ACT II: The Reign of Jaehaerys I — Part 1: The Court and Its Loves (59 AC – 87 AC)
Just a moment of your time to talk about this chapter.
You’ll notice a shift in tone; that’s because this chapter is essentially two-in-one plot-wise.
Saera’s second part was originally meant to be a standalone chapter, but I want to pick up the pace a bit to reach the finale.
Regarding the changes and the “excuses” people accuse the protagonist of making—well, there’s some truth to that.
He’s someone who only cares about himself and the people he likes; the rest can go to hell.
As for the changes—honestly, there wasn’t much that needed altering in this specific chapter.
And one last thing before anyone asks about Alysanne’s children who died during this period: I have two answers.
First, saving them wouldn’t have achieved anything; it would have just added a bunch of OCs that no one would be able to keep track of five chapters down the line—the same goes for Daella.
Second, they didn’t die for the same reason as the character in this chapter.
Chapter 13: Blood, Grief, and the Ruin of Saera (84–85 AC)
Grief over Daella’s death struck the royal family with the force of an axe blow to the chest.
The loss of the young princess forced Jaehaerys, Alysanne, and the entire court to wake up to the cold, inescapable reality that, despite their dragons and shining crowns, the Targaryens were just as mortal and fragile as the most miserable of their subjects.
But time is a strange balm.
If it does not fully heal the wounds of the soul, at least it stitches the flesh and mends appearances so that the world keeps turning.
The ruling dynasty of Westeros could not remain paralyzed by pain.
The official cause of Daella’s death was childbed fever following a difficult labor.
However, deep in my mind, it bothered me immensely.
Even though I had made the deliberate, vile decision not to make the slightest effort to save her—using her loss as a veiled punishment against Rodrik Arryn—there was a nagging doubt burning in my thoughts: for some unknown arcane reason, I felt that even if I had tried, I might not have been capable of curing her.
I searched through the oldest tomes and scrolls of my maternal family and the Valyrian sorcery books my father had saved before the Doom, but I found no answer to this phenomenon.
Not even my Greensight could yield a satisfactory explanation.
After all, through Greensight, I am merely a silent spectator: I can watch the past and the future, but I am limited to what my five physical senses can perceive in that projection.
For a high-level blood sorcerer, observing the world without being able to feel the magical weave or examine an individual’s soul signature is exactly the same as being completely blind.
And now, in the year 84 AC, I find myself thrust into a terribly ironic situation.
At this very moment, in the royal chambers of King’s Landing, Princess Alyssa was in the middle of a prolonged, agonizing labor, about to give birth to her third child with Prince Baelon.
The recent memory of Daella’s death had raised a red flag in the hearts of everyone in the castle, but I noticed the family was not genuinely terrified.
After all, Alyssa had never been a fragile or skittish girl like Daella; she was a vibrant dragonrider, master of the swift Meleys, and had already brought two strong, healthy princes into the world—Viserys and Daemon.
The labor finally concluded, and the cries of a newborn echoed through the corridors of the Red Keep.
The realm had gained another prince, little Aegon.
However, the relief was short-lived.
I was already expecting the inevitable summons from Baelon and Alysanne, which arrived mere days after the birth.
I walked alongside Baelon through the stone corridors toward the princess’s quarters.
The young prince, his eyes sunken and his face pale with exhaustion, stared at me in desperation:
“Lord Vaelarys…
my Alyssa is still terribly weak after the birth.
The maesters of the Citadel say there is nothing more they can do…
those useless fools!
I hope…
I beg of you to help her with your art.”
Queen Alysanne, walking just behind with her hands clasped across her chest, chimed in with a wavering voice:
“Calm yourself, my son…”
Yet the dread in her maternal eyes was transparent.
I looked at them both and replied with calculated indifference:
“Without examining the princess in person, Baelon, I cannot offer you any conclusion.”
In my past life, knowing the historical chronicles, I remembered that Alyssa died roughly six months after this childbirth, and little baby Aegon passed away shortly thereafter.
It was a strange, atypical timeline for a simple childbirth complication.
My initial theory was that some slow-acting poison or external interference from the Citadel was involved.
Discovering the truth and keeping Alyssa alive would be excellent for my plans, besides allowing me to observe the profound political shifts her survival would bring to the dynasty.
However, as I crossed the threshold and stood before Alyssa’s bed, all my theories and speculations crumbled.
There, before my eyes and my arcane perception, I saw the true cause of the tragedy—the same silent affliction that had claimed Daella’s life, which I had been unable to diagnose through the limitations of Greensight.
Through my magical vision, Alyssa resembled a punctured silk balloon, slowly leaking her vital energy and arcane essence into the air.
That difficult childbirth had not merely ravaged her physical body; it had torn apart her internal reservoir of sorcery and, along with it, the very structure of her soul.
Baelon stepped forward, gripping my arm tightly:
“Can you help her, Arthos?!
Tell me you can save her!”
I faced the young Prince of the Spring and, for the first time in decades, closed my eyes and allowed a clear note of defeat to bleed into my voice:
“No, Baelon…
I cannot.”
Baelon took a step back, his face contorting in fury and shock, his voice rising in an uncontrolled shout:
“How can you not?!
You are the all-powerful Sorcerer of King’s Landing!
The man who bends cities and controls death!
You can do anything!”
“I am a blood sorcerer, Baelon…
I am not a God,” I replied coldly.
Alysanne approached, tears streaming down her cheeks:
“Is there truly nothing…
no magic or spell in this world that can save her, Arthos?”
On the bed, her skin pale and her breathing shallow, Alyssa raised her hand with difficulty and whispered:
“Mother…
Baelon…
please.
Leave me alone with him for a moment.”
Baelon tried to protest, but a firm, loving look from his wife silenced him instantly.
The prince lowered his head and left the room weeping bitterly, escorting the sobbing queen at his side.
I remained alone in the chamber with the princess.
I sat in the armchair beside the bed.
Alyssa looked at me and offered a faint smile:
“Can you…
can you bring my baby to me, Arthos?”
I let out a sigh and muttered:
“Fuck…
the second I sit down, you make me stand right back up.”
I walked over to the oak cradle, scooped up little Prince Aegon in my arms, and handed him to his mother.
Alyssa let out a weak, raspy laugh at my comment, nestling the newborn against her chest.
“You know, Arthos…
I can feel perfectly well that I am dying,” she said, staring at the ceiling with tired eyes.
“I don’t know if it will be tomorrow, next week, or a few months from now…
but I know my life is draining away.
Leaving my babies motherless in this brutal world terrifies me in a way I cannot explain.
Is there truly nothing your magic can do for the two of us?”
I looked at the mother and the baby.
The spiritual structure of both was compromised by arcane failure.
“If you want the raw truth, Alyssa…
I *could* save both your lives,” I declared in a grave voice.
“But to mend two shattered souls and rebuild both vital reservoirs without either of you dying, I would need to perform a shadow ritual that requires dozens of human sacrifices.
Sacrificing innocent human lives in profane rituals is something I steadfastly refuse to do.
It is an abomination I abhor and will never commit in this life.”
Alyssa stared at me for long seconds, understanding the gravity and firmness of my words.
Then, she looked down at the tiny newborn in her arms:
“I understand, Arthos…
and I refuse to allow innocent blood to be spilled for my sake.
But tell me…
Is there any blood sorcery where my own life can be the sole tribute to save my baby?”
Alyssa’s question froze me entirely.
Alyssa Targaryen was one of the rare people in this world for whom I harbored genuine, sincere affection.
I wanted to save her—not merely because her survival served my political plans to preserve the dragons, since to keep magic alive in the world I didn’t strictly need the Targaryens.
My friendship with Jaehaerys and Alysanne was real, and among all their children, I considered Daenerys, Aemon, and Alyssa my actual friends.
Losing any of them was not something I desired.
“No…
blood sorcery does not work that way for voluntary transfers from mother to child without a devastating cost to you,” I answered, trying to dodge the subject.
“You’re lying to me, Arthos…
I can see it in your eyes that you’re lying,” she said with a firm voice.
“I am not going to accelerate your death to save a child, Alyssa!” I declared, my tone rising slightly.
“And for my son…
would you do it for me?” she pleaded, her eyes welling with tears.
“To me, my children are absolutely everything in this world, Arthos.
Perhaps when you have your own in the future, you will understand what I mean.”
“And what about Baelon?
How do you think he will react to this?” I asked.
“I know exactly how much pain Baelon will carry…
but this is my choice as a mother.
This is what I want.”
I stood up from the armchair, consumed by profound bitterness.
The universe has a macabre, truly acidic sense of humor: just weeks ago, I had condemned young, sweet Daella to death in childbed out of pure calculation and vengeance; and now, the one woman I genuinely wished to save, I was incapable of keeping alive without answering her plea for self-sacrifice.
I looked at the mother and the newborn in the cradle.
Both shared the same failure of vital essence, and I knew that without my arcane intervention, mother and child would die together in the coming months.
I raised my pale hands.
With the tips of my nails, I made two deep cuts across my own wrists, letting my ancestral blood drip onto the stone floor of the chamber.
With my fingertips, I drew a blood sorcery ritual circle around the bed.
I kept my back to Alyssa during the entire process.
I knew that if I looked into the eyes of that joyful, determined girl once more, my resolve would shatter and I wouldn’t be able to carry out the ritual.
Channeling my power, I initiated the arcane transfer: I drained the remaining vital essence from Alyssa’s soul and projected it directly into the body of little Aegon, sealing the newborn’s fragility and ensuring the boy would grow up strong and healthy.
To balance the violence of the sacrifice and prevent Alyssa from passing at that exact second, I used the overwhelming strength of my own Valyrian blood to stabilize the princess’s body, granting her a few more days of conscious life.
As soon as the ritual circle glowed a deep crimson and faded, I gathered all the blood from the floor into a floating sphere and incinerated it into sparks of pure fire.
“Using the strength of my blood to balance the ritual, I have granted you a few more days of life,” I declared without turning around.
“Use this time wisely to say goodbye to your family, Alyssa.”
I walked toward the exit.
From the bed, her voice significantly weaker but carrying a profound sense of peace, Alyssa murmured:
“Thank you for everything, Arthos…
you are a great man.”
I paused with my hand on the oak doorknob, without looking back:
“No, princess…
I am definitely not.”
I crossed the threshold of the quarters.
In the corridor, Baelon and Alysanne were waiting anxiously.
I merely shook my head in denial, refusing to utter a single word, and brushed past them with swift strides.
I abandoned the capital immediately.
I mounted The Cannibal’s back and flew straight to my Black Stone Tower in the North.
At the summit of the obsidian structure, under the howl of the freezing night wind, I walked to the stone parapet.
The icy air of the valley tried to soothe the whirlwind of thoughts consuming my mind.
What good is possessing overwhelming arcane power, being able to bend armies and master blood sorcery, if at the moment I truly desire to save someone I care about, I am incapable of doing so without resorting to the death of innocents or answering tragic sacrifices?
I was born into this world one hundred and four years ago.
For a whole century, I lived locked away in an isolated tower, and I spent the last twenty years acting as advisor and Crown Sorcerer to an entire continent…
and what of real value have I actually accomplished?
Absolutely nothing.
‘A great man’…
what a ridiculous joke.
I am an arrogant failure.
Hours later, still standing at the top of the tower, I felt a subtle shift in the magical weave of the world.
Far away, hundreds of leagues to the South, Princess Alyssa Targaryen drew her final breath in Baelon’s arms.
The pain and frustration accumulated in my chest exploded.
I closed my eyes, channeled the entirety of my inner fire, and released from my lips a colossal torrent of glowing, reddish flames toward the night sky.
The column of fire tore through the darkness, struck the storm-heavy clouds, and carved a miles-wide hole in the snow falling over the North.
After venting my fury, I let my knees buckle and sat directly on the stone floor at the top of the tower.
I lay on my back, closed my eyes, and allowed the fresh snow falling once more to cover my pale body.
Lying beneath the storm, a profound reflection took hold of my soul: what do I truly wish to achieve in this world?
To keep living simply for the sake of living, like an immortal spectator watching history crumble?
Or is there something greater worth fighting for?
It is not enough merely to save the dragons from extinction…
I need to shape this world in my image and ensure that sorcery never vanishes.
I rose from the ground, shaking the snow off my clothes, and descended the tower stairs.
I walked on foot toward the ancient forest surrounding my valley.
In the center of the dense woods rose a colossal weirwood.
The face carved into the white wooden trunk was not the face of a traditional Old God: it was the face of my late father, hand-carved by my mother decades ago as an affectionate jest.
I knelt before the sacred tree, touched the cold wood of the trunk, and for the first time in my entire existence, I activated my gift of **Greensight in its full, unrestricted capacity**.
The past and the present no longer interested me.
I wanted to see the future and chart the exact path I should follow.
The timelines and branches of destiny unfolded before my eyes like shimmering roots of light.
At that very instant, I felt the spiritual presence of several ancient entities and deities of this world projecting around me, attempting to block my vision and prevent me from beholding the fate of *Planetos*.
However, I was in no mood whatsoever to tolerate the interference of powerless gods.
I channeled the total fusion of my power—Valyrian blood sorcery joined with the ancestral heritage of the First Men.
“I am the son of the Lords of Fire and the Kings of Winter!” I bellowed in the spiritual plane.
“I am a song of ice and fire!
And insignificant entities like you will not stand in my way!”
Releasing an arcane shockwave, I incinerated the spiritual presence of every single deity trying to stop me, forcing the divine plane to retreat in dread.
I emerged from the Greensight and fell to my knees in the snow, my legs trembling and my body exhausted.
I felt warm blood flowing abundantly from my eyes, nose, ears, and mouth due to the divine exertion of the ritual.
I wiped the red fluid from my skin using sorcery and walked back to the tower with firm steps.
As I approached the main gate, I encountered the elder responsible for administering my servants, who was just about to leave.
“My lord!…” the man gasped, frightened to see my figure emerge from the storm.
With a flick of my fingers, I condensed all the blood I had wiped from my face minutes earlier, transforming the liquid into a small, crystalline red stone—a Bloodstone.
I handed the crystal to the elder and ordered:
“Take this stone and travel through every village, fief, and settlement in my domain.
Pass it before every person, without exception—no matter their age, gender, or whether they wish to participate.
Those in whose hands this stone reacts, glowing red, you will bring to my presence immediately.”
The man held the crystal tremblingly, asking with hesitation:
“And…
for what purpose do you desire these people, my lord?”
I pondered for a moment and answered with conviction:
“This stone reveals those who possess dormant magical potential in their veins.
I will gather them and teach them the arcane arts.
Now go.”
Crossing the main hall of the tower, I found Princess Daenerys sitting at the table, being served her meal by Ella.
As soon as the maidservant retired with a bow, Daenerys looked at me and rose hastily:
Your face…
you wear a terribly determined expression.”
“Yes, Daenerys…
I have made a definitive decision,” I declared, walking up to her.
“Prepare yourself.
Starting today, I am going to teach you real Valyrian sorcery.”
The princess’s purple eyes shone in pure ecstasy:
“Are you…
are you serious, Arthos?!”
Upon seeing my affirmative nod, Daenerys ran toward me and embraced me with a radiant smile.
I wrapped my arms around her waist, thinking in silence:
You will become a formidable sorceress, my dear…
and you will be an extraordinary sovereign Queen when the fools of your family destroy themselves in the future Dance of the Dragons.
Daenerys’s joy was short-lived.
The next day, an official message from King’s Landing brought news of Princess Alyssa’s passing.
We returned to the capital for the funeral ceremonies.
In the outer courtyard of the Dragonpit, Baelon’s grief was a truly heart-wrenching sight to witness.
The Prince of the Spring and the entire royal family were so shattered and crushed by the pain of loss that neither the prince, nor the monarchs, nor even the deceased’s own family and their dragons could find the strength or courage in their chests to step forward and light Alyssa’s funeral pyre.
Observing the painful scene and the tragic silence that settled over the Dragonpit, I used a subtle, firm mental projection into Meleys’s mind.
I reached the consciousness of the red-scaled dragoness and whispered the necessary instruction.
Understanding the arcane command, Meleys stepped forward, raised her neck, and released a solemn torrent of pure flames, incinerating the funeral pyre of her beloved rider.
After all, even if I couldn’t ride dragons other than The Cannibal, communicating with and guiding the minds of arcane beasts was perfectly natural for a blood master.
In the days and weeks that followed, I noticed Baelon’s clear distance from me.
I imagine Alyssa told him in her final moments about the sacrifice she made to save little Aegon.
Queen Alysanne also looked at me with a gaze of suspicion and silent sadness, but no one dared to bring the matter into the open.
Life in the capital took its course, while I maintained my new focus.
I continued to train Daenerys at the Red Keep, witnessing the princess’s extraordinary talent for manipulating bodily energies.
In parallel, I sent instructions to the small order of mages I began structuring in the North—recruits from my domains who possessed the blood of the First Men.
That order would not be created merely for espionage, but rather as a lethal guild of arcane assassins.
After all, who would blame sorcery if an Andal lord were attacked by a frenzied boar during a hunt, or if a corrupt nobleman were devoured by a shadowcat after straying from his guard?
My plan was simple and methodical: start by gradually eliminating the most fanatical lords of the South, undermining the power of the Faith of the Seven until the church lost any actual political relevance.
Meanwhile, the scandals, pedophilia, and corruption of the septons would be exposed bit by bit to destroy the clergy’s morality in the eyes of the common folk.
As for the Citadel, I would eliminate only the factions opposing Vaegon; should the boy fail in his internal reform, then I would intervene with an iron fist.
The following year, in 85 AC, my quarters in the Tower of the Hand were the stage for a considerably more worldly dynamic.
Upon my silk sheets, Princess Saera—now a mature young woman with voluptuous curves—was groaning excessively and theatrically.
I didn’t mind giving her the pleasure she sought; after all, I viewed it as an early carnal farewell, knowing full well that very soon the girl would star in the biggest scandal in court history before being chased off the continent.
I cannot deny that the spoiled brat had grown into an extremely attractive woman.
Thrusting into her from behind with force and an unshakeable rhythm, I held her soft hips.
Saera turned her face to me in the dim light, asking between gasps and sighs:
“Tell me, Arthos…
who did you think was better in bed?…
Me or the dead Daella?”
Without showing the slightest affection, I grabbed her long silver hair tightly, pulling her head back until her body doubled over completely, and replied coldly:
“Daella was infinitely better than you.”
I saw Saera’s face contort into a grimace of pure fury and resentment, but the anger was quickly swallowed by pleasure as I drove deeper into her.
I knelt on the bed, grabbed one of her full breasts tightly, and resumed the pace without mercy.
Releasing my load deep inside her womb, I withdrew from her body.
Saera, however, was not inclined to end the night.
Smiling with wantonness, the princess knelt before me, took my still-wet member, and nestled it between her ample breasts.
Using saliva and an erotic display of tongue and lips, she began sliding her chest against my dick with impressive mastery.
I must admit the sensation was phenomenal—a carnal experience that rivaled the finest pleasures in the world.
In the days that followed, Saera’s reckless behavior reached its inevitable breaking point.
History unfolded exactly as recorded in the chronicles: distasteful jokes involving the court fool, secret orgies organized by the princess on the city’s rooftops with her three noble lovers—Beesbury, Turnberry, and Braxton Norcross—and involvement with prostitutes from King’s Landing’s brothels.
Witnessing the moment Saera openly declared before Jaehaerys and the council that the three boys thought they were the ‘firsts’ in her life, but that everyone was deeply mistaken, was the pinnacle of my entertainment at court.
The king even shot a furious glance in my direction, suspecting my involvement, but I carried no guilt for that specific circus.
After all, knowing with whom Saera had lost her virginity was a mystery ranging from a flea-bottom beggar to a visiting lord.
Desperate after being exposed and facing the prospect of royal punishment, Saera escaped her quarters during the night and ran toward the Dragonpit, intending to claim one of the riderless beasts—specifically Meleys or Dreamfyre—to flee the capital.
I was already waiting for her patiently at the entrance of the stone arena.
Upon seeing me standing beneath the moonlight, Saera checked her stride, opening a manipulative smile and swaying her hips as she walked toward me:
“How wonderful that you’re here, my love!…
You’re going to help me steal a dragon right now!”
I stared at the girl with disdain:
“And what makes you think I would help you, Saera?”
The princess stepped closer, pressing her body against mine and whispering arrogantly:
“Think about it, Arthos!…
With my dragon and your Cannibal, we can simply get rid of those two tyrants that are my father and mother!
The two of us can rule this realm as King and Queen!
Doesn’t that sound like an absolutely perfect idea?”
I brought my face close to hers, staring into the depths of her purple eyes with a coldness that made her shudder from head to toe:
“Actually, Saera…
that sounds like the stupidest idea I’ve heard in a century.
And what makes you think I have any interest in sitting on that ugly throne?”
“Does being the most powerful man in the Seven Kingdoms not appeal to you?!” she questioned, astonished.
“And why do you think your father is the most powerful man on this continent, princess?” I asked.
“Because he’s the king!
He commands all the lords…
including you!” she declared with spoiled pride.
I let out a dry, mocking laugh:
“You are even dumber than I thought…”
Without moving a single muscle, I channeled a spark of blood sorcery and paralyzed Saera’s body instantly.
The princess pitched forward, her face hitting the stone floor of the courtyard hard.
“Oops…
I forgot to catch you,” I mocked, looking down at her.
The unfolding of events followed its tragic, predictable course.
Jaehaerys killed Saera’s lover, Braxton Norcross, in a trial by combat.
Afterward, the princess was sent under custody to Oldtown to be delivered to the Order of Septas under the watch of her sister Maegelle.
As expected, Saera escaped the holy city months later and fled to the Free Cities of Essos, where she ultimately became a high-class courtesan in Lys.
The daughter’s dishonor left Queen Alysanne plunged in deep sorrow and King Jaehaerys even more embittered and unyielding.
However, what the royal family would never know is that before Saera left King’s Landing, I leaned over her body and placed a subtle blood curse in her veins.
The spell would ensure that the girl’s heart would stop beating within a few years in Essos—after all, I had no intention of allowing spoiled, bastard dragonseeds to create trouble for the future of the realm.
With the Saera issue resolved, Jaehaerys turned his eyes to his other unmarried daughter, Princess Viserra, who was beginning to exhibit similar rebellious behaviors.
The king hastened to find a convenient betrothal for the girl.
Viserra Targaryen…
Or the girl who will be known in the future as my first wife.
Here is the chapter, along with a character who will be important.
You see, I had said he would change in ’92 due to certain events; I was actually playing with two ideas—Aemon’s death (which you already know about) and something else.
Originally, his wife Viserra was the one who would die—unable to carry the protagonist’s child to term—leaving him frustrated and helpless.
That was meant to be the catalyst for his change and his growth as a human being.
However, I decided to switch that to Alyssa instead and let Viserra live.
Of course, he will still remarry in the future after Alyssa’s death—that part remains—so he’ll have two wives (technically three, counting Daenerys, though she won’t marry him since she has other roles to fulfill).
I haven’t decided yet if she’ll actually be queen, or if they’ll just take the dragons, tell the rest of the Seven Kingdoms to go fuck themselves, and carve out their own territory—👀 The Fingers, Skagos, and the Haunted Forest sound interesting.