ACT III: The Reign of Jaehaerys I — Part 2: The Severance and Exile (87 AC – 101 AC)
Chapter 19: The Withdrawal, the Shadow of Asshai, and the Fate of the Rogue Prince (93 AC – 97 AC)
The cold of the North possesses a singular virtue: it has the power to slow the blood, freeze anxiety, and calm even the most violent mental storms.
From high up in my private solar in the Black Stone Tower, leaning over the broad, arched window carved into volcanic rock, I watched the snow fall in heavy, dense, and silent flakes over the Territory of Blessings.
The blanket of ice covered the magic-enhanced agricultural fields, the prosperous stone villages, and the imposing fortifications I had built over the past years.
That frigid, still weather invited deep reflection—something I desperately needed after the political disaster and bloodshed that marked King’s Landing following Aemon’s tragic death.
My first defeat since reincarnating into this world had arrived.
And it had arrived in a terribly frustrating manner.
The defeat itself did not shake me in a material or personal sense—after all, I lost no lands, lost no arcane power, and certainly not my life.
However, seeing my long-term plans derailed by external forces gnawed at my innards with a poisonous bitterness.
Aemon should have lived; his survival was the central piece of my board so that the succession conflict would take a different shape and the dynasty’s stability would remain under my direct control.
But the past was dead stone and dust in the wind.
The perfect heir was in the royal vault, and the realm’s pieces had been rearranged without my consent.
Alone in the silence of my tower, I returned to reflecting upon my secret order of disciples and the true scale of the threat surrounding us.
Against the foolish southern lords and their mediocre spies, my arcane disciples acted like swift predators.
However, when placed face-to-face against truly experienced sorcerers and ancient arcane orders, the harsh, crude reality came to light: it was exactly the same as handing a sharp stick to a child and sending them to fight a knight fully clad in Valyrian steel.
Eight years of rigorous training and continuous expansion were by no means enough to raise and teach a group of natives everything required to transform them into a truly dominant mystical force in this world.
There was also the fundamental matter of magical natures.
Unlike pyromancy and blood sorcery—millennia-old, profound, and devastating knowledge I inherited from the ancestral tomes and records of my paternal family from Ancient Valyria—the same progress was not possible with the gifts of the First Men.
House Stark simply maintained no written records or systematized techniques for Skinchanging or Greensight.
Which should have been obvious to anyone observing the current state of the North: the Starks had completely forgotten their own arcane roots and lived as mere feudal lords1.
Therefore, everything I knew about the magic of the First Men stemmed from the few practical Skinchanging lessons my mother had passed down to me in my childhood and, above all, from my own genius and unlimited talent.
If my arcane order, before those sorcerers of Asshai, resembled children with sticks before armored knights, I, on the other hand, was the equivalent of a Space Marine facing a simple medieval knight.
The only difference was that those medieval knights knew perfectly well they couldn’t defeat me in direct combat; hence, they never accepted a face-to-face fight.
They struck from the shadows, using disposable intermediaries, alchemical poisons, and temporal manipulation.
This overwhelming superiority of mine was due to one fundamental fact: I was the Song of Ice and Fire of this era.
This granted me access to a virtually limitless reservoir and affinity for magic.
Every few generations, the mystical fabric of this world molds and conceives a Song of Ice and Fire—that is how the deep gears of the universe work.
Important note: one must not confuse one at a time with one per generation.
I did not need to die for the next one to emerge in the web of time.
The next to bear this burden and colossal affinity would be Brynden Rivers, the Bloodraven, and, just over a century, the bastard Jon Snow.
Me personifying this cosmic entity was not a poetic coincidence or a whim of chance, but rather something coldly premeditated by my late father.
Even if he had never openly admitted it in a formal conversation, I was absolutely certain that my father was a reincarnated soul, just like me.
His way of thinking, his terribly pragmatic view of the world, and his conduct—so distant from traditional Valyrian customs—did not fit the standard profile of an heir to the most prestigious house of Ancient Valyria.
Besides being completely obsessed with ancient sorcery, the old man was a massive Stark Stan.
And it was precisely because of that obsession that he sought out a woman of House Stark to marry.
My parents’ marriage was not born of an overwhelming passion or a fairytale—though genuine love did blossom between them over their years together.
It was a calculated arrangement between our houses.
And my father did not marry just any Stark noble from the main branch: he sought out the most talented and mystically awakened woman he could find in the North.
My mother did not belong to the direct line of succession at Winterfell, but rather to a tertiary branch; she was the daughter of the youngest of three brothers of the King of Winter at the time.
After the wedding and the construction of the Black Stone Tower, they lived together for years.
Toward the end of my mother’s fertile years, I was born.
For that reason, I only lived with her for a little over ten years before her life faded from a natural illness.
From then on, I was raised exclusively by my father.
Today, with the maturity and mystical wisdom I have accumulated, I realize that my father simply chose to die.
He made the conscious, deliberate decision to stop prolonging his own life through blood sorcery the exact moment he realized he had taught me everything necessary for me to rule and dominate this world.
He no longer wished to remain in this plane without the woman he loved; he chose to sever his vital bonds to reunite with her in death.
I clearly remember a day when he, completely drunk on Valyrian dreamwine, remarked to me between melancholic laughs that he loved my mother mainly because she reminded him terribly of “Lyanna and Arya.” To any native of Westeros, those would have been two random, insignificant female names.
But to me, who brought intact the memories and knowledge of my past life on Earth, that phrase was the definitive confirmation: my father was referring to the legendary Stark women from the chronicles of George R.R.
Martin.
He was a transmigrator who had read the books, just like me.
However, the greatest practical problem I faced in the present was the existence of an extraordinarily powerful greenseer operating on the opposing side.
I imagined that the entity controlling that psychic space in the Citadel was the Three-Eyed Crow of this era—or perhaps, given the transtemporal nature of the weirwood net, the collective consciousness of the Three-Eyed Crow that spanned all generations.
That was why he managed to anticipate me and surpass me in terms of pure prescience.
I was infinitely more talented, stronger, and possessed far more raw mana, I knew that.
In a direct attack or a duel of pure arcane wills, I would crush them like insects.
However, I lacked the millennial experience of that avatar from the weirwood net’s deep web.
To make matters worse, I had no one on this continent who could teach me the deeper, hidden branches of Greensight.
My only real alternative would be to seek out and find a Child of the Forest who did not belong to the closed group protecting the Three-Eyed Crow’s cave beyond the Wall, so she could teach me.
Unfortunately, in the rest of Westeros, they were extinct; not even on the mystical Isle of Faces were there living specimens.
I would have to search in the frozen expanse of the far North.
However, that search was already part of my plans for territorial and military expansion.
I had already issued direct, sealed orders to the Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch at Castle Black to send messengers and scouts to the wildling chiefs Beyond the Wall: the Territory of Blessings would now officially extend across a colossal strip of 100 leagues in vertical length—50 leagues south of the Wall and 50 leagues north, with the great ice wall cutting our domain right down the middle—spanning the continent from coast to coast, from the Sunset Sea to the Shivering Sea.
I foresaw no major resistance from the wildlings.
My father and I had already dealt with the free folk for decades; since their raiding incursions inevitably occurred on our borders, we had taught them with blood, fire, and sorcery what awaited them if they dared cause trouble.
The tribes were surprisingly well-behaved and submissive whenever they set foot on our lands or heard the name of House Vaelarys.
Viserra, obviously, adored the news of the territorial expansion.
After all, a domain that covered the entire width of Westeros from east to west, with a depth of 100 leagues of rich, protected land, was no small territory.
The lands of the Gift were already excellent and fertile, the people lived under an enviable prosperity that shamed the rest of the realm, and my arcane order refined their techniques every day.
New blood arrived constantly.
The advancements of my disciples helped me perfect my own mass-control spells, and that cycle strengthened us all.
The days of our enemies’ Greensight superiority were numbered, those bastards.
But I needed to step out of my thoughts and return to the immediate reality of the realm’s politics.
Time flowed inexorably.
In the period that followed, my presence at the court of King’s Landing became increasingly rare, almost non-existent.
I voluntarily isolated myself in the North, leaving the Old King and his mediocre council to drown in their own diplomatic intrigues in the South.
However, in the year 93 AC, I found myself obliged to make a brief, cold appearance in the capital to attend an event of great importance to the line of succession: the marriage of the new heir of Baelon’s line.
Prince Viserys Targaryen, now sixteen years old, was marrying young Aemma Arryn—a girl of merely eleven years.
Watching the ceremony from high up in the grand hall’s gallery, I could not help but feel deep disgust and an almost physical aversion.
From that premature and anatomically dangerous marriage would spring Rhaenyra Targaryen, and because of her—whether through the reckless actions of her supporters or the predatory ambition of her enemies—dragons would eventually dance in the sky and burn the dynasty.
All of it was the inevitable consequence of a sequence of weak choices, led primarily by Viserys’s chronic incompetence and lack of backbone.
And yes, I had not forgotten the promise of revenge I had made against House Arryn.
After all, those bastards of the Vale had possessed the cowardly audacity to hire the Guild of Faceless Men to attempt to assassinate me in the past—an attempt that failed miserably against me, but resulted in the tragic death of an innocent peasant girl from my own lands in the North.
The blood debt with House Arryn remained openly active in my ledger of grudges.
However, I was not an unhinged man without scruples, nor a moral degenerate like many in our modern world considered Daemon Targaryen due to his controversial romantic interests; an eleven-year-old girl like Aemma Arryn was not to blame for the crimes committed by her father’s house and held not the slightest physical or personal interest for me at that time.
1I had all the time in the world and immortality on my side.
There would be no better moment to collect that blood debt and watch the Arryn lineage suffer than in the future: when Viserys, in his deplorable weakness, ordered the maesters to slice open Aemma’s womb to try to extract a male heir, I would intervene directly.
I would save Aemma’s life with my blood sorcery, heal her body, and seduce her at the exact moment she began to harbor a mortal, unyielding hatred for Viserys for condemning her to such torture.
And so the wheel of time kept turning.
The years following Aemon’s tragedy were marked by a deceptive calm over the continent.
The only news of real military significance that shook King’s Landing occurred in 95 AC, when Prince Daemon Targaryen, upon reaching fifteen years of age, claimed the fearsome Caraxes—the Red Dragon of crimson scales that had belonged to his late uncle Aemon.
Still in late 96 AC, I found myself flying over the skies of the South of Westeros.
From high atop the colossal back of The Cannibal, I observed the vastness of the city of Oldtown unfolding hundreds of meters below me.
I was here for the Faith.
Yes, I had finally opened my eyes and accepted the Light of the Seven into my heart, abandoning blood sorcery forever.
Up in the lonely sky, I laughed aloud to myself at such an idiotic thought.
Not in ten thousand lives would such stupidity happen.
The true reason for my journey was a desperate letter of appeal from Princess Maegelle Targaryen.
The city of Oldtown was being devastated by an uncontrollable outbreak of Greyscale.
Although local authorities had implemented the sanitary quarantine system I had outlined in my printed public health manuals, the stone plague had reached almshouses, convents, and orphanages.
And among those infected by the ash-grey, deadly sores were dozens of needy children under Maegelle’s direct care.
Without my immediate arcane intervention, the city might eventually survive through isolation, but all those children would inevitably walk into the painful embrace of death.
Even from a high altitude, it was perfectly possible to perceive the unrest, chaos, and visceral dread that the mere shadow of my black dragon caused among the population down below.
The memory of the catastrophic shockwave that The Cannibal’s impact had generated years ago was still terribly fresh and bloody in the mind of every citizen, maester, and noble of that metropolis.
The only positive note from that past destruction was that the Citadel was gradually changing under new management.
Prince Vaegon was doing a surprisingly competent, cold, and methodical job restructuring the order of maesters, sweeping away corrupt factions of traditional archmaesters and rewriting study manuals.
The only real problem he faced was a severe shortage of educated labor, given that the number of conspiratorial maesters and acolytes Daenerys and I had executed in the purge was massive.
I guided The Cannibal to a smooth, majestic landing in the great paved plaza in front of the Starry Sept—a monumental structure that had been entirely renovated and rebuilt after partially collapsing during my last destructive visit to the city.
Awaiting me on the white marble steps was the new High Septon.
To the surprise of few, this man was genuinely pious, humble, austere, and devout.
The remaining conspirators of the Most Devout and the Faith had realized that placing a truly holy, blameless leader at the top of the hierarchy was the only way to appease my attacks and prevent me from burning the rest of their sacred septs.
A clever and astute strategy, I mentally admitted, though it wouldn’t stop me from continuing to execute corrupt members in the shadows whenever I deemed it necessary.
The High Septon received me with respectful genuflections and solemn prayers, fervently thanking me in the name of the Seven Guides for answering the call to save the city’s innocents.
I replied with cold, indifferent politeness.
Immediately following, Princess Maegelle approached with hurried steps to personally guide me to the noble quarters of the Hightower.
I had made it perfectly clear in my messages that I would never set foot in or sleep in the stuffy, unsanitary dormitories of the sept.
Upon arriving at the imposing fortress of House Hightower, I was received by Lord Hightower and a young figure who caught my arcane attention: young Otto Hightower.
The boy had not yet been summoned to serve in King’s Landing, given that Septon Barth remained sharp-witted despite his advanced age and still held his position on the Small Council as Hand of the King, with Baelon assisting him as the Proclaimed Heir; Otto would only receive the royal summons years later, in 101 AC.
The Hightower family’s reception was extremely cold, restrained, and overflowing with poorly disguised dread.
It was entirely understandable: years ago, my dragon’s impact had destroyed entire city blocks, and only two complexes remained standing without a single scratch—the Citadel itself and the grand Hightower.
Ancestral First Men engineering and reinforcing sorcery were true synonyms of indestructible quality.
What truly amused me that night was Princess Maegelle’s behavioral reaction.
As we walked down the long stone corridors toward my private quarters, I noticed the woman constantly looking over her shoulders, keeping a cautious distance from me as if she feared I would pounce on her body at any second.
Even at thirty-four years of age, wearing the somber, heavy robes of the order of septas, Maegelle possessed breathtaking beauty, with skin as white as milk, deep violet eyes, and perfectly preserved Valyrian features.
As we crossed the doorway of my spacious room, I turned to her while she prepared to withdraw in silence.
“Why do you keep looking over your shoulder like that, Maegelle?” I asked, flashing a smirk and crossing my arms.
“Are you genuinely thinking I’m going to jump on you at any second?”
Maegelle stopped at the wooden threshold, adjusting her grey veil with slightly trembling hands.
“I know your reputation throughout the realm, Lord Vaelarys…
And I know perfectly well what kind of unscrupulous and dangerous man you are.”
“Have you forgotten that I am a married man now?
What would your venerated Seven Heavens think of me if I dishonored a princess who took the vows of a septa?”
Maegelle let out an indignant huff, crossing her arms over her chest.
“As if the will of the Seven meant the slightest thing to you, Arthos!
Besides, your marriage to Viserra wasn’t even performed inside a sacred sept under the oils of the Faith!”
“Why, Septon Barth himself conducted the official ceremony,” I pointed out with sharp irony.
“Does that not count for your church’s authority?”
“Of course not!” she shot back, raising her chin with pride.
“You married in the Godswood under the Old Gods, and Septon Barth was merely the master of ceremonies without a single ritual of the Seven!
But that matters little for why we are here.”
I stepped closer, reducing the distance between us until I could smell the soft, clean scent of lavender emanating from her well-tended skin.
“You remain as beautiful as ever, Maegelle…
You know, this sinful body of yours is still going to make me sin.
And I guarantee you that the fault will be entirely yours.”
Maegelle raised her eyebrows, shocked and indignant.
“And why would the fault be mine?!
If you lack the ability to control your own vile, carnal impulses, the moral failure is purely yours!”
Without another word, she turned her back and walked hastily down the torchlit corridor.
A septa’s traditional robes were intentionally broad and loose to conceal female forms and prevent any sexual attraction.
However, the Faith’s tailors had forgotten to loosen the fabric in the back in Maegelle’s case: the grey skirt did nothing to hide the pronounced, firm curves of her spectacular ass as she hurried away.
Before flying to Oldtown, I had been in doubt whether I should take that woman for myself or not.
But seeing that scene and feeling the repressed tension between us—for Maegelle had alway been attracted to me over all these years, merely resisting it fiercely until now—the decision was made: Maegelle would belong to me.
Congratulations to the princess; she would become, at the right moment, the first Pope of the new structure of the Faith of the Seven that I would mold entirely in the shadows.
But that was a conquest reserved for the future.
The next morning, I accompanied Maegelle through the narrow, paved streets of Oldtown toward the quarantine ward.
As the septa took a shortcut through a dirty, deserted, and isolated alley between two tall stone buildings, I deliberately stopped walking.
Maegelle took three more steps before realizing my absence.
She turned around and stared at me with obvious impatience in her eyes.
“Why did you stop, Arthos?
We are just minutes away from the camp where the sick are isolated.”
“I just grew a bit tired of the walk,” I replied calmly, leaning my back against the cold stone wall of the alley.
“Let’s rest here for a moment.”
Maegelle looked around with disgust and perplexity.
“In this filthy alley?!
Of all the clean, proper places in the city, you choose to stop in the middle of back-alley dirt?”
“Right…
Let’s change the subject then,” I murmured, narrowing the distance between us with slow, predatory steps.
“How many sick people are currently confined in the quarantine ward?”
Maegelle sighed, adopting a professional, somber tone as she realized the direction of the conversation.
“After we identified that the disease was spreading through the orphanage children, we initiated isolation immediately.
But unfortunately, we haven’t been able to find the…
What do you scholars and sorcerers call it?
The vector?”
“Yes, the primary vector of the outbreak,” I confirmed.
“That,” she continued, her gaze heavy.
“Currently we have forty people diagnosed and isolated.
Some of the younger children have already passed away in the first few days because of this cursed stone plague.”
“Greyscale is a terribly complex affliction,” I explained in a didactical tone.
“It is one of the few diseases of genuinely magical origin in this world, born of ancient blood and water curses.
To cure a focused outbreak of this level, the presence of a true blood sorcerer is indispensable.”
Maegelle looked at me with sincere, deep gratitude shining in her violet eyes.
“That is why I thank you from the bottom of my heart for answering my call and coming here, Lord Vaelarys.
Your sorcery will save innocent lives that no one else could save.”
I smirked, letting an unmistakable malice show that weighed down the air between us.
“Thank me?…
Strange.
I haven’t seen any real demonstration of that gratitude so far.”
Maegelle panicked in the same instant, taking a faltering step backward.
“What do you mean?…
What are you saying?”
“Well…
Curing so many people at once will be an extremely exhausting process for my mana flow and my mystical energy,” I commented, taking two quick steps forward and trapping her body against the hard stone wall of the alley.
“It’s my first time attempting to purify Greyscale en masse on this scale, and I confess I’m quite tense.”
Before she could protest or try to dodge, I supported my left arm against the wall beside her head, completely blocking her escape.
With my right hand, I undid the ties of my leather trousers and exposed my erect, pulsing shaft before her face.
“Why don’t you help me relax a bit before we start the heavy work, my holy septa?”
Maegelle’s eyes widened in pure shock, dread, and moral indignation.
“You are an abominable, unscrupulous scoundrel!” she whispered in an abated shout, her face burning a vivid shade of shame and fury.
“Innocent children are dying and suffering this very second and you are trying to force me into such a profanation?!
I am a holy woman dedicated to the Seven Heavens!”
“That would be a beautiful, praise-worthy response that I would even accept with respect…” I replied with a low, deep chuckle, gently cupping the back of her neck with my right hand.
“…If you said all of that while looking directly into my eyes, rather than staring at my cock with such voracity and repressed desire.”
I pressed my hand firmly against the top of Maegelle’s head and forced her to gently kneel onto the clean stone pavement.
My erect shaft aligned directly with her face.
“What do you think you’re doing, Arthos?!” she gasped in contained terror, looking desperately at both ends of the alley.
“People could walk by here any second!
Someone from the order or the guard will see us!”
“If you are quick, dedicated, and efficient with your mouth, no one will see a single thing,” I replied in an imperious, dominant tone.
“Hurry up, woman.
The longer you hesitate and complain, the later we will arrive at the quarantine area to save your precious children.”
Maegelle shot me a look brimming with feigned anger—the transparent anger of a woman desperately fighting the burning, repressed desire she had harbored for me for years in her lonely nights at the sept.
Without another word, she opened her rosy lips and took the head of my shaft into her mouth.
She began sucking slowly, hesitantly, and clumsily, but in a matter of brief seconds she surrendered to the act, dictating a fast, hungry, and deep rhythm.
The nights she had spent daydreaming about this moment in her celibate cell were finally becoming reality right before her.
“For someone who claims to be a pure, untouched saint, you have a surprisingly refined and greedy technique…” I murmured, burying my fingers in her silver hair.
“Have you been practicing in your private prayers at the convent?”
Maegelle gagged slightly at the depth, raising her eyes in flashing fury while continuing her oral work without stopping.
“What do you think I am, you bastard?!” she muffled between firm sucks.
“My deepest apologies, great and virtuous saint of the Faith of the Seven,” I mocked softly, relishing the heat of her mouth.
After several minutes of delicious, enveloping pressure, I warned her before the climax.
I filled her mouth and throat with a plentiful spurt of seed, letting the excess spill over her chin and stain the pure cloth of her religious veil.
Maegelle stood up on slightly wobbly legs, glaring at me with genuine anger upon seeing her stained garments.
“You are an insatiable monster…
You’ve gotten the abomination you wanted, now clean yourself up so we can go!”
“I intended to stop here and head straight to the camp, Maegelle…” I replied, trapping her body against the stone wall once more.
“…But you staring at me with that look of an indignant slut unfortunately forces me to fuck you right now.”
Without giving the slightest room for dispute or protest, I turned her body to face the stone wall, leaving her spectacular ass propped up directly toward me.
I pulled the grey skirt of her septa’s dress upward and encountered her linen undergarments—the fabric was completely soaked, torn, and ruined by her own uncontrollable sweat of arousal.
“Well, well…” I whispered into her ear, tearing the damp fabric with my fingers.
“It seems someone here was infinitely more excited and hungry than I was.”
“Just…
Just finish this quickly, please!” she begged, her voice failing in a muffled groan she could not suppress.
“We have serious commitments today,” I agreed in a measured tone.
“We will finish the complete service at our leisure in my bed at the Hightower tonight.
But this right here is just to start the day.”
I aligned my erect head with her virgin, untouched entrance.
The cavity was so ridiculously damp, warm, and ready that my shaft slid inside her without encountering the slightest resistance.
As I buried everything to the base, I pulled back slowly and noticed the threads of blood coating my skin—the irrefutable mark of her first time being taken right there.
I began the thrusting motion slowly and deeply, accelerating the rhythm as Maegelle completely lost control of reason and pain.
The muffled groans she desperately tried to hold back against the cold stone wall sounded like divine music to my ears.
Obviously, I had used my arcane perception to ensure that absolutely no one approached that alley during the entire act, but Maegelle didn’t know that; the adrenaline and constant fear of being discovered by members of her religious order made the experience a thousand times more intense and forbidden for her.
After long minutes of heavy, rhythmic, and visceral sex, I released my seed deep within her womb.
I won’t lie: that was one of the most pleasurable and gratifying sessions I had experienced in years.
As the old saying goes: the patient, strategic man is truly unbeatable.
I delivered a loud, sharp slap with the palm of my hand against her left buttock, making her jump slightly.
I pulled out of her, smoothed down her skirts, and calmly adjusted my clothes.
“There,” I declared with a satisfied smile.
“Now we have a sacred duty to fulfill for the population.”
Watching Maegelle try to walk down the alley on trembling legs, with a stained skirt and a face flushed with shame, was an absolutely spectacular sight.
While I was inside her during the act, I took advantage of the proximity of blood sorcery to purify and reinforce Maegelle’s own body.
From caring for the sick without proper protection, the princess had already contracted the initial, invisible stages of Greyscale without realizing it; I eliminated the plague from her blood before the first symptom could even appear on her skin.
The arrival at the quarantine ward and the healing process were simple from a technical standpoint, yet terribly time-consuming.
This time, I wasn’t stalling on purpose: purifying forty individuals in advanced stages of a plague of magical origin required surgical and exhaustive manipulation of each patient’s vital force.
The work consumed several uninterrupted days.
Days which I enjoyed to the fullest in my luxurious quarters in the Hightower, filling every hole of Princess Maegelle night after night.
On our last night together in Oldtown, I did not fuck her with the usual back-alley savagery; I made love to her deeply, slowly, and warmly, ensuring that her mind, her body, and her soul were definitively lost in my existence.
After the absolute success in eradicating the plague in Oldtown and mastering Maegelle, I spent the following year isolated once again in my fortress in the North.
I only returned to the capital in early 97 AC, as there was a crucial diplomatic and family matter requiring my direct intervention before it ruined the future.
Upon entering the Small Council Chamber in King’s Landing without announcing myself, I found King Jaehaerys I examining papers and maps at the head of the table, beside his Hand of the King, Septon Barth. New chapters come out on NovelPing first.
“Lord Vaelarys…” the Old King said, raising his eyes with a cold, contained surprise.
“I see you have finally remembered your commitments and seat on this council.
For years you have hidden in your tower in the North.”
I feel my constant presence is not exactly a cause for celebration in this room, King Jaehaerys,” I replied in a dry, neutral tone, settling into my usual chair.
“Besides, the lands beyond the Wall have required much of my time and attention.
I need to ensure the security, settlement, and infrastructure of my vassals who are moving there.”
Jaehaerys offered no direct comments or criticism regarding the northern territorial expansion.
He merely nodded in silent approval.
Deep down, the monarch saw it as an indirect political victory for the crown: after all, Princess Viserra would be the absolute lady of those new lands.
And it was no small or insignificant domain.
A continuous strip of 100 leagues in vertical length spanning the continent from coast to coast, from the Sunset Sea to the Shivering Sea, represented a colossal territory.
Nothing prevented the rest of the wildling lands from being fully annexed and civilized by House Vaelarys in the coming decades, turning Viserra into the sovereign of a true small northern kingdom.
The council meeting dragged on with dull debates regarding harbor taxes and harvests, led by Septon Barth and the king.
Most of the southern lords present made clear their discomfort and aversion to my sudden presence.
I gave not a damn about their glares.
I thought to myself that if those lords continued showing arrogance, a series of “mysterious accidents” near high windows or a quick visit from the giant black dot flying above the clouds would resolve the inconvenience in a matter of minutes.
After the session concluded, I walked through the corridors to the private quarters of the royal family.
I entered the grand hall without announcing myself and found a heavy family gathering: Queen Alysanne, young Princess Gael, Prince Daemon, and Prince Baelon were gathered around the lit hearth.
“Well, what an excellent gathering…” I commented with a smirk.
The moment they saw me enter, both Daemon and Gael ran in my direction.
Despite my distance from the court, I remained an immensely beloved, admired, and respected figure among the new Targaryen generation.
“My…
It seems someone missed the old Sorcerer,” I teased, patting young Gael’s hair.
Gael, now seventeen years old and possessing a delicate posture, merely nodded in confirmation, smiling shyly before returning to her mother’s side.
Daemon, on his part, grabbed my leather sleeve with dramatic urgency.
“Arthos!
Thank the gods you’ve arrived in this city!
Tell my grandmother that marrying me to that Royce girl from Runestone is absolute insanity!”
I turned to the queen with a serious, composed expression.
“Alysanne…
Marrying Daemon to the Royce girl is indeed madness of no small scale.”
I looked at the young prince and asked with irony:
“Was that all you wanted me to tell her, Daemon?”
Daemon puffed out his chest, trying to project an authority he did not possess.
“Talk firmly with this old woman, Arthos!
Don’t let them ruin my life by sending me to the Vale!”
I raised an eyebrow, staring at the boy with a dangerous gaze.
“Well, well…
It seems someone here is desperately eager for a practical, painful, and unforgettable flight lesson atop The Cannibal, isn’t that right, Daemon?”
The Rogue Prince took two steps back in the same instant, raising his open hands in immediate surrender.
“Easy, Arthos!
I was only joking!
You know I respect you!”
Alysanne sighed heavily, staring at me with weary features.
“And what do you suggest I do, Arthos?
This marriage with House Royce will help strengthen our diplomatic ties with the Vale of Arryn, besides finally putting some sense into the head of this reckless, rebellious boy!”
I let out a mocking laugh that echoed through the hall.
“Viserys has already married the Aemma Arryn girl, Alysanne.
If you think it necessary to marry another dragonrider to a secondary house of the Vale just to ‘maintain ties,’ you are confusing the Vale of Arryn with Ancient Valyria or the Empire of the Dawn in terms of military and strategic relevance.”
The queen fell silent for a moment, pondering my words.
“Daemon inherited the worst traits and blind pride of Targaryen blood,” I continued.
“He is absurdly stubborn and violent.
If you force him into this marriage with Rhea Royce, he will live his entire life as a confirmed bachelor, ignoring and humiliating his wife.
That union will only condemn the Royce girl to a miserable marriage and bring deep resentment to the crown.”
“But I cannot simply go back on my word now!” Alysanne protested, adjusting her dress.
“I have already given my word to Lord Royce!”
“Then have Prince Aegon marry the Royce girl,” I replied promptly, offering a practical solution.
“Aegon?…” the queen asked, surprised by the suggestion.
“And why Aegon?”
“Because marrying Daemon to Rhea Royce will be a guaranteed tragedy,” I explained.
“Marrying her to a wooden post would work out better than with Daemon.
Aegon is an infinitely calmer boy, likes hunting, and enjoys countryside life.
He will match the heiress of Runestone and the culture of the Vale perfectly.”
Alysanne weighed it for a few seconds, but shook her head obstinately.
“That still doesn’t solve my biggest problem: putting sense into this boy!
Do you know the nickname they’re giving him in the streets of Flea Bottom?
‘The Rogue Prince’!
And the idiot uses that title as if it were a knightly honor!”
“Things of youth and hot blood, Alysanne,” I dismissed.
“But look here: this boy right here firmly believes that Valyrian culture is superior to everything and everyone in this world.”
Daemon frowned, feeling personally offended by my remark.
“And don’t you think so, Arthos?!
Wouldn’t you have loved to be born at the height of the Valyrian Empire?!”
I looked directly into the boy’s eyes and answered with an icy coldness that made the hall freeze:
“Yes, Daemon…
I would have loved to be born at the height of Valyria.
Merely to have had the pleasure of being the sole person responsible for destroying that cursed, profane civilization with my own hands.”
The hall sank into an absolute, oppressive silence.
Everyone stared at me in shock; they never expected to hear such a declaration coming from the Sorcerer of House Vaelarys.
However, that was a truth I had always carried in my chest, reinforced by the cruel and real accounts my father had told me in my childhood about Ancient Valyria: that place made Sodom and Gomorrah look like the Garden of Eden in terms of depravity, slavery, and blood abominations.
What most ignorant nobles considered “purist Valyrian culture” was, in truth, a degraded, stolen, and corrupt copy of the traditions of the ancient Empire of the Dawn that the founding families of Valyria had taken for themselves.
Refocusing the conversation and breaking the tension, I looked at Alysanne.
“But that is beside the point now.
The fact is: Daemon desires a wife of purely Valyrian blood.
So give him what he wants within the house.”
“And who do you suggest?” the queen asked, suspicious.
“Marry Princess Gael to him,” I declared without beating around the bush.
Alysanne responded with a sharp, immediate, and categorical “No!”
“And for what reason not?” I questioned, raising an eyebrow.
“Just no,” the queen cut in, embracing her daughter protectively.
Prince Baelon, who had remained silent examining documents in the corner of the room, finally intervened with his firm voice:
“Mother…
I know Daemon isn’t the most well-behaved boy in the realm, but he would never treat my sister poorly.”
“Gael will need to marry one day, Alysanne,” I added, looking at the queen.
In this timeline deeply altered by my presence and arcane interventions, Queen Alysanne had not lost almost all of her children in tragic fashion.
She was not reduced to solitude with Gael as her sole emotional anchor: Daenerys remained alive and influential in the North; Viserra was Lady of Blessings; Saera was thought to be alive in Essos by Alysanne (though I had killed her long ago); and Maegelle, who should have died that very year of the plague in Oldtown, had been fully cured and saved by me.
“It is infinitely better that she marry Daemon,” I continued.
“If he dares disrespecting or mistreating your daughter, you will be in the same fortress to pull his ears, take his dragon, and put him in his place.”
Alysanne looked at Gael—who was red as a ripe tomato with embarrassment—and then stared at Daemon, who was making a superhuman effort to appear educated, calm, and exemplary before his grandmother.
“I will speak to Jaehaerys about this proposal tonight…” the queen conceded, pointing a stern finger at her grandson.
“…But I had better see you impeccably well-behaved over the coming months, young man!”
As soon as Alysanne left the hall accompanied by Gael, Daemon ran to the door to ensure his grandmother had moved down the corridor.
Then, he bolted in my direction and gave me a tight bear hug.
Despite being sixteen years old and considered a grown man by Westerosi law, the boy still retained deeply childish attitudes.
“Thank you, Arthos!
Thank you so much!
You saved my life!” the young Rogue Prince exclaimed.
“Don’t thank me yet,” I replied, pushing him back by the shoulders.
“The final decision belongs to the king and queen.
And above all, it will depend on your behavior.”
Baelon approached with firm steps, smiling at the practical resolution of the problem.
“I will speak to my father tonight about the arrangement.
I like the idea of keeping Gael in the capital with us.
But I warn you, Daemon: if you disrespect my sister or cause her grief, even if you are my son, I will not forgive you.”
“And know that I will help your father punish you in an arcane manner,” I added in a somber tone, making the boy swallow hard and quickly nod in agreement.
Later that same night, I retired to my private quarters in the Red Keep.
While I relaxed in the large leather armchair near the crackling hearth, my dear wife Viserra knelt between my legs, surrendering herself to a slow, deep, and passionate oral work.
Beside me, Daenerys kept my head rested against her soft chest, allowing me to rest my face between her full, warm breasts.
Amidst the physical pleasure and comfort of my Valyrian women, my analytical mind began mapping the long-term ramifications of that new marriage I had just orchestrated.
The reason I had intervened to marry Daemon to Gael aimed at a strategic goal extremely far off in time.
By avoiding the catastrophic marriage with Rhea Royce in Runestone, Daemon would never become a bitter, hateful widower in the Vale of Arryn.
Consequently, he would never marry Laena Velaryon in the next generation to attempt to regain political prestige.
And without the marriage between Daemon and Laena Velaryon, Laena herself would never die in tragic childbirth in Driftmark years later, which meant the legendary mount Vhagar would never become available in the courtyard to be claimed by young Aemond Targaryen.
Without the colossal mount Vhagar under the control of the Greens faction in the future war of succession, the enemies of the legitimate line would lose ninety percent of their courage and raw military force to attempt any coup d’état against the throne.
On top of all that, Daemon would harbor an eternal gratitude, respect, and loyalty toward me for having saved his youth from that miserable exile in the Vale.
The pieces of the great board were finally fitting together with surgical precision.
The arcane gears I had begun forging years ago were now starting to turn in perfect harmony to shape the future of the realm.
So that’s the chapter—and just one thing I want to know from you guys: should it be with Gael before the wedding, or after Daemon screws up?
at that time.Even with the pacts between the families, and the Starks still retaining the magic, it amounts to nothing more than—at most—being skinchangers.