ACT III: The Reign of Jaehaerys I — Part 2: The Severance and Exile (87 AC – 101 AC)
Chapter 23: The Shadow of the Approaching Dance and the New Awakening (103 AC – 112 AC)
Part I: The Notes of Tomorrow and the Farewell to the Old King (103 AC)
In the absolute silence of my private solar in the Black Stone Tower, with Northern snow falling on the other side of the window, I dedicated myself to organizing—and in truth, finalizing—my arcane notes about the future.
The matrix Kinvara had brought me from the web of time had proven to be a stroke of genius.
It was a fascinating piece of sorcery, a perfectly harmonized fusion between the Valyrian blood sorcery of my paternal line and the elemental magic of the First Men inherited from my mother.
It made complete sense that only I, as the Song of Ice and Fire, could have conceived that mystical structure across the folds of time.
The dilemma regarding the scarcity of magical energy during childbirth among women of Valyrian blood was something that had taken me by surprise in the past.
After all, in Ancient Valyria, no noblewoman suffered from the atrophy of her arcane channels by trying to follow the sterile customs of foreign religions.
Likewise, the women of the First Men and the female warriors of the North never faced such a biological limitation.
However, as they adapted to life in the South and assimilated Andal culture, the lineage of Targaryen princesses began to reject their own magical heritage, resulting in the collapse of their bodies during childbirth.
It was a genetic and spiritual problem I had to solve on my own.
As I reviewed the formulas, I allowed my arcane perception to project to the far South through Greensight.
The situation of the Faith of the Seven in the capital had once again reached the height of rot.
The honest, austere, and genuinely pious High Septon who had taken over in Oldtown years ago had been mysteriously murdered inside his own monastery by his corrupt peers.
The new leader of the Faith had reverted to being the exact same kind of greedy, manipulative worm in human form that had always dominated the Andal temples.
I directed my consciousness toward King’s Landing.
It was time to say goodbye to an old friend.
In the royal quarters of the Red Keep, the air smelled of medicinal oils, burned wax, and inexorable aging.
A great era in the history of Westeros was coming to its ultimate end.
Seated in a chair beside the vast canopy bed, young Alicent Hightower was changing the damp cloths on the forehead of King Jaehaerys I.
The monarch, with his opaque eyes and mind sunken in the haze of senility, stared at the girl for a few brief seconds.
“Saera?…” whispered the Old King, his voice failing in a fragile breath.
“…Did you…
Did you come back to me, my daughter?”
Alicent remained motionless, paralyzed by the discomfort of being mistaken for the exiled princess.
However, before the girl could articulate any answer, a frigid, visceral chill cut through the stuffy air of the room.
The hairs on her arms stood up instantly.
“She isn’t Saera, Jae…” said a deep, velvety, and profound voice, echoing out of nowhere.
The Old King turned his vacant gaze toward the empty space beside his bed.
“Arthos?…” whispered Jaehaerys, a faint glint appearing in his eyes.
“…My old friend…
Did you come?”
Before Alicent’s terrified eyes, the room’s breeze condensed into a thick, silvery mist.
From the folds of that arcane mist, my figure materialized in flesh and blood.
Clad in my dark arcanist robes, I stood beside the bed.
Alicent let out a muffled gasp of terror, rising abruptly and knocking the wooden chair onto the stone floor.
The sudden commotion caused both Jaehaerys and me to look at her, making the girl bolt in panic toward the room’s doors.
Jaehaerys sighed, and I saw the glint of his legendary sharpness and lucidity return to his eyes one last time, cleared of the dementia of old age.
“Thank you, Arthos…” the king whispered, his voice firm.
“…Thank you for bringing clarity back to my mind one last time.
How are you, my friend?”
“I’m well, Jaehaerys,” I replied in a calm tone, pulling up a chair and sitting beside him.
“And I won’t waste my presence asking rhetorical questions about your state.”
Jaehaerys let out a weak, raspy laugh that ended in a very tired cough.
“Yes…
I am merely an old, foolish king awaiting the darkness.”
“Where did all the self-confidence of your youth go?” I teased softly.
“Weren’t you the Great Conciliator?
The greatest king this continent has ever seen?”
“Perhaps history will remember me that way…” the monarch reflected, looking up at the carved ceiling.
“…Or perhaps you were entirely right in the council, and I will be remembered as the worst king of the Targaryen line for having planted the seeds of division.”
“Impossible,” I replied with sarcasm.
“That title of worst king will indisputably belong to Aegon IV in the future.”
Jaehaerys frowned, confused.
“Aegon IV?…
But there have only been four Aegons in history, Arthos…
And only one was king.”
“Ah, yes…” I murmured, flashing a smirk.
“I got ahead of myself on the timeline.
That belongs to a future that, with my presence, might not even come to pass.”
The Old King remained silent for a few moments, absorbing my enigmatic words.
Then he turned his head in my direction.
“And how are my daughters, Arthos?”
I genuinely smiled at that question.
At the hour of final departure, the political king vanished, giving way solely to the father.
“Daenerys remains the same,” I shared.
“Improving in sorcery and pyromancy every day.
At the moment, I doubt there is anyone in this world capable of surpassing her in pure arcane combat—excluding this Sorcerer speaking to you.
And Viserra…
well, Viserra is about to drive young Philips completely mad in the North.”
Jaehaerys raised his eyebrows, curious.
“Philips?…
Who is this young man?”
“He was the youth who won the local elections to be the leader and representative of the villages in my domain,” I explained.
The king pondered the concept, and a gleam of admiration appeared on his tired face.
“Allowing the people to choose the person who will serve as a bridge between the community and the monarch…
That is a fascinating political move, Arthos.
It gives the peasants the illusion and feeling of representation without you losing a single millimeter of your sovereign authority.
You always had absolutely brilliant ideas, my friend…
I should have listened to your counsel more in the past.”
“Yes, you really should have,” I agreed without modesty.
The sound of hurried footsteps and clashing metallic armor echoed from outside the corridor.
Young Alicent had obviously run to find her father.
The heavy wooden door was burst open, and the Hand of the King, Otto Hightower, invaded the room accompanied by four Kingsguard with drawn swords.
“What are you doing here?!” Otto barked, pointing his blade at me.
“Guards!
Two guards took a step forward, but before they could approach the bed, I executed a discreet gesture with my fingers.
An invisible wave of arcane force paralyzed all four soldiers in the exact spot where they stood, freezing their bodies like stone statues.
I looked at the immobilized men with absolute disdain before turning my attention back to Jaehaerys.
“Everyone out!” the Old King commanded, with an authority that made the hall tremble.
Otto Hightower tried to step forward, his voice failing in indignation:
“Your Grace, this man is a—”
“The man may be on his deathbed, boy…” I interrupted, glaring at Otto with an icy look “…but he is still your King!
Get out of here before I decide to turn you and your guards into ashes.”
Otto clenched his teeth in suppressed fury, but understood the real threat.
He signaled the paralyzed guards—who regained movement the instant I undid the spell—and withdrew from the room, slamming the door violently.
“Someone here gives himself extraordinary importance for a mere second son of the Reach…” I commented with derision.
“It seems you brought a Corlys Velaryon equipped with much more patience and dissimulation into your court, my friend.”
Jaehaerys let out a raspy laugh.
“Yes…
But that burden isn’t mine anymore, Arthos.
That burden belongs to Viserys now.”
I laughed out loud at the king’s raw expression.
“I believe that after this display, Otto will try to orchestrate something against me or my lands,” I commented.
“Just…
don’t kill him, Arthos,” Jaehaerys pleaded, his gaze entreating.
“Viserys would be completely lost without Otto’s guidance in government.”
“The legacy is yours, Jaehaerys.
Do as you see fit,” I replied.
I felt the king’s vital flame weaken drastically.
The flow of his aura was extinguishing for good.
“I think my time has come, my friend…” Jaehaerys whispered, slowly closing his eyes.
“…I hope my dear Alysanne forgives me when I meet her on the other side…
Tell me, Arthos…
What is the other side like?”
I looked at his vital energy being consumed to its last remnant and answered softly:
“It is a place of absolute rest, Jae…
Endless green fields, crystal-clear and calm lakes, where we find everyone we love to live in peace for eternity.
Death is merely a well-deserved rest for a long, weary life.”
“I hope from the bottom of my heart that it is exactly like that…” the monarch murmured.
“…Arthos…
I know it is an annoying request to make at the very last second…
but I am dying anyway, so I can afford to be a bit shameless…
Save this realm from the impending destruction approaching it.”
I let out a heavy sigh, shaking my head.
“Truly…
a deeply annoying request.
But luckily for you, I like challenges.
I don’t promise to save everyone from the tragedy that will come, but I guarantee it won’t be the end of the dynasty.”
“That is all I could ask…” the Old King smiled.
“…Finally I can rest in peace knowing you will take care of everything…
And I ask forgiveness for handing you such a miserable job.”
“Sleep now, Jaehaerys,” I ordered in a gentle tone.
“It is no time for an old king to stay awake.”
“Right…
Farewell, Arthos.
It was an honor having you as a friend.”
And with those final words, Jaehaerys I closed his eyes and surrendered his soul to eternal rest.
From the crack in the bronze door, I saw a small figure approach in silence.
A little girl with silver hair like cascades and deep violet eyes peeked into the room.
Rhaenyra Targaryen—The Realm’s Delight—had appeared there, not to weep for her dying grandfather, but to try to lay eyes on the famous and infamous Court Sorcerer.
I looked at the little girl, nodded softly, and began dissolving my physical presence into the arcane mist.
Through the mist, I saw Rhaenyra open the door completely and enter the chamber to look for me, until young Queen Aemma Arryn appeared in the corridor to restrain her.
I saw Aemma look around the room in surprise, realize I had vanished into thin air, and warn the Red Keep guards.
I looked one last time at Jaehaerys I’s motionless body and dissolved my consciousness, returning to the North.
Upon undoing the Projection at the Black Stone Tower, I immediately informed Daenerys and Viserra of their father’s passing.
Both mounted their dragons—Silverwing and the Pale Queen—and sliced through the skies toward the capital.
They arrived in time to pay their last respects and participate in the Conciliator’s funeral pyre.
Shortly after, Prince Viserys I was formally crowned as the new Lord of the Seven Kingdoms.
Ambitious councilors at court tried to spread the rumor that my magical presence in the room had killed the Old King, but the rumor was summarily crushed by Viserys, Daemon, and the entire royal family—who, despite their flaws, knew my nature and knew I would never assassinate Jaehaerys.
Part II: The Silence of the Gift and the Time Jump (103 AC – 112 AC)
From the coronation of Viserys I onward, the North plunged into nine years of absolute peace, progress, and strategic isolation.
The definitive resolution to the childbirth dilemma was an absolute success.
Using the notes from the future Kinvara had delivered to me, I combined blood sorcery with the elemental magic of the First Men.
I created a permanent mystical link connecting the mother’s magical reserve directly to my own mana reservoir.
In any pregnancy under my blood, if the woman suffered any scarcity of vital or magical energy during childbirth, the spell would automatically drain from my source—which was virtually limitless.
And if by an impossible event my own mana failed, the matrix would draw energy from The Cannibal’s colossal reservoir.
With the issue of maternal mortality resolved, I dedicated myself to expanding the wisdom of my arcane order in the Territory of Blessings.
Every newborn in my domain began to be examined for the presence of Greensight or Skinchanging.
Those demonstrating the slightest talent were integrated into the order from childhood, receiving technical and ethical training to serve as guardians and administrators of our lands.
It was also during this period of isolation that I achieved a historic milestone: I mastered the mystical channeling that allowed The Cannibal to cross the Wall of ice without triggering the ancient arcane defenses of the First Men.
Seeing The Cannibal fly majestically over the great ice barrier and project his colossal shadow over the wildling lands of the far North had been an unforgettable spectacle.
The free folk tribes, who were beginning to show unwanted boldness near our extended borders, received a swift, surgical, and devastating demonstration of dragonfire.
A single show of force was enough for absolute discipline and respect to be restored in every clan Beyond the Wall.
And so, time flowed swift and silent, while the South slowly sank into its own diplomatic intrigues.
Part III: The King’s Envoy and the Dragons of the Tower (112 AC)
(POV: Ser Criston Cole)
The cold of the North was not merely a weather condition; it was a living force that punished the bones and froze the very soul.
I was riding at the vanguard of a small royal retinue of five knights.
The icy wind whipped our white cloaks as we advanced through the deep snow.
However, as we advanced along the trail leading to the heart of the Territory of Blessings, something extraordinary and inexplicable happened: the snowstorm began to lessen in intensity gradually, turning into a gentle dust of ice.
The air, previously freezing, became surprisingly mild and bearable.
Before us, in the center of a protected valley, stood a monumental village—a settlement so vast, organized, and paved that it looked more like a prosperous small city than a northern fief.
As we approached the village’s entrance gate, we were intercepted by a group of local warriors in worked leather garments and mail coats.
Riding at the head of the group was an extremely well-dressed young man.
Although he did not sport noble crests or southern silk cloaks, the young man’s refined posture surpassed that of many lords in the capital.
Beside him, mounted on a small pony, was a little girl no older than twelve years of age; a giant eagle with dark feathers rested softly on her leather-protected arm.
I brought my horse forward and adjusted my posture as a royal knight.
The young leader of the villages stared at our retinue with a calm, curious smile.
“Welcome to the Village of the Black Stone Tower, strangers from the South…” he said in a refined tone.
“…What brings members of the court to lands so distant?”
I adjusted my cloak and replied with the authority inherent to my title:
“I am Ser Criston Cole, a knight of King Viserys I’s prestigious Kingsguard.”
The young man let out a faint laugh, nodding his head.
“We noted the white cloak and the work on the shield, young knight…
But your destination and your authority here remain quite uncertain.”
I found the lack of subservience from that peasant odd and declared in an imperious tone:
“I bring an official decree from the King of the Seven Kingdoms ordering the Sorcerer of these lands to present himself!
I command that you lead me immediately to Lord Vaelarys!”
The young leader stared at me intently and burst out laughing, accompanied by the warriors around him.
“Your king holds no power or jurisdiction whatsoever in these lands, knight,” the young man replied, wiping a tear from his eye.
“These lands belong to Westeros!” I countered, my hand instinctively resting on the pommel of my sword.
“They belong to the continent of Westeros, yes…” the young man corrected calmly “…but they were never part of the Seven Kingdoms.
The Territory of Blessings is sovereign.
However, I will take you to the tower…
But I leave a friendly warning, Ser Criston: measure your words strictly.
You will not be dealing with a petty vassal lord of the Reach.”
I scowled, bothered by his audacity.
“Just lead me to him.”
“Right…
I see you aren’t particularly smart or prudent,” the young man mocked, turning his horse around.
“Do you genuinely believe that steel sword and shiny armor mean anything against my Lord?”
We accompanied the group to the base of the main complex.
As I approached the Black Stone Tower, my chest tightened in pure astonishment.
The architecture of that fortress defied human reason: its colossal base was carved out of a gigantic block of eternal, indestructible ice, rising in black volcanic rock toward the heavens.
The top of the structure simply could not be seen from the ground, for it passed through the dense layer of clouds.
Suddenly, a sharp, deafening roar cut through the skies, causing my horse and the mounts of my men to rear in uncontrollable terror.
Emerging from the clouds at a terrifying speed, a dragon with scales as white as snow plummeted and landed gracefully in the courtyard.
Atop the saddle was a woman of breathtaking beauty and silver hair.
But I had no time to admire her: seconds later, a second beast landed beside her—a dragon of gleaming silver scales, larger and more graceful, ridden by another woman of flawless Valyrian features.
And then…
the true horror descended from the heavens.
An apocalyptic impact hit the ground behind us, making the earth tremble like a violent earthquake.
The Kingsguard horses dropped to their knees, paralyzed by the biological dread of prey before the world’s greatest predator.
I turned around slowly, cold sweat dripping down my neck.
Before me, at a distance of merely a few meters, rose a mountain of black scales and battle scars.
A dragon of colossal proportions stared at me sideways with a giant, glowing green eye—a look carrying a malice and intelligence so deep that I felt my legs weaken inside my armor.
From the leather saddle of that monstrous beast, a man dismounted.
He walked with impressive ease down the long neck of the beast and sat casually atop the dragon’s head, staring down at us from above.
The man possessed incredibly pale skin, silver hair bordering on absolute white, and grey eyes that seemed to pierce my soul.
He wore bizarrely light clothing for the northern cold: dark trousers of fine cut and a tunic open at the chest—a style one would see in Dorne or Lys, but never near the Wall.
“Well, well…” he said, his quiet voice echoing across the courtyard.
“…What brought the southern winds to my tower?
Ser Criston Cole…
What brings you to these lands?”
I tried to regain my posture and voice, fighting against the trembling in my chest.
“I…
I came on behalf of King Viserys Targaryen, First of His Name!
He orders your presence…”
The Sorcerer raised a silver eyebrow, listening intently:
“Orders?”
I swallowed hard, quickly correcting my tone under the gaze of the giant dragon:
“I mean…
The King invites your lordship to come to the capital, accompanied by your wife and your apprentice, to attend the Great Tournament in honor of the expected birth of the King’s Heir with Queen Aemma Arryn.”
The Sorcerer stared at me for a few seconds with an amused look.
“And you’ve already joined the Kingsguard even before the celebratory tournament?…
What an interesting butterfly effect.”
I was completely at a loss to understand the meaning of those enigmatic words.
“Well…” he continued, letting out a subtle sigh.
“…I prefer when you came with royal authority.
But an invitation to a tournament also serves.”
The man stood up atop the dragon and stared at me one last time.
“I will consider your invitation, knight.
Now you may leave.”
He walked back to the saddle.
In a matter of seconds, the black dragon opened his gigantic wings and took flight toward the heavens with a rush of wind, followed closely by the other two beasts.
I stood frozen in the courtyard, my chest heaving and my body soaked in cold sweat, understanding for the first time in my life the true meaning of terror.
Part IV: The Return to the Board (112 AC)
(POV: Arthos Vaelarys)
From high in the frozen skies of the North, atop The Cannibal, I watched Criston Cole’s small retinue begin their return march to the South.
Beside me, Daenerys on Silverwing and Viserra on the Pale Queen maintained flight formation, their cloaks slicing through the freezing wind.
Nine years of absolute peace in the North had come to an end.
The tournament for the expected heir was about to take place, the event where Aemma Arryn was destined to die in the original timeline during an atrocious forced caesarean section.
I smiled, adjusting my saddle straps.
Viserys might be weak enough to let the maesters slice open his own wife’s womb for a fleeting chance at a male heir, but I wouldn’t allow Aemma to die like that.
It was time to intervene, save Aemma, heal her body with blood sorcery, and officially begin playing the pieces for the Dance of the Dragons.