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Westeros, King's Landing
Ninth Moon of 57 AC
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The morning light over the Blackwater Rush usually brought a grayish calm to the Red Keep, but that morning the air in the chambers of the Small Council weighed heavier than the roar of Vermithor, the king's mount. The king himself leaned over the carved oak table—the very same table upon which there were no tax missives or reports regarding the Great King's Road, but only a letter sealed with melted wax, coarse and completely foreign to the standards of the crown.
Jaehaerys I Targaryen, the First of his Name, was not shouting. Or at least he was no longer doing so, having calmed himself and reclaimed that virtue which the realm had already learned to respect. The young king remained standing by the main table of the Small Council, one hand gripping the missive that had arrived hours earlier and the other resting upon the pommel of the Valyrian steel sword, Blackfyre, which rested at his belt. His face, habitually a mask of serenity that defied his few years, had turned to stone. The crown of yellow gold set with seven gemstones cast a dangerous shadow over his eyes.
A few meters from him, with her back to the window that looked out toward the bay, Queen Alysanne remained seated at one side of the table. Her hands, which normally held lace or parchment containing beneficent laws, were tightly clasped upon her lap. Her gaze did not waver from her husband. She knew every tension in the king's shoulders, every nearly imperceptible shift in his breathing.
"Married." The word left his mouth with contained wrath, a sentence exhaled in the dim light. "Without the consent of the throne. Without the blessing of the Faith. Without the knowledge of her own blood. Aerea has given her hand to a savage in the eastern lands."
"Aerea is a girl with fire in her veins, Jaehaerys," Alysanne intervened, trying to make her voice a balm to soothe the storm she saw coming. "A girl who never found her place in King's Landing, nor under the shadow of her mother in Dragonstone. She sought freedom."
"The freedom of a princess of the blood ends where the stability of the Seven Kingdoms begins," the king replied, turning with a calculated slowness. His violet eyes flashed with a cold fury. "It is not just that she has defied my authority as head of House Targaryen. She has wed Caspian. A man without titles recognized by Westeros, an upstart who walks through the Free Cities as if the legacy of Old Valyria was his by birthright. And now this? A marriage in exile? The realm is barely healing from the wounds of Maegor. The lords of Westeros look to the throne, expecting to see order, not a wayward princess forging alliances with the warlords of Essos."
Septon Barth, who remained in a respectful corner with the sleeves of his coarse robe tucked up, took a step forward. His face showed fatigue, the product of having spent the entire night analyzing the implications of the disaster they now had on their hands.
"Your Grace," Barth spoke softly. "The common people and the Faith will view this as an outrage; it is true. But the true danger does not reside in the vows that may have been pronounced in a foreign temple. It resides in what this Khal represents now that he walks beside her. A man with ambition, backed by the lineage of the princess, is a lit match over a barrel of oil. The old supporters of Aegon the Uncrowned's line might see a legitimate banner in Aerea's husband."
"Legitimate?" Jaehaerys let out a dry, humorless laugh. "This barbarian is nothing to this throne. He is a danger that must be contained. If he thinks that by enjoying the protection of Volantis and the Free Cities, and by taking what does not belong to him, he can defy the dragon, he is gravely mistaken."
"And what do you intend to do, my lord?" Alysanne asked, rising and approaching him. She placed a hand on his forearm, feeling muscles as tense as harp strings. "Will you send the Velaryon fleet to cross the Narrow Sea? Will you mount Vermithor and burn the city that shelters them? If you do that, you will become, according to the world, the monster we swore not to be. Aerea is still my niece. She is still a Targaryen."
Jaehaerys averted his gaze from his wife, turning it back toward the parchment on the table. His mind, that perfect machine of strategy and laws, was already calculating the ramifications. Every piece on the board of Westeros had to be moved with precision.
"Not to mention that the Khal has Qohor and Volantis in his favor, the Red Temple follows him as well, the... actions of sinful sorcery of Tyanna are still present, and that witch was but one, while the Temple has thousands, along with wealth and power in Essos—it is not something to be taken lightly," Barth exposed, risking Jaehaerys's wrath by mentioning Maegor's witch. "Not to mention that the Khal possesses a dragon, and Aerea rides the largest dragon in the world, a dragon hardened in war."
"I will not send ships," the king declared, his voice taking on the metallic ring of the Iron Throne. "But neither will I sit idly by while a stranger seizes one of the keys to the kingdom. If that barbarian believes the Narrow Sea is a sufficient barrier to protect his audacity, he forgot about fireflies. I demand daily reports from the spies we left in Pentos, in Myr, and in Tyrosh. I want to know every step that man takes, every word Aerea whispers upon waking. If this marriage intends to be a challenge to my crown, I will teach them that the Conciliator knows how to be as implacable as the Conqueror when it comes to defending the peace of the realm."
The queen fell silent, knowing that the wound to the dynasty's pride had been dealt. The Iron Throne did not forgive insolence, and Aerea, alongside her new husband, had just drawn a line in the sand that all of Westeros would watch with bated breath.
"Shit!"
Jaehaerys hurled the wine flagon that sat upon the table, startling Alysanne, who believed Jaehaerys had already calmed down. "To think that it is a Targaryen dragon, and she handed it over to a Dothraki savage in exchange for a kingdom in ruins."
Even Septon Barth, his greatest friend, stood waiting for Jaehaerys's anger to wane. "Your Grace," he intervened at just the right moment, when Jaehaerys had calmed himself once more, "I fear the news of a kingdom torn by wars is not true."
Jaehaerys looked at him, still hyperventilating. "Speak."
"This Khal controls six cities. Xandar is the largest and most powerful; it was built using magic and spells where Volantis once stood. Qohor and Vaes Yeraan follow it—the first is a powerful free city in its own right, and the other is a city used to train armies in the Dothraki style. Not to mention the three cities that were once controlled by Volantis and are now controlled by the Khal."
"Then what do I do? Become the butt of jokes?"
Barth lowered his gaze, trying to find the right words. "I recommend doing nothing for the moment, Your Grace."
"It is for the best," Alysanne intervened upon seeing that Jaehaerys was about to become agitated again. "Vermithor and Silverwing are young. They have Balerion, and Dreamfyre, a dragoness far fiercer than Vermithor. Not counting the Khal's own dragon, if we go to war right now, we will lose. The kingdom remains fractured; we have just emerged from a war that has cost us dearly. The great lords will not be pleased to undertake another campaign against forces that cannot be defeated at this time."
"Jaehaerys, please, be wise." Clarity returned to his gaze. He knew he could not go to war now; his reign was young, and the loyalty of his lords was younger still. He knew the fate that awaited him if he hurled himself to the other side of the world.
"What do you know of him?"
"Not much. His name is only just beginning to be heard. Before Volantis, he was a complete unknown. He does not even have Valyrian features, though it is said he has eyes that shine like embers and hair as red as blood."
"A sorcerer from Asshai, perhaps?" Alysanne asked, to which Barth could not answer with certainty. "I do not know, my queen. So many rumors arise that I no longer know what to believe. Some say he can fly, others that he can make cities grow from the very earth, others that he has powers like those of the heroes of old. Each rumor is more difficult to believe than the last, but they all say the same thing: that man is powerful and very dangerous."
"Send a raven to Oldtown. Have Rhaella come to the capital. I want her close—something to ensure us a token of restraint against my sister and her whore of a daughter."
Alysanne did not like how he referred to their niece, but she did not protest. Even she understood that it was a good idea to have Rhaella close, watched, and controlled.
"It shall be done, Your Grace."
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Essos, The Great Grass Sea
Tenth Moon of 57 AC
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"ROOOOAAAR!"
Endaxia folded her wings and dove, reaching astonishing speeds as the plains grew larger below.
The Dothraki Sea stretched as far as the eye could see, an infinite wave of tall grass swaying under an orange sun. The thunder of thousands of hooves drowned out the whisper of the wind. The Khalasar of Khal Magro advanced like a plague of locusts. More than twenty thousand riders, their long braids adorned with bells that jingled with a savage rhythm, rode with arakhs held high. Their war cries tore through the sky, a clamor directed toward the retinue that stood upon a low hill.
The retinue belonged to the mercantile enterprise of Xandar: thirty enormous carriages carrying food, armor, and weapons toward Vaes Yeraan to supply the continuous training in the kingdom's military city.
The Khalasar had spotted the convoy, and like thirsty men sighting an oasis, they charged, completely unaware that it was a trap.
For weeks, small caravans had been attacked by Khalasars. Because of this, Caspian had devised a snare: hundreds of crossbowmen would ride in the carriages disguised as merchants, while he and Aerea overflew from the sky. They did not expect it to yield results, given that it was a large convoy—targets that smaller Khalasars usually avoided—but today they were in luck, because a large Khalasar had bitten the bait.
Caspian did not wait for the Khalasar to get too close; once the distance between both sides closed, dragonfire would be counterproductive, as it did not distinguish between friend and foe.
Aerea followed closely behind him. There was no fear in her face, only the haughtiness of the pride of people who were called gods instead of men. And though she was not well-versed in dragon warfare, Balerion certainly was. Without needing orders, the Black Dread launched himself after Endaxia upon noticing her dive toward the Khalasar.
They say the sea of grass belongs to those who ride horses, the tide of warriors approaching less than a mile away, but perhaps that was about to change, because now it belonged to the beasts that traversed the skies.
The Dothraki did not believe the stories of the West. To them, dragons were myths of a dead Valyria, giant lizards that the men of the stone cities used to scare children. The bloodriders of Khal Moro espolearon their horses, convinced that the heads of those foreigners would adorn the pikes of Vaes Dothrak before nightfall, while their shouts and cries of euphoria filled the air.
Then, the sun went out.
A colossal shadow, so vast that it seemed to engulf the entire afternoon, cast itself over the vanguard of the khalasar. The air itself grew thick, heavy with the scent of sulfur and ash. From the highest heights of the clouds, a roar that made the earth itself tremble descended upon the green sea.
It was Balerion. The Black Dread.
His wings, immense expanses of dark leather that blocked the light, beat a single time, kicking up a storm of dust and grass torn out by the roots. The Dothraki horses, animals bred for war and strangers to ordinary panic, reared up on the spot, throwing their riders to the ground. The collective animal panic spread like wildfire. The shouts of the warriors transformed into shrieks of pure incredulity.
At his side, descending with a lethal grace and an excruciating speed, came Endaxia. Her scales, which gleamed with a dangerous, coppery hue, cut the wind like blades. Her roar, sharper but just as terrifying as that of the old titan, joined the chorus of destruction.
"¡Angōs!" The command rang out, bursting from Aerea's lips like a fire-made voice.
The Terror Negro opened his fauces. The fire of Balerion was no ordinary flame; it was a torrent of blackness and a burning core, a column of heat so devastating that it melted the sand and turned the grass to black smoke before the flame even touched the ground. The vanguard of the khalasar vanished instantly. The men and horses had no time to bleed; they were transformed into statues of ash that the wind from the dragon's wings immediately dispersed.
Endaxia crossed the left flank like a bolt of death. Her fire, of a bluish-purple hue closer to lightning, made lava and swept through the ranks of the Dothraki archers. The steel arakhs melted in the hands of the bloodriders, fusing with their skin while they tried in vain to protect themselves with shields of wicker and leather that disintegrated at the slightest contact.
Khal Moro, caught in the center of the chaos, tried to regroup his men. His braid, which had never been cut because he had never known defeat, moved forcefully against his back. He shouted curses to the gods of the sky, demanding that the Great Stallion bring down the beasts. He fired an arrow with his double-curved bow, a perfect shot that flew straight toward Balerion's chest. The arrow disintegrated in the air, consumed by the radiant heat emanating from the monster's scales before ever touching him.
Balerion descended, setting his gigantic talons upon the earth, crushing men and mounts under his massive weight. The ground cracked. With a sweep of his tail, he batted away a hundred riders, launching them into the air like broken straw dolls. Endaxia overflew in concentric circles, spitting lines of fire that created an impassable wall, trapping the khalasar in a circular hell.
The Dothraki Sea was no longer green. It was a desert of flames and scorched earth. The surviving riders, those who considered themselves the lords of the known world, fell to their knees, their faces covered in soot and their hands raised toward the beasts, begging clemency from the new gods who had descended from the sky.
From the sky, Caspian and Aerea contemplated the devastation. The wind brought the heat of the fire and the scent of victory. The Khalasar that had wanted to violate, sack, and kill was now terrified beneath a ring of fire that had no intention of going out.
Aerea looked at Caspian, her eyes reflecting the fire of the Dothraki Sea. He ordered her to remain in the sky using a code of hand movements the two had been sharing, since in the sky, the voice could not carry.
She gave him an "ok" signal, and Caspian then ordered Endaxia to land right in the center of the burning Khalasar, determined to end this as quickly as possible, because... he couldn't very well kill all the new members of his Khalasar, right?