might manage a dozen corpses. Maybe two. Enough to startle a peasant or two, but hardly enough to warrant concern. Jason let the scroll drop onto the table, the parchment curling as it landed.

Still, his fingers lingered near it, his gaze distant. The thought itched at him. Why bother? Maegor wasn't stupid – arrogant, yes, but not entirely devoid of sense. He had to know how futile this was. And yet, here he was, spilling royal blood and setting himself up for a reckoning. Jason's lips pressed together, the flicker of amusement fading into something sharper, more calculating.

The Great Other was the only real threat on the planet. Jason's fingers tightened slightly, his jaw ticking. The Others, with their glittering ice weapons and lifeless eyes, were likely still causing trouble Beyond the Wall. A far-off problem, one he wouldn't need to deal with for decades, maybe centuries. If they even became his problem at all. That left the question: What exactly was Maegor playing at?

Jason's curiosity simmered, a slow-burning ember he couldn't quite extinguish. It wasn't concern. Not even close. Maegor could raise the same corpse a thousand times and still wouldn't come close to what Jason could accomplish with a snap of his fingers. But there was something in the absurdity of it, the sheer audacity of Maegor's attempts, that made Jason pause.

He let out a quiet chuckle, low and dry, leaning forward again. His fingertips drummed against the table, faster now, echoing the thoughts racing through his mind. Maegor's antics might lead nowhere. They probably would. But there was always the chance – always – that they'd lead somewhere interesting. And if nothing else, Jason liked to be entertained.

First, Jason needed to deal with the incoming Targaryen mess. Specifically, the incest lizards and their entourage, now heading straight for Qohor. He glanced out the open window, where the mountain peaks rose jagged and imposing in the distance. The view had been what drew him to Qohor in the first place – well, that and the city's unique placement at the edge of lush forests and rugged cliffs. It was a quiet, picturesque spot, ideal for someone like him. Even Pippin agreed. The White Fatalis had claimed the mountains as his personal domain, often seen lounging atop the highest peak like a thunderous, living god.

Jason's lips quirked into a faint smile, but it didn't last. The smile gave way to a small sigh as he considered what was likely to happen when the Targaryen dragons entered Pippin's territory. The White Fatalis wasn't exactly the welcoming committee. His companion had a tendency to react to intrusions with all the subtlety of a lightning storm – one that left smoking craters where intruders once stood. Jason's fingers drummed against the edge of the table as he imagined the chaos. Dragons reduced to charred bones and ash before they could even land.

It would be funny, he admitted to himself, but only briefly. Afterward, it'd be a headache. Dragons or no dragons, Jason knew better than to underestimate the Targaryen penchant for grudges. He'd have to talk Pippin down. The big guy wasn't going to like it, but Jason could probably bribe him with a fresh clutch of wyverns or something else to tear apart.

His attention shifted back to the approaching Targaryens. They weren't coming alone, of course. Jason's smirk faded entirely as he ran a hand through his hair, sighing again. The scroll had made that clear enough. It wasn't just the dragonlords on the move - entire families of farmers, artisans, and servants were fleeing with them. Refugees, likely hoping Qohor and its "God-Emperor" could offer them safety from Maegor's madness.

Jason rose to his feet, the chair scraping lightly against the stone floor. He crossed the room to the window, leaning against the frame as the cool mountain air brushed his face. Of course they're coming here, he thought, gaze fixed on the horizon. It wasn't just the seat of his power. It was safety. Power radiated from Qohor, not just because of him, but because of what he represented. Stability. Protection. And, for some reason, people seemed to think he cared about their wars.

He snorted softly, shaking his head. Refugees were fine. Useful, even. Farmers meant food, artisans meant trade, and both meant the local economy would thrive. But the Targaryens weren't coming to settle down and contribute. No, they'd want something more. Something stupid. Something like Jason's aid in reclaiming the Iron Throne.

He rolled his shoulders, letting the thought settle. The refugees could stay. He'd make room. But the Targaryens and their dragons? He'd handle them carefully. For now, the priority was keeping Pippin from torching them all to oblivion before they even explained themselves.

Jason inhaled deeply, closing his eyes as he reached out with his mind. The mental link with Pippin, forged through magic and sheer force of will, was like a thread of lightning that sparked to life at his call. He felt the familiar presence of the White Fatalis, a storm of raw power and ancient malice, resting high in the mountains.

"Hey, Pippin," Jason said aloud, his voice calm but resonating through their connection. "You alright up there?"

A rumble of distant thunder echoed in Jason's mind, followed by Pippin's voice, deep and laced with disdain.

I am fine, mother, the dragon replied, the word "mother" carrying its usual tone of misunderstanding. Even after five years, the concept of "father" remained elusive to Pippin. Did you need something destroyed?

Jason's lips twitched into a small, wry smile. No matter how much progress they'd made, Pippin's hatred for humanity simmered just beneath the surface. It was less volatile now, sure, but still there – a quiet, ever-present storm. These days, at least, the dragon didn't obliterate villages for not groveling properly. Jason found it endearing in a strange way.

"Not this time," Jason replied, his tone light. "A bunch of dragons are heading this way. Don't kill them. Don't attack them. Not unless I give the order, got it?"

There was a pause, and Jason felt the weight of Pippin's attention settle on him, like the eye of a hurricane.

I understand, mother, Pippin said at last, the words begrudging but obedient. I will not kill the pathetic excuses for dragons.

Jason chuckled softly, opening his eyes and stepping back from the window.

"Good boy," he murmured, the words laced with quiet amusement. That was one problem handled. For now.

He snapped his fingers, the sharp sound echoing through the room. A moment later, the heavy oak doors creaked open, and his assistant stepped in. The man's movements were brisk and precise, his gaze steady as he awaited orders.

Jason turned to face him, his expression calm but focused.

"Summon my war council," he said, his voice carrying a commanding edge. "It's time we discuss how to deal with Westeros. Properly, this time – and permanently, because this is the last time I tolerate the incest lizards on my lawn."

The assistant gave a quick nod, but Jason wasn't finished. He gestured toward the map table in the center of the room. "Prepare beds and lodgings for royal guests. And send word to the other cities – they're to welcome and rehouse the refugees from Westeros. Farmers, artisans, whoever shows up. Make sure they're treated well. I don't need complaints coming back to me."

About a day later, the skies above Qohor darkened, not with clouds, but with wings. The heavy thrum of air being beaten into submission echoed across the city as two dragons descended from the heavens. The first was Vermithor, a hulking, bronze-scaled beast whose wingspan seemed to blot out the sun. The second was Silverwing, sleek and elegant, her silvery hide catching the light like polished steel. Their roars shook the air, rattling windows and sending flocks of startled birds scattering into the distance.

Jason stood on the balcony of his keep, arms crossed as he watched the dragons circle. His expression was calm, but his sharp eyes tracked their every movement. Behind him, the gilded doors to the throne room stood open, flanked by two of his skeletal knights. The undead warriors stood motionless, their empty eye sockets glowing faintly with blue light.

A low rumble echoed in Jason's mind.

Pathetic creatures, Pippin muttered from his perch high in the mountains. They are not worthy to call themselves dragons.

Jason smirked, his gaze flicking briefly toward the distant peaks.

"Behave," he said under his breath. "I already told you - they're guests, not targets."

The dragons circled once more before landing in the wide courtyard below. Dust and loose gravel swirled in the air as Vermithor's massive claws struck the ground with a dull thud. Silverwing landed more gracefully, her silvery wings folding neatly against her sides as her rider dismounted. Jason leaned forward slightly, his curiosity piqued as he studied the figures approaching the keep.

Two riders. The first, a young man with golden hair, dressed in rich crimson and black, dismounted from Vermithor with practiced ease. His posture was straight, his movements precise. Even from this distance, Jason could see the intensity in his expression, the spark of determination in his eyes. Jaehaerys Targaryen, the prince who might one day become one of the greatest Targaryen kings – in the original timeline, at least.

Beside him was a young woman, her silvery hair shining like moonlight. Alyssane Targaryen, his sister – and lover. She slid from Silverwing's back with an elegance that spoke of years spent in the saddle. Her gaze was sharp, her steps purposeful as she fell into stride beside her brother. Together, they moved toward the gilded doors, their expressions a mixture of caution and determination.

Jason straightened, a faint smile playing at his lips.

"Well," he murmured, stepping back from the balcony. "Let's see what the golden children want."

He turned toward the throne room, his footsteps echoing off the marble floor. The skeletal knights fell into formation behind him, their armored forms moving with eerie precision. Jason didn't bother to sit on his throne. He'd greet them standing, face to face. After all, it wasn't every day that dragons knocked on his doorstep, hoping for his aid.


AN: Chapter 55 is out on (Pat)reon!