ARC IV: THE SECOND DANCE OF DRAGONS
Chapter 56: The Claim of the Impostor
POV: Young Griff (304 AC)
From the window of my room on the top floor of a decaying, foul-smelling inn, I contemplate the great pyramid rising against the orange sky of the East. High up there, in that colossal stone structure, lives and rules my aunt Daenerys.
I have been in this cursed city for a few days, hidden alongside the small elite of Golden Company officers who accompanied me. We spent the last few nights mapping every alley, bribing guards, and meticulously planning how we will execute our infiltration. I flatly refuse to present myself before my aunt like a beggar, on my knees, begging for her attention. I know the news of my existence and my true story has already reached her ears, and I know perfectly well that she denied me.
But it is not her fault. It is obvious that this is the doing of that bitch sitting by her side—the Northern Emperor's bitch, the masked woman who whispers poison into her ears day and night, turning her against our dynasty's just cause. It is astonishing how Lord Varys managed to survive so many kings, so many rebellions, and so much time in power while being such a profoundly stupid man. He swore that Northern witch was merely a pawn on the board, but she ruined my initial diplomatic plans.
It matters not. Once I lay my hands on one of the dragons and take the Iron Throne by right of blood, I will march with the full might of the South toward the North. I will deliver to my mother, Princess Elia, the severed head of that arrogant Emperor and the Northern brute he forced her to marry. I can picture the scene perfectly in my mind: tears of relief and pure joy falling from my mother's eyes when I hand her, on a silver platter, the head of the man she has been forced to be married to for over twenty years. Yes, she will be immensely happy to see that her true son has returned to free her from that savagery.
Varys's little birds brought us confirmation that the queen is still tied up in Astapor organizing her fleet's departure for Westeros. The timing is perfect. The great pyramid is vulnerable, and we will take advantage of tonight's darkness to strike.
Night finally falls, blanketing the narrow, dusty alleys in a veil of dense shadow. We advance in absolute silence through the dark, a small group of four men wrapped in dark cloaks, moving toward the base of the great pyramid where the dragons remain chained in the depths.
We hide in the recesses of the stone walls whenever a patrol of Unsullied passes by with their spears and synchronized footsteps. Using the underground routes and secret maps already laid out by Varys's spies, we slip through the service corridors without major issues. We quietly dispose of two distracted guards at the entrance to the lower levels and enter the chilly, damp air of the catacombs.
It is now or never.
We light smoke-heavy torches and press deeper into the maze of carved stone. The heat in the air begins to rise gradually, and the smell of sulfur and burnt flesh becomes almost unbearable. Suddenly, a noise echoes in the dark ahead—the heavy dragging of iron chains against the stone floor.
We freeze on the spot. I turn my head, searching for the source of the sound, until from the deepest shadows emerges first a colossal head, covered in shining emerald-green scales. Even though visibly smaller than my aunt's black dragon, the beast before us is still terrifyingly immense. The monster's golden eyes lock onto our group.
Taking a step back would show weakness. I am the blood of the dragon. I advance slowly, raising my open hand and pronouncing in the tongue of Old Valyria the exact words I was told Daenerys uses to tame her beasts:
— *Submit, Rhaegal!* — I declare, my voice echoing with the pride of a king.
It is a beautiful name. It reminds me of my father, Prince Rhaegar, and will be the greatest sign of my destiny and my divine right to rule Westeros.
The dragon freezes for a second. His nostrils flare, releasing two columns of gray smoke. *Yes!*, I think, victorious. *The beast recognizes the blood of its master!*
But my triumph lasts for a fraction of a second. Rhaegal snaps open his jaws filled with dagger-like teeth and lunges with terrifying speed. I am saved at the last instant by one of the Golden Company veterans beside me, who shoves me violently to the ground. The sound of breaking bones echoes down the corridor as the dragon strikes the man's arm with his heavy snout.
The other soldier, seized by panic, commits the stupidity of drawing his sword and striking the beast's snout. The brave steel simply bounces off the bronze-hard scales. Rhaegal bites the soldier through the torso, snapping him in half in an explosion of blood and entrails, before violently swinging his head and hurling the third man against the stone wall. The sound of the mercenary's skull and spine shattering against the rock is perfectly audible, but he doesn't even have time to scream, for he is immediately engulfed by an overwhelming blast of emerald flames that reduces him to ashes in seconds.
The man who saved me drags me up by the collar with his good hand, and we run desperately down the corridor. Since Rhaegal is bound by thick chains at the back of the chamber, he cannot pursue us beyond the reach of the iron.
Panting against the cold wall, I realize our group of four men has been reduced to just two. I look at the survivor and see that his left arm is twisted at a completely unnatural angle—a fracture so severe that I doubt he will ever hold a sword again.
— What now, my king? — the man asks, his voice trembling with pain and sheer terror. — What shall we do? The noise of the flames and screams might have alerted the guards above!
— We are already here, you fool, — I reply, wiping the soot from my face and keeping my posture erect. — If that green monster rejected me, it is because my father's soul did not reside in him. The other dragon is waiting for us.
We advance with renewed haste through the dark catacombs. Time is running out. I chose to make this strike in the dead of night to catch the guards and beasts off guard, but between the time spent infiltrating and the turns we took to find the right chamber in this pitch blackness, it must be near morning outside.
Suddenly, as we hurry down the labyrinthine corridors, a colossal, gutural roar echoes through the structure. The sound is so violent and deep that ancient dust cascades from the stone ceiling and the walls vibrate beneath my feet. The echo reverberates with such force through the catacombs that it is impossible to identify its exact source.
A cold shiver runs down my spine. I look at the injured mercenary beside me, who freezes with eyes wide in sheer terror. Was that the furious roar of Rhaegal, desperately trying to break free from his chains to come after us in the shadows? Or was it the terrifying roar of Drogon, signaling that Daenerys and her retinue have just unexpectedly returned to the great pyramid?
The agonizing doubt and uncertainty heighten the pressure in my chest, making my heart hammer against my ribs. There is no time to hesitate. If it is my aunt returning, we will be cornered down here like rats; if it is the green dragon breaking free, we will be devoured. I swallow hard, pick up the pace, and press deeper into the darkness, driven by the urgency of the moment.
As I round a narrow corner, I see him before he even notices our presence.
There he is: a magnificent dragon, covered in cream-colored scales with golden accents that glisten under the dim light of the torches. He is a gorgeous creature. I walk toward him, this time keeping my mind cool, serene, and focused. The large dragon raises his head and fixes his glowing eyes on me.
— *Calm, Viserion...* — I say in High Valyrian, keeping my tone firm.
The beast lifts his body, and I see his chest scales inflate as he prepares to incinerate me. But this time I do not retreat a single inch. I look deep into his eyes and bellow with all the authority of my blood:
— *Calm, Viserion! Submit!*
The dragon blinks and, slowly, the aggressive glare in his eyes dissipates. The beast relaxes his neck and lets out a long sigh of hot air against my chest.
I smile, seized by a divine ecstasy. *Yes! That was it!* I had simply forgotten to calm the previous dragon before demanding submission! That was why the attempt with the green one went wrong, not because there was any flaw in me or in my noble blood!
I approach slowly, reach out my hand, and touch the warm, rough skin of Viserion's snout. The moment my hands close over the cream scales, I feel a mystical, instantaneous bond flow between the beast's mind and my own.
— I did it... — I murmur, mesmerized.
I look at the heavy chains binding the dragon to the ground and call the injured mercenary to help me. Working against time and using an iron bar as a lever, we manage to release the main shackle's latches. Freed, the dragon shakes his immense wings with a deafening noise.
I climb Viserion's wing and settle between the spines of his back. I concentrate my will and command him to blast a path open. Viserion raises his head, roaring loudly, and shoots a stream of golden flames against the ceiling and side wall of the catacomb. With claws and fire, the beast destroys the ancient masonry, tearing a colossal hole in the pyramid's structure that opens directly to the morning sky.
— *Fly, Viserion! Soves!* — I shout at the top of my lungs.
The dragon beats his wings violently and launches into the sky outside the pyramid. Looking down as we ascend into the heavens, I see through the gap torn in the rocks the figure of the mercenary who helped me being impaled by a dozen Unsullied spears rushing the area. I don't care about his death in the slightest. After all, I am now the king of the world, riding a dragon. If I had said the right words from the beginning, I would have left there riding two dragons, but that is an irrelevant detail. I'll come back for the other one later.
As I enjoy the freezing wind hitting my face, I hear a thunderous roar echo above the clouds. I look to the side and see the colossal black dragon, Drogon, slicing through the skies. Mounted in a saddle on the black beast's back is Daenerys.
I make Viserion circle down to the paved courtyard in front of the great pyramid. My dragon lands with a heavy impact, shaking the ground. Moments later, Daenerys lands Drogon a few meters away. Dozens of Unsullied guards, Dothraki warriors, and the queen's advisors emerge from the pyramid doors, surrounding the courtyard. I remain lofty, mounted on Viserion's back, while Daenerys dismounts Drogon and advances on foot toward me.
She walks halfway across the courtyard, escorted by her men, and fixes her cold eyes on me.
— Who are you? — she asks, her voice stern.
I let out a mocking laugh from above.
— Do you not recognize a face that is the spitting image of your own brother, Daenerys? — I ask, puffing out my chest.
She sizes me up from head to toe with a clinical look.
— You look nothing like Viserys.
— Not Viserys, you fool! — I correct her haughtily. — My face is the exact copy of Rhaegar Targaryen!
Daenerys shifts her gaze to the woman beside her—the mysterious figure dressed in an elegant tunic, wearing an iron mask that conceals her face.
— Why did Aegon come from the North to steal my dragon, Shiera? — Daenerys asks her advisor.
The woman in the iron mask steps forward. Her voice echoes soft, yet loaded with refined disdain:
— This boy is not Aegon, Dany dear... — The Northern witch turns her head toward me. — Who are you, bastard?
Fury chokes my throat at such audacity.
— I am Aegon VI Targaryen! — I shout for everyone in the courtyard to hear. — Legitimate son of Rhaegar and the one true King of the Iron Throne! And now I am here, mounted on my dragon, to accept you by my side, my dear aunt!
The woman in the iron mask observes my face for a few seconds and lets out a muffled, nostalgic laugh.
— Yes... your face truly is familiar to me, boy, — the Emperor's bitch says, shaking her head. — You remind me very much of my foolish brother.
— Brother? Which brother?! — I ask, confused and irritated.
— You remind me terribly of Daemon, — she answers coldly.
I know perfectly well which Daemon she refers to: Daemon Blackfyre.
— Do not dare accuse me of being a Blackfyre bastard just because the Golden Company fought alongside them in three of the five rebellions! — I snap, adjusting my stance on the dragon. — Those men abandoned their old ambitions and finally joined the right side of history! Alongside Rhaegar's true son!
Daenerys looks at me with an expression that blends sheer incredulity and deep pity.
— The worst part of all... is that he actually believes it, — my aunt whispers to Shiera, outraged. — How can there be a man so terribly foolish in this world?
Those words corrode my pride like acid. The fury in my chest ascends until it becomes unbearable. Nobody speaks to the King of Westeros like that!
— *Dracarys, Viserion! Attack!* — I order with all the force of my lungs.
The dragon hesitates for a second, confused by the presence of Daenerys standing right there before him, but my implacable will prevails in the end. Viserion snaps open his jaws and fires a stream of cream-colored flames directly at Daenerys and her advisors. It is much better to eliminate a troublesome pretender once and for all!
The attack catches everyone off guard. However, before the fire can reach Daenerys, one of the Northern brutes acting as her personal guard leaps in front of the queen, using his own body as a human shield. The second the dragon's flames collide against the man, his body glows intensely with dozens of runic matrices carved directly into his skin.
I smile from above. *Idiots! As if the mediocre magic of the Northern barbarians could withstand the supreme power of a dragon!*
However, before I can celebrate their deaths, a reddish shockwave is fired from the iron-masked woman's hand. The mystical attack cuts through the air with a piercing whistle and strikes Viserion's wing. The dragon lets out a painful yelp as the magic tears his scales and sends blood spraying across the courtyard.
I am horrified. *This woman really must have the blood of Old Valyria! She is capable of wounding a dragon! That must be why she abandoned that weak Emperor in the North, knowing she is stronger than him!*
At that same moment, Drogon lets out an earth-shaking roar and charges furiously at us. The black dragon lunges with open talons, and Viserion is forced to battle on the ground to defend us. I hold on with all my strength to the spines on my dragon's back so as not to be hurled to my death while the two beasts clash.
Drogon quickly gains the upper hand due to his colossal size. The black beast pins Viserion's wings to the ground and snaps open his jaws filled with black and reddish flames, ready to incinerate both me and my dragon. I close my eyes, awaiting the end, when I hear Daenerys's voice echo through the courtyard:
— *No, Drogon! Stop[1]!*
The black dragon halts his attack immediately, obeying his master's command. I open my eyes, surprised, and see that both Daenerys and the Northern brute survived. The brute is on his knees, his skin and body smoking and scorched, but alive—he took Viserion's direct breath to his body and wasn't reduced to ashes!
Panic finally freezes my soul. Digging my fingers into Viserion's scales and spines, I desperately order him to beat his wings and flee into the sky—since the dragon has no saddle or reins, I hold on for dear life. The cream dragon launches into the air and bolts away from Meereen. Looking back, I see that Drogon does not pursue us, for Daenerys is kneeling on the ground, weeping over the body of the man who protected her.
*That brute will surely die in a few minutes,* I think to myself to steady my nerves as we pull away. *If that Emperor's runes really had the power to withstand a dragon's fire without even killing the host, the war in the South would be very difficult for us.*
I reach the Golden Company's fleet of ships that had set sail hours earlier. Since they knew the infiltration would be dangerous and that I would return flying, the ships were already out at sea. I land Viserion on the deck of the flagship, where I am received with cheers and shouts of victory from the mercenaries.
The sea voyage toward Westeros proceeds surprisingly smoothly. We face no storms or mishaps, stopping only a few times at deserted islets for Viserion to hunt and rest. I must confess that I don't much like the name "Viserion"—I would have preferred to have tamed Rhaegal, as the name honored my father and symbolized my destiny of greatness. Viserion means nothing of the sort. However, the dragon is already accustomed to being called that, so I will keep the name for convenience.
Weeks later, the outline of Westeros finally rises on the horizon. I fly over the imposing fortress of Storm's End mounted on my dragon. As soon as Viserion lands in the stone courtyards of the fortress I took with extreme ease, I am received with military honors, cheers, and effusive celebrations from the lords of the Stormlands and the Golden Company commanders.
The time has come to prepare the real war for the conquest of the continent. But before marching on King's Landing, I have a sacred commitment to honor.
Now, inside the sept of Storm's End, I stand before the altar, officializing my marriage to my cousin, Princess Arianne Martell. My uncle Doran arranged this wedding from afar to demonstrate to all the people of Westeros that Dorne is officially on our side, ratifying my true identity before the Seven Kingdoms.
During the grand wedding feast that follows, I observe the noble tables and cannot contain a doubt. I lean in toward my new wife and ask in a low tone:
— My beautiful wife... where are the rest of my Dornish relatives? I see only you and the Sand Snakes, Oberyn's daughters, in this hall.
Arianne offers me a charming smile, though there is a shadow of reservation in her spectacular eyes.
— My father cannot undertake long journeys due to the terrible pains of gout, my king, — she explains softly. — And my uncle Oberyn was far away, on a holiday trip with his wife. Since your arrival with the dragon could not be announced in advance, he could not attend in time.
I frown, dissatisfied.
— And what about Rhaenys? — I ask, my voice laced with irritation. — She is in Dorne at this very moment, is she not? For what reason did my own sister not come to kneel before her true brother and legitimate king?
Arianne adjusts her silk gown and answers cautiously:
— Rhaenys... she said she could not come because she is busy organizing the logistics and the march of the Dornish armies.
— A woman should not be leading armies, for starters, — I declare with disdain, taking a long sip of wine. — And I don't know if I believe that excuse, my wife. It seems to me that Rhaenys simply cannot distinguish truth from falsehood. It is absurd! She, who saw our father in life, cannot look at that fake Aegon sheltered in the North and realize the boy looks nothing like Rhaegar! While I am the spitting image of our father!
Arianne merely nods in silence, maintaining her royal composure.
— But out of consideration for you, I will give my sister one last chance, — I decree magnanimously. — I will send an emissary to deliver a formal ultimatum to her.
I return my attention to my goblet of wine and the applause of the lords in the hall. Whether Rhaenys accepts the ultimatum or not matters little to me in the end. If she refuses, I will tell Uncle Doran to arrest her immediately and send her to me in chains. By the rumors sweeping the continent, my sister has become an extraordinarily beautiful woman. Perhaps, bringing her bound at my feet, I will have the time necessary to educate her properly and teach her to respect her true king.
[1] Before anyone asks, she only said that because she didn't want to hurt Viseryon; even though she rides Drogon, Viseryon was always the one closest and most affectionate toward her.