ACT I: The Awakening of the Myth and Arrival at Court (58 AC – 59 AC)
Chapter 4: The Sorcerer in the Small Council (59 AC)
The rhythmic, dry sound of clapping echoed against the black stone walls of my chambers on Dragonstone.
On the broad oak bed, covering my dark silk sheets, I lay over the body of a woman, fucking her with unyielding force and rhythm.
She was on her stomach, fingers dug into the mattress, her groans muffled against the pillow.
But to be completely honest, my mind wasn’t there.
The girl beneath me was undeniably beautiful, with soft curves and warm skin, but she remained utterly irrelevant.
I didn’t even remember her name—and I didn’t care to.
There wasn’t a single day in my existence when I didn’t wake up marveling at the reality of this world.
When I first gained consciousness as a baby and realized I had reincarnated into *Planetos*, in the universe of *A Song of Ice and Fire*, the fascination took over completely.
Discovering that I wasn’t merely a spectator, but the heir to a line of Valyrian sorcerers united with the blood of the Winter Kings of House Stark, was the greatest joke and the greatest blessing destiny could have given me.
Living with my new parents in this life was a fascinating experience.
My dear father was a man obsessed with magic in an almost unhealthy way.
He breathed sorcery, studied arcane tomes day and night, and even refused to have a dragon just so as not to distract his mind from the arcane mysteries.
Naturally, that passion passed down to me—except I was blessed with something my old man never possessed in such abundance: pure, raw talent.
The junction of First Men ice and Ancient Valyrian fire gave my soul a frightening magical capacity, exponentially more powerful than that of any noble.
After all, unlike the Targaryens—who in Valyria were seen more as mere beast-riders and winged livestock breeders—my family consisted of true masters of blood and flesh sorcery.
“— *Ah…
wait a second…*” I murmured in High Valyrian.
With a deep thrust, I sank in to the limit and released my heat and seed into the womb of the girl accompanying me.
I bent over her trembling body, tilted my head, and pressed a soft kiss to her sweaty nape:
“— Take it all, dear Mary.”
The woman, panting desperately as she tried to catch her breath and regain control over her legs, turned her face sideways on the pillow and whispered in a choked voice:
“— M-my name is Jenne…
Lord Vaelarys…”
“— Right.
Good job, Mary,” I replied, not giving a damn about the correction.
“— Now that you’ve rested for that minute, let’s continue.”
Before the poor girl could utter a single protest or pull up the covers, I gripped her hips firmly, aligned my body, and resumed the intense, unyielding rhythm.
*Where was I again?
Ah, yes…
the magical talent of my bloodline.*
House Vaelarys was one of the most influential in Ancient Valyria, and my father prepared for the Doom with surgical precision.
According to the official story he told me when I was a boy, his escape from the Freehold occurred due to the warnings and prophecies of Daenys the Dreamer.
However, I personally doubted that naive version.
My father spoke in a strange way.
He used metaphors and concepts that simply didn’t belong to this century.
I have a very solid theory that the old man **was also a reincarnated soul from another world**.
I remember perfectly how, during my childhood and youth, the two of us would exchange deep, sly looks whenever one of us let slip some word or thought too advanced for the era.
There was a silent understanding between us—two ghosts from the future ruling a black tower in the North.
I felt the body of the woman beneath me suddenly relax and go limp against the mattress.
Looking down, I saw that *Joanne* had simply passed out from exhaustion.
I didn’t blame her.
After all, we had been at it for nearly twelve consecutive hours without a break.
I pulled out of her body carefully and stood beside the bed.
I extended a pale hand over the girl’s back and activated a subtle trace of my blood magic: a soft, reddish glow emanated from my fingers, flowing into her skin, instantly healing the muscular micro-tears, physical fatigue, and pain from that prolonged marathon.
I was a demanding man, but not a cruel monster.
After washing up with warm water from the silver basin and dressing in my clothes—light white trousers, soft leather boots, and my immaculate black-edged tunic, kept subtly open at the chest—I left the chambers.
Today was the day.
I was to fly to King’s Landing and officially take my seat on the Small Council as Master of Arcana.
As I made crystal clear to Jaehaerys during our stay at Dragonstone, I was not going South to be commanded by anyone.
I cared little for his title of “King of the Seven Kingdoms” or the golden crown on his head.
But in truth, I liked the man.
Jaehaerys was intelligent, just, and earnest, and his wife Alysanne was a fascinating woman.
Helping them govern that realm of Andal brutes and trying to change the court’s mindset for the events to come in the future would be a rather interesting pastime.
Whether I would succeed in changing history or not?
It mattered little.
In fact, I was fully aware that this friendship with Jaehaerys had a very definite birth date and death date.
I knew that in his old age, the famous *Conciliator* would make disastrous political and familial mistakes.
And the reason for this was something I had already begun to notice during these few days together: both Jaehaerys and Alysanne seemed to forget that they were Valyrians, not Andals.
To appease the Faith of the Seven and maintain peace with the Southern lords, the monarchs pretended to follow local customs and principles…
but the danger was that they were starting to forget they were only *pretending*.
I walked through the obsidian corridors until I emerged into the large open courtyard of the castle.
As soon as I stepped onto the cold stone, the colossal shadow circling the skies of Dragonstone tore through the clouds.
From the heights of the Dragonmont, my “cuddly dragon” descended.
The Cannibal landed with the impact of a falling mountain, his black scales absorbing the sunlight and his emerald-green eyes fixing on me with wild affection.
I walked up to his left wing and climbed up the membranous structure with the grace and ease of someone who commanded every fiber of his own body—what would be a nightmare for any ordinary man was a breeze for me.
I settled into the new saddle, custom-made from black worked leather and bearing my house’s sigil: the white crescent moon with the radiant star.
Without needing to utter a single word, The Cannibal raised his head, let out a deep rumble, and took flight, beating his gigantic wings and launching us into the heavens.
Dragons don’t need verbal commands.
The bond with a rider works through pure intention, will, and mental attunement.
The Targaryens use High Valyrian words like *Dracarys* or *Soves* as a crutch, really.
Being someone who reincarnated into this world from the 21st century, I knew the exact reason for this: HBO brought those verbal commands from Daenerys’s era to her ancestors because it was iconic and visually striking for the screen.
It’s funny to think about from an outside perspective.
But the truth of this world’s lore is that if the mental intention isn’t clear and focused, the attempted command can actually disrupt the connection with the beast.
Words merely serve to help the rider focus their own mind and intention.
That’s why there are riders considered infinitely better than others—like young Daemon will be in the future with Caraxes—and why training and daily bond-building are indispensable.
Flying through the skies on dragonback was an indescribably liberating experience.
Looking at the sea below us, it made total sense why so many Targaryens developed a God complex.
I looked down at the black beast beneath my legs and smiled.
I knew that from now on, The Cannibal would finally reach his true potential.
A dragon was spawned by sorcery to be ridden and connected to a conscious mind; he only grows and fully develops when he has an active rider.
That was why, despite being impossibly ancient—living in the caves since before the Targaryens’ arrival—The Cannibal was “only” the size of Vhagar, rather than larger than the legendary Balerion.
In the original timeline, without a rider, his growth would stagnate, causing Vhagar to far surpass him during the Dance of the Dragons and even Vermithor to overtake him in mass.
But now?
Now that he had me, his vital energy was awakened.
It would be extremely fun to see what colossal size this beast would reach in the coming years.
The silhouette of King’s Landing began to outline itself on the horizon.
As we approached, the clean sea breeze of the open ocean began to be replaced by the stifling air of the capital.
The smell of sewage, sweat, and garbage from the city was already noticeable from up high—and I knew that in the future, that stench would get ten times worse.
*Well…
I need to make a grand entrance worthy of my new reputation.*
As The Cannibal crossed the city’s imposing stone walls, flying at a low altitude that made the shadows of his wings cover entire blocks, the black dragon unleashed a horrifying roar that made the roof tiles tremble and the populace in the streets panic completely.
I pulled on the mental intention and commanded the beast to ascend vertically.
The Cannibal cut through the air like a black arrow, climbing higher and higher until he completely vanished inside the dense blanket of gray clouds covering the capital.
Up there, surrounded by the muffled silence of the fog, I looked down at my dragon’s head.
Even knowing verbal commands were unnecessary, I couldn’t help myself.
After all, if you reincarnate into the universe of *A Song of Ice and Fire*, manage to claim the largest wild dragon in the world, and don’t say the magic word at least once, you’re living your life wrong.
I focused my mind, smirked disdainfully, and pronounced out loud:
“— Dracarys.”
The Cannibal obeyed my will instantly.
The beast opened his monstrous jaws and unleashed true green hell from the depths of his throat.
A monumental torrent of magical wildfire exploded in the midst of the clouds, setting the sky ablaze.
The emerald-green flash was so violent and vast that it dyed the entire atmosphere of King’s Landing with a macabre, supernatural, and ghostly light.
The city’s population looked up and saw the heavens burn in green flames like those of a curse.
Taking advantage of the visual impact, I commanded The Cannibal to dive.
The beast folded his wings and plummeted in freefall straight from the clouds toward the ground.
The speed was breathtaking, the wind roared in my ears, but The Cannibal possessed enviable agility.
Years of hunting, fighting, and surviving against other dragons in the mountains had given him a maneuvering capability and body control that no dragon raised in captivity could ever dream of having.
A few yards from slamming into the plateau of Rhaenys’s Hill, near the entrance of the newly completed Dragonpit, The Cannibal spread his colossal wings, creating a terrifying gust of wind that swept away dust and sent the cloaks of the people on the ground flying.
He landed with unbelievable lightness and precision.
I looked at the reception before us.
There stood members of the court, the Kingsguard with their swords hesitantly drawn, the lords of the Small Council, and at the front of them all, the royal couple and their young children.
The oldest little princess, Daenerys, was seven years old and stared at the dragon with wide, fascinated violet eyes; beside her, little Aemon was four, and baby Baelon, just two, was in his mother’s arms.
I dismounted from The Cannibal’s saddle, sliding naturally down the beast’s wing.
As soon as my feet touched the ground, the black dragon gave one last satisfied rumble and took flight again, rising into the heavens to command the winds of the capital.
I adjusted my open-chested tunic and walked toward the monarchs with a calm smile:
“— Jae…
Alysanne…
it’s been a while.”
Jaehaerys sighed, sheathing his sword and wiping the dust from his luxurious cloak:
“— Was all this theatrical display truly necessary, Arthos?”
Alysanne, on the other hand, let out a hearty laugh and adjusted little Baelon in her arms:
“— Oh, stop it, dear!
It was a fun spectacle!
And the little ones loved it!”
“— Of course they loved it…” Jaehaerys grumbled, though a slight smirk at the corner of his mouth betrayed his relief.
“— Bright lights in the sky charm any child, especially when the entire sky is painted a green as intense as that monster’s flames.”
“— Stop being a grump, Jae,” Alysanne teased, giving her husband a light elbow.
“— You’re not old enough to behave like a grumpy old man yet.”
Jaehaerys shook his head and turned to the nobles and councillors surrounding us with pale faces.
The king stepped forward and began the formal introductions of the Small Council.
My gray eyes scanned the faces of the most powerful men in the realm, until they settled on the figure clad in the austere robes of the Faith of the Seven: Septon Barth, the King’s Hand and the most trusted man in Jaehaerys’s government.
Barth stepped forward.
He met my gaze with admirable firmness, showing none of the cowardly dread the other lords displayed:
“— Good day, Mage Vaelarys,” said the septon, his voice serene and sharp.
“— From the way you look at me, I imagine you must not hold much affection for my person or my robe.
Know that the feeling of distrust is entirely mutual.”
The court held its breath.
The septon’s audacity was remarkable.
I took a step toward him, keeping my hands relaxed at my waist and smirking with an indolent charm:
“— Actually, no, my dear septon.
Although I feel a deep contempt for your dogmatic religion and your foolish Seven Gods…
I make it a rule never to judge a man’s capability before truly knowing him.”
The reaction of the court to my words was devastating.
The shock was so absolute that it seemed as though I had just slapped the queen’s backside in public!
In truth, if I had done exactly that, I doubt the Andal nobles’ reaction would have been so extreme.
Murmurs of horror, sacrilegious gasps, and scandalized looks echoed through the retinue.
The Kingsguard knights tensed their shoulders, and some lords even made the sign of the seven-pointed star over their chests to protect themselves from my blasphemy.
Ignoring the babble of the imbeciles around us, I continued looking into Barth’s eyes:
“— From what I’ve analyzed of your work so far, your advice to the king has been exceptionally intelligent, practical, and above all, devoid of the blind bias of your position in the church.
That is commendable for a man wearing holy cloth.
If you continue governing with that pragmatic mind…
we won’t have any problem at all, Septon Barth.”
Barth blinked, caught completely off guard by my candor and unexpected praise.
The holy man offered a faint nod, digesting my posture.
After that initial encounter that shook the foundations of the court, we were escorted inside the Red Keep.
In the Throne Room, before hundreds of lords and noble ladies who stared at me with a mixture of religious horror and uncontrollable physical attraction—the court ladies, in particular, devoured my pale skin, my silver hair, and my bare chest with hungry eyes—King Jaehaerys I officially announced my appointment.
I assumed the unprecedented title of Master of Arcana on the Small Council.
Jaehaerys detailed my formal duties to the realm: I would be responsible for educating the Targaryen family and the court’s scholars in the secrets of Valyria’s history and ancient sorcery, as well as supervising the management, health, and development of the Crown’s dragons.
This last duty, in particular, was my true reason for being there.
I looked at the Iron Throne and the court of stuffed imbeciles around me, maintaining my calm, magnetic smile.
*That was precisely why I came here.*
I accepted this ridiculous position and mingled with this bunch of futile nobles for one single reason: to prevent these fools from destroying and killing all the world’s dragons in the future.
I would try to change them first through advice, wisdom, and diplomacy.
But if, in the end, Targaryen greed and stupidity speak louder…
no one will be able to accuse me of not trying when I decide to kill them all.