An Emperor's Song
Disclaimer: I do not claim to own anything that is seen as property by the Game of Thrones, A Song of Ice and Fire & Percy Jackson & the Olympians franchises.
Warning: This story showcases violent themes, inappropriate sexual acts, foul language, etc. that is not suitable for most audiences, especially young adults and children. Please read at your own discretion or not at all.
Interlude 1.0
299 AC
Arc 1: Clash of Kings
oOo
In the Riverlands…
A golden hue casted itself across the great hall as Lord Edmure Tully sat at the head of the long oak table. He absently drummed his fingers against the polished surface, the air thick with tension, his morning brew long forgotten.
Before him lay a letter of invitation, its wax seal broken, detailing a startling event, a duel between Joffrey Baratheon and Perseus Targaryen.
"An invitation to a spectacle of pointless bloodshed," Edmure said, frustration lacing his voice. "They expect us to attend this farce as if it will somehow bind our loyalties."
At the far end of the table, his uncle, the Blackfish, regarded him with a steady, discerning gaze. "It is a dangerous game they play, Edmure. But avoiding this duel could send a message we cannot afford. Catelyn's boy has thrown his lot in with the Targaryens. Our loyalties are entangled to the North through House Stark, and the well-being of that loyalty hangs in the balance."
Edmure leaned back, wrestling with the weight of his responsibilities. "The North's alliance with the Targaryens complicates things. We must navigate this carefully. If we appear disloyal to the North, we risk losing everything my father worked for—not just our family's standing, but the safety of our lands and people."
The thought of his sister, Catelyn, now far away in the North, gnawed at him. And Sansa, trapped in King's Landing, surrounded by the cunning and ruthless. "How could I forget about little Sansa?" he asked, his voice softening. "She will surely be at the duel, alone among those snakes. My sister would become kinslayer if we abandoned her and her daughter at this time."
"Precisely," Blackfish replied, his tone resolute. "The issue is that by attending this duel in a show of support for the North, we risk being seen as supporters of House Targaryen."
"That is a risk we must take, uncle." Edmure sighed wearily, wishing he had some kind of leverage over the house of dragons.
He still didn't know how the Targaryen prince had managed to slip out from the dungeons of Riverrun. The guards he interrogated had been adamant that there was no noise or any other kind of indication that the prince had escaped. It was as if he had simply vanished into thin air. Perhaps there was some merit in the growing rumors that the Targaryen's were dabbling in the ancient magic of their Valyrian bloodline.
Edmure shook his head free of those baseless thoughts, the fire of determination igniting within him. "We will go. For Sansa, for the North. But if the Perseus boy wins, then we must be prepared to negotiate our own terms with the Targaryen's. Rally as many of the lords as we can, uncle. Our presence at that duel must also signal our unity, not just strength."
Blackfish inclined his head. "And we should inform Robb of our plans. He deserves to know the course we take, especially since he now leads the North. Communication is vital now more than ever."
"Agreed," Edmure said, his resolve solidifying. "We will send a raven at first light."
As the shadows lengthened in the hall, a sense of purpose settled over Edmure. They would attend the duel—not just as spectators but as vital players in a game far larger than themselves. Their duty to the North bound them to an extent, but their ultimate goal remained clear: to protect the Riverlands and ensure their legacy endured through the chaos.
oOo
In the Vale..
The walls of the Eyrie, adorned with the sigils of House Arryn, loomed high, echoing the weight of centuries of history.
The young lord, Robin Arryn, sat at the head of the long table, his youthful features marred by uncertainty, a stark contrast to the grandeur of his surroundings.
Petyr Baelish lounged casually in his own seat, his dark eyes glinting with a mixture of curiosity and cunning as he eyed the subject of the tension in the air.
The invitation had arrived that morning, its ornate seal bearing the sigil of House Targaryen, calling for the Lord Paramount of the Vale to either be present or send representatives to witness the upcoming duel between Joffrey Baratheon and Perseus Targaryen.
"Why would they want us to attend?" The ten year old Robin asked, fiddling with the edge of his tunic, his voice tinged with a hint of anxiety. "We've been so far removed from the war."
Littlefinger leaned forward, a sly smile playing on his lips. "Because, my lord, they seek to solidify their power. By inviting the great houses, they wish to present this duel as a legitimate process in regards to a change in the succession of the Iron Throne. It would also present an image of unity to the foreign nations, as if the various houses of Westeros stand together even in times of internal conflict."
Lady Lysa Arryn, seated beside her son, interjected with a sharp tone. "But what good will it do for us to attend? The kingdoms may be in chaos because of the foolish decisions of Joffrey Baratheon, but the Targaryens—" She paused, glancing at Littlefinger, who listened intently. "They are not our allies."
"They may not be our allies, mother, but now that the north, south, west and the isles are under their control, we cannot afford to make them our enemies." Robin's words came from an intimate understanding of the situation that Westeros was in.
Littlefinger couldn't help but feel a bit of pride for the young lord. Before, the boy had been too spoiled and sickly to rule the Vale. But seemingly overnight, the boy's ailments were healed. And apparently a strong body came hand in hand with a strong mind.
The Robin Arryn of today was a startling contrast to who he had been. It was something he still didn't know the full details about, his mother only claimed to have prayed nightly to the Father for his well-being.
"The choice to align with the Targaryens complicates matters, yes," Littlefinger interjected smoothly. "But even if we do not ally with them, attending this duel could strengthen our position. The Vale is still a crucial player, and our absence might suggest weakness. If we are to have any influence in the state of the kingdoms after the war, the Vale must be present, young lord."
Robin frowned, clearly torn. "But what if something happens? What if this duel is just a way for the Targaryen's to draw out all of their enemies into one place?"
Lady Lysa's expression hardened, a flash of protectiveness crossing her features. "I do not want my son in the midst of that chaos. He is not ready for the dangers of the court."
Littlefinger raised a hand, as if to placate her. "We would not send him, my lady. Instead, I suggest House Royce. They are loyal, well-respected, and capable of representing the Vale's interests without drawing unnecessary attention."
"This is too much. How did my father deal with this for so long?" Robin sighed.
"The late Lord Arryn was a very patient man. He never made a move without realizing all of the pieces at his disposal. You can learn from him, but do not make the same mistakes. No one can afford to be idle for too long." Petyr mentors the young lord.
Robin's gaze shifted from his mother to Littlefinger, the weight of his decision palpable in the air. "House Royce is a good choice. They have the experience and the stature to make our presence felt without implicating us in any direct conflict."
Lysa's shoulders relaxed slightly, though her brow remained furrowed. "Very well. If you believe this is prudent, my son, I will trust your judgment. But I think it best that we use what little time we have to ensure you are well-prepared for what lies ahead. Will you help with this, Lord Baelish?"
"Of course, my lady," Littlefinger said, his smile widening with a hint of mischief. "I shall personally see to it that the young lord fully understands the stakes and how to navigate these treacherous waters."
As the fire crackled and the shadows danced around them, a sense of resolution settled over the Eyrie. They would send House Royce as their representatives, stepping cautiously into the unfolding drama of the realm. The duel might just be a battle of swords, but for the Vale, it was an opportunity to secure their standing in the increasingly treacherous political landscape.
oOo
In Pentos…
The candlelight flickered in the lavishly adorned chambers of Illyrio Mopatis, intricately woven tapestries that depicted the storied history of Pentos surrounded the rotund man.
As one of the most reputable magisters in all of Pentos, his residence was a reflection of both wealth and influence, but on this night, the opulence seemed a mere backdrop to the heavy thoughts occupying his mind.
Illyrio sat at his grand oak table, an ornate goblet of spiced wine cradled in his hand, eyes narrowed as he once again read through the invitation laid before him.
The parchment was embossed with the sigil of House Targaryen, summoning not only the lords of the Seven Kingdoms but also the high society of Essos to witness the duel between Joffrey Baratheon and Perseus Targaryen. Yet, as the words flowed over him, he felt a tightening in his chest, a sense of urgency that clashed with the thrill of the event.
He turned his gaze towards a dimly lit corner of the room, where the figure of a young woman sat reading a book, partially obscured by the shadows. She was his ward—an exceedingly beautiful olive-skinned girl with dark ringlets cascading down her shoulders and striking violet eyes that held a depth of emotion he had not encountered in years. Those eyes, which could capture the light in a way that made them almost luminescent, were a secret he had sworn to protect.
"Illyrio," she said softly, her voice a melodic whisper that cut through the heavy silence once she noticed the attention of the magister. "What troubles you?"
He looked at her, and for a moment, the world outside faded away. "Fate calls, and yet I find myself reluctant to answer." He gestured to the invitation, his expression clouding with thought. "A duel in King's Landing, a spectacle of power and blood. It would be wise for me to attend, given my interests in Westeros but there are…certain complications."
Her brow furrowed in concern, though her features remained calm. "You have much power, my lord. What kind of complications could make you stay your hand?"
Illyrio sighed, his fingers tracing the rim of the goblet. "Because, my dear, sometimes the shadows are safer than the light. Attending this event would attract attention, and attention could jeopardize everything I have built for us." He hesitated, choosing his words carefully. "For you."
The room was steeped in tension, and he could feel the weight of her gaze, as if she could pierce through the veil of secrecy he had woven around her. A close friend of his had brought her to Pentos for her protection, and he did a very good job of hiding her from the eyes of those who would wish to exploit her, and now the very prospect of exposure made his heart race with fear.
"Do you believe me to be weak?" she asked, her voice held a distinct amount of venom that teased her ancestry. "I'm no longer a little girl. I can handle myself now. Whatever you fear, I can face it."
"No, it is not weakness I fear," he replied, his tone firm but gentle. "It is the world outside these walls, the machinations of men who would see you as a prize to be taken. You are not merely a ward; you are a vital piece in a game much larger than you can imagine."
He stood and walked to the window, gazing out at the moonlit city, where whispers and shadows mingled. "In this duel, I see a calculated play, a great shift in the balance of power. But for you, I only see danger. We must remain hidden for as long as we can."
The young woman rose, stepping further into the light, revealing a determined expression that made her violet eyes shimmer. "Then let us actually devise a plan together, Illyrio. I am not some fragile garden snake, Illyrio. I can aid you in your plans, not just be a secret to protect."
He turned to face her fully, admiration and worry swirling within him. "Your courage is commendable, but there is more at stake than ambition. Your identity must remain a secret, at least until the right moment. Don't worry, princess. We won't have to remain in the shadows for long."
As she slowly nodded, a shared understanding passed between them—a silent agreement forged in the depths of their entwined fates. In that moment, Illyrio realized that while he still wished to protect her from the world, she now had the strength of heart to challenge it.
And in the starry sky that twinkled above Pentos, a sense of foreboding mingled with hope. For within the careful dance of fate, a greater plan began to take shape.
oOo
In Braavos…
The halls of the Iron Bank of Braavos were built not just for grandeur, but to evoke a sense of permanence and unyielding power; that no matter what, the Iron Bank would have its due.
Its marble pillars rose high above the polished stone floors, reflecting the light from the iron sconces that lined the walls. Within these walls, wealth was not simply measured in coin, but in the leverage that it bought, and in the agreements struck behind closed doors.
On this day, a missive bearing the seal of House Targaryen lay open on a vast mahogany table. The invitation, with its formal script, called upon all of the powers of high society to witness the duel between Joffrey Baratheon and Perseus Targaryen—a match that promised to shape the future of Westeros.
Tycho Nestoris, one of the senior representatives of the Iron Bank, stood beside the table, his thin fingers tapping a calculated rhythm against the wood.
His sharp eyes, dark and unyielding as the waters of Braavos, scanned the details of the invitation. Around him, the quiet murmurs of advisors and clerks barely disturbed the many thoughts running rampant in his mind.
"It seems Westeros cannot go a month without finding a reason to glorify bloodshed," one advisor muttered, his voice low with disapproval.
Tycho's lips curved into a slight, knowing smile. "But bloodshed often leads to opportunity," he said, his tone clipped and businesslike. "This duel is more than a mere display of power. It will determine which claimant proves their right to the throne and, by extension, which investments of ours will bear greater fruit."
A senior clerk, aged and bent with the weight of decades of accounts, stepped forward. "If either side succeeds, what assurances do we have that any of our loans will be repaid in full, especially with how devastating the war has been to the Seven Kingdoms?"
Tycho turned, eyes gleaming with an almost predatory focus. "That is why we must send a representative. The presence of an emissary would signal to the westerners that the Iron Bank is closely watching and that its interests are not to be disregarded." He looked down at the invitation, considering.
He leaned back, folding his arms as he issued his decision. "Send Ser Meros Volentin. He is trusted and shrewd, capable of gauging the temperament of those who are to hold the power after this spectacle. He will be our eyes and ears, ensuring that our investments are safeguarded."
The advisors exchanged approving nods. Ser Meros was known for his deft diplomacy and keen insight, able to traverse the dangerous waters of Westerosi politics without becoming entangled in them. His presence would serve as a subtle yet unmistakable reminder that they, regardless of who claimed victory, were a great power neither king nor pretender could afford to overlook.
As the clerks moved to prepare the dispatch, Tycho's expression remained impassive. Westeros was a land rich in conflict and gold, and he intended to make sure that whatever tides shifted after the duel, they would be poised to profit greatly. For the Iron Bank did not take sides; it took opportunities.
oOo
In Qarth…
The grand hall of the Council of the Thirteen was a sight that mirrored the opulence and splendor for which Qarth was known. Colored silks draped from gilded pillars, and rare gemstones embedded in the polished marble floors reflected the sun's rays filtering through the high-arched windows. This was the heart of what many believed to be the greatest city that ever was or ever will be, a place where power was measured not in swords, but in gold, spices, and silks.
At the center of the hall sat the Spice King, Belicho Paenymion, a man of considerable girth and dressed in robes that shimmered with every color imaginable. Beside him lounged the Silk King, Xaros Orlyn Mo, a thin figure with sharp eyes and fingers adorned with chrome rings that caught the light whenever he moved. Around them, other merchant lords of the Thirteen filled their thrones, each more elaborately dressed than the last, with bezeled turbans and silk robes embroidered with gold thread.
Before them, a messenger knelt, the parchment in his raised hands bearing the seal many knew but never expected to see again. He had delivered an invitation from the house of dragons, its contents calling on the great powers of the known world to witness the duel between Joffrey Baratheon and Perseus Targaryen, a battle that promised to send tremors across even the narrow sea.
Silence stretched across the hall as Belicho skimmed the letter, his plump fingers tapping against his bejeweled chest with mild irritation. The Spice King was a man who could measure opportunity with a glance, and he already knew the answer before he raised his eyes to his fellow Thirteen.
"A duel between two Westerosi kings," he said, his voice rich and smooth, though tinged with skepticism. "A battle for their Iron Throne, no doubt to be fought with the ferocity of their kind."
The Silk King, with a smirk that pulled at the corners of his gaunt face, spoke next. "Fascinating, but a spectacle nonetheless. Does their fate truly concern us? Our trade ships will continue to sail as they always have, whether it is a Baratheon or a Targaryen who holds court."
Murmurs of agreement rippled through the council. The Thirteen had grown wealthy not by wagering on kings, but by trading with whomever was in power. They knew better than to entangle themselves in the chaos of politics, where alliances shifted like desert sands.
The Cloth Queen, Elarys Pyrevaen, was a lean merchant lady with eyes as sharp as a falcon's. She leaned forward, breaking the silence. "And yet, we cannot ignore the winner's favor. Whoever claims victory will influence the ports, the taxes, and the policies that dictate our trade routes."
Belicho's eyes narrowed in thought. "True, but we need not grovel at their feet like supplicants. Let us send no representatives, but when the duel's victor emerges, we shall remind them of the luxuries that go hand in hand with Qarth's goodwill." His voice dipped with calculated generosity. "We will send gifts enough to placate anyone's sored pride without ever leaving our thrones."
The Silk King nodded, a sly smile crossing his face. "Let the winner know that Qarth is benevolent and that friendship with our great city brings riches unmatched."
With the decision made, a scribe was called forth, his ink-stained fingers at the ready. The Thirteen agreed unanimously: no presence in Westeros, no risk of entangling themselves in the matters of other nations, but a promise of riches that would tie them to the crown, whichever head wore it after the clash.
As the meeting adjourned, Belicho allowed himself a self-satisfied chuckle. Let the kings of Westeros shed blood over their petty iron seat; Qarth would forever remain the city of wealth, its influence stretching subtly, without ever raising a sword.
oOo
In Volantis…
The grand hall of the Temple of the Lord of Light in Volantis was a place steeped in power and fervent devotion. Towering statues of R'hllor loomed over the chamber, their stone eyes aflame as if watching the mortals below with divine scrutiny. Fires crackled in braziers placed along the length of the room, casting flickering shadows that seemed to take shape across the black stone walls. Chanting voices echoed softly, harmonizing with the constant hum of the sacred flames.
At the head of the hall, seated upon a carved throne of obsidian, was High Priest Benerro. He had a commanding presence, his crimson robes adorned with intricate embroidery depicting the holy flames. His silver beard shone in the light, and his dark eyes, sharp and unyielding, regarded the scroll before him. Bearing the three-headed dragon sigil of House Targaryen, the parchment held an invitation to a duel that promised to shake the very foundations of Westeros: a clash between Joffrey Baratheon and Perseus Targaryen.
As the High Priest scanned the contents, a figure crept forward from the shadows of the hall. Kinvara, a fairly new red priestess whose reputation was beginning to eclipse even those far older and more seasoned, moved with an air of calm confidence. Her eyes, deep and alight with a knowing gleam, locked onto Benerro's.
"High Priest," Kinvara's voice was soft, yet it carried through the hall, silencing the murmurs of the acolytes who had gathered around. "I see you have read the invitation. It is an opportunity, yes, but not one aligned with the Lord of Light's greater purpose."
Benerro's brow lifted, curiosity piqued by the interruption. "You advise against us interfering? The flames of conflict in Westeros have always served to further spread our faith, to draw more followers to the true god."
Kinvara stepped closer, the firelight painting her face with an ethereal glow. "The flames do not lie, High Priest. They have shown us all visions of a darkness greater than the struggles of mortal men—a night that stretches far beyond the Iron Throne, one that threatens to consume even the brightest fire. Our place is not in the games of thrones but in preparing for the true war to come. Let the fools of the Triarchy bend over backwards to placate their beloved dragon lords."
A ripple of unease passed through the gathered priests, their eyes shifting to Benerro, who sat unmoving, fingers steepled. The weight of Kinvara's words settled in the room like a thick mist, and even the fire seemed to crackle with an uncertain energy.
Benerro's voice was measured when he spoke. "You speak of prophecies and shadows. But the duel may change the balance of power in Westeros, bringing it closer to the light. Why should we not stake our influence now, when the world watches?"
Kinvara's lips curved into a faint smile, a spark of defiance tempered by conviction. "Because this duel, this dance of power, is but a candle in the wind. Let the two of them fight and the winner claim their throne. We must keep our gaze fixed beyond their fleeting crowns. And when the right time comes, we will present ourselves, not as mere bystanders but as saviors. The Lord of Light's eternal flame will illuminate the world, not through a silly contest, but by exposing the Great Darkness."
For a long moment, silence reigned. The flames seemed to hold their breath, awaiting the High Priest's decree. At last, Benerro leaned back, his expression unreadable, but the slight nod of his head spoke volumes.
"Very well," he said, his voice a low rumble. "The Temple will not send its emissaries. Let the lords of Westeros play their games. We will save our faith for the greater battle, as is shown in the flames."
The priests and acolytes exchanged glances, some relieved, others disappointed. But Kinvara stood tall, her hand rising to rest soothingly on her belly, knowing the path she was now guided on by R'hllor was one that would require her to walk ahead of others too weak-willed to endure the long, dark road ahead.
And besides, she knew that one day she would be face to face with Perseus Targaryen. It was a predestined reunion that would expose the threads of fate that had been spun around the entire world since his very birth.
oOo
In Westeros…
Atop the highest peak located in the Sunset Mountains of the Westerlands, stood the soon-to-be ruler of the Seven Kingdoms, Perseus Targaryen.
The thinner air pressure was of little concern to the demigod whose breathing held a steady and strong rhythm as he stared ahead, his hands clasped behind his back.
"Lysono." The powerful and commanding voice of the Targaryen, that somehow seemed softer than the wind, could be heard quite clearly.
Another presence made itself known, as if from the very shadows of the mountain peak, Lysono Maar, the greatest assassin in recent history. "It is done, my king." The mysterious killer's black robes billowed in the wind as he dutifully knelt behind the young man who had proven himself to be a far more worthy leader than the old crones who led the House of Black and White.
Though he gestured for the assassin to stand at his side, Perseus's gaze remained firmly on the surrounding terrain of the west, its lush, green landscapes shrouded in the darkness of night, but not to his sight.
"The war will be over soon. There's little hope of the Baratheon boy defeating you." Lysono commented.
After a moment of contemplative silence, Perseus responded. "I doubt there's anyone in this world that can beat me in a fair fight. But you're wrong about one thing…this war is far from over."
The Lyseni man's confusion was palpable. His understanding was that the war would be finished once the Baratheon's lost and forfeited their claim to the Iron Throne.
Perseus's calm voice carried over the howls of the wind with an iron resolve. "Westeros is stuck in an endless cycle of violence, corruption and ambition. Its laws are always subject to change on the whims of ever-changing rulers. There will never be true peace for me and my family, not until we're the only ones left with any real power. That's why I made a promise to break the wheel. No more will children be ripped from their families in the dead of night because of an uprising. No more will the common people be subjected to the ridicule of those lucky enough to be born above them. In a kingdom of my making, the only things that will matter are integrity, loyalty and the strength to defend both."
Lysono quietly absorbed the shocking yet wise words of a youth who had barely reached manhood.
The silence that followed was heavy, broken only by the low wail of the wind. Lysono's sharp eyes, trained to read the slightest shift in emotion, noted the flicker of something deeper in Perseus's expression—a mixture of determination and the inconceivable weight of the burden he had chosen to bear upon his shoulders.
"My king," Lysono finally spoke, his voice softer now, almost reverent. "The lords of Westeros will not yield easily. They will band together, their resources combined, their treacheries united. To break the wheel is to court the wrath of every powerful house from the Reach to the Stormlands."
Perseus's lips curled into a faint, knowing smile, though his eyes remained hard as steel. "Let them come," he said, a dark flame of conviction burning behind his gaze. "They are like dogs, desperate to protect their hold on the pack's order. But they've forgotten that a dragon answers to no one. And I am far more than just a dragon; I am the light that will reveal their delusions and burn away their false pride. This world will change, whether it wants to or not."
The soft winds that echoed across the peaks picked up in speed and began howling fervently, as if the gods themselves were stating plainly their denial. Lysono's eyes darted around at the event, the assassin momentarily unsettled. But Perseus stood firm, imposing as if he could make even the mountain they stood upon bow down to him if need be.
"My king," Lysono dared again, his voice barely rising above the wind, "if this is your path, then you will need allies—not just those who fear your power, but those who believe in your vision."
"I will have them," Perseus interrupted, his tone leaving no room for doubt. "Whether it be through kinship, pacts or divine intervention. I will have people to help me with this goal of mine. That's not an issue. The issue is whether or not you will be one of those few people, Lysono."
Confusion overtook the assassin's demeanor. "Have I not already sworn to give my services to only you, my king?"
Perseus didn't seem insulted by the well meaning words. "The word of man is as meaningful as a priest in a whore house. To truly become one of my people, you have to put your faith in me, only me, even if it may blind you to other's truths. You must become as devoted to me as a blind man is to his god."
Lysono's eyes widened. The implications of such words were beyond even his understanding, steeped in secrets older than the Faceless Men themselves.
After a long moment, the former assassin of the House of Black and White fell to the ground, his head inclined to the future, the sharp lines of his face etched with newfound clarity.
The wind tugged at his robes, but he no longer felt its chill. His loyalty, once a weapon wielded only for coin and survival, now found its purpose in the shadow of this young conqueror's ambition.
"My liege," Lysono began, eyes meeting Perseus with the rare gleam of genuine devotion, "I have walked paths where shadows and death are the only gods that matter, where names are stripped away and only silence holds sway. I have served the Faceless Men and spilled blood in the name of men who called themselves kings. But no god of shadow or death, no sacred decree, has ever commanded my soul as you do now."
He bowed his head deeply, his voice resonating with an intensity that silenced even the howling wind. "By the life that remains in me, and the death that I owe to none but you, I pledge my blade, my faith, and my very essence. Let the old gods watch from their withering trees and the new gods tremble in their houses of stone. For I, Lysono Maar, the greatest of assassins, Giver of Death, swear to stand beside you until the last ember of my soul is extinguished from this realm. Your cause will be my prayer, and your victory my salvation."
Perseus's expression did not soften as he turned to the assassin, but anyone attuned with the divine could feel that something unspoken was forged between them—a spiritual bond stronger than any oath taken in a sept or whispered in the dark halls of the House of Black and White.
"Rise, Lysono Maar," Perseus said, the dawn breaking behind him like a crown of light. "And together, we will break the wheel and forge a world where no god, tyrant or otherwise, dares to challenge the strength of a people united by faith and loyalty."
Lysono stood to his feet, and as the smallest fraction of the burden his liege carried settled over him, his knees buckled. In that moment, he knew that he was no longer merely following a king. He was following a champion of fate itself.
A sudden burst of wind sent a shiver racing up the assassin's spine, and he knew, with a bone-deep certainty, that the world was on the brink of a reckoning not seen since the Doom of Valyria.
"Then we begin?" Lysono asked, his cold, shaky voice steadying as he sought comfort in the hearth-like presence of his king.
Perseus turned, his purple eyes locking onto the world beyond with a resolve that could have shattered the mountain range itself. "Yes. Today, the wheel will start to break, and Westeros will rise under the banner of a new era. A new age. One forged in fire."
As the sun's first light crept over the horizon, Perseus Targaryen looked toward the dawn not just as a conqueror, but as a maker of kingdoms, of empires. The game of thrones would no longer be just a game played by lords and kings but rather champions and gods.
It would be the forging of destiny itself.
And so began the Age of Fire.
A/N: Lots of sneak peeks at the greater things to come with the end of this arc, some plots will unfold sooner rather than later, and others not so soon but the journey will be entertaining to say the least. Review your thoughts, questions or expectations for quicker chapters.
Also, to stem any future confusion, this is a rough estimate of the ages of some of the significant people in the story. It's subject to change as I'm still integrating the differing timelines of ASOIAF and GOT. Feel free to criticize it and give advice on any changes that make more sense canonically. But keep in mind that some of the ages are changed solely to fit the narrative of this specific story better.
(Character Ages by the end of 299 AC)
Perseus Targaryen- 18
Daenerys Targaryen- 14
Viserys Targaryen- 24
Jon Connington - -6ft
Tyrion Lannister- 25
Cersei Lannister- 32
Margaery Tyrell- 16
Tristan Waters- 15
Catelyn Stark- 35
Robb Stark - 15
Melisandre- ?
Joffrey Lannister - 13
Sansa Stark - 12
Missandei - 11
Arriane Martell- 23
Stannis Baratheon- 34
Sandor Clegane- 28
Petyr Baelish- 32
Lysono Maar- ?
Tyene Sand- 23
Loras Tyrell- 18
Edric Dayne - 11
Arya Stark- 11
Doran Martell - 51
Oberyn Martell - 36
Theon Greyjoy- 21
Jaime Lannister- 32
Gregor Clegane- 32
Theon Greyjoy- 21
******* Targaryen- 20
Myrcella - 10
Tommen- 8
Robin Arryn - 10
Varys - ?