ACT II: The Reign of Jaehaerys I — Part 1: The Court and Its Loves (59 AC – 87 AC)
Chapter 9: Soulmates and the Shadow of the Tyrant (75 AC)
Atop my imposing Black Stone Tower, the freezing Northern wind howled against the ancient structure and lashed the walls of dark stone, but the cold never dared touch the primordial heat emanating from the soil.
From the elevated parapet of the upper floor, I oversaw the meticulous progress of the works on the suspended landing courtyard I was building so the dragons could land, rest, and warm themselves without destroying the surrounding vegetation.
Thanks to the deep and complex arcane arts practiced by my father over decades of isolation, the foundations of the tower and the entire plateau were laced with subterranean veins of live magma drawn from the heart of the earth.
For a true master of blood and fire sorcery, there was nothing more natural, cozy, and practical than surrounding oneself with the pulsing blood of the planet itself.
Down below, working directly on the heavy stone and iron structure of the landing yard—since there was no village truly close to the tower—I spotted the figure of the local smith: Darlan, the son of the area’s former craftsman.
The young man hammered a colossal iron beam with enviable dedication, wiping sweat from his forehead while sporting a radiant, foolish smile on his face.
*Of course this lad is happy,* I thought to myself, resting my elbows on the obsidian parapet and cracking a sarcastic laugh.
*The fellow goes home every night and sleeps beside Darla.*
I don’t think I ever properly commented on Darla: she has a pair of breasts so truly monumental that if you cut half their volume off, she would still…
The muffled echo of heavy footsteps ascending the spiral staircase and the loud creak of the oak door cut my thoughts short.
Daenerys, who had already been with me at the tower for a few days enjoying the journey to the North, stepped up to the parapet beside me.
She crossed her arms over her dark blue dress and let out a sigh of pure disbelief upon seeing the pair that had just invaded the chamber: Baelon, now a full-grown young man of eighteen, and little Alyssa, aged fifteen.
“— What does the royal family think it’s doing around here?” I asked, turning slowly, my voice impassive and irony dripping from every syllable.
“— Didn’t you two have anything better to do in the capital before the feast ceremony?”
Baelon walked to the center of the room without any ceremony whatsoever, let out a tired gasp that seemed to carry the weight of the world, and threw himself carelessly onto a broad leather armchair, kicking his legs up and resting his mud-stained boots directly on the central dark wood table.
Wasting no time, I took a fluid step forward and delivered a swift, precise kick to the lad’s shin, sending his legs crashing to the stone floor with a loud thud.
“— Get those filthy boots off my table, boy,” I ordered, keeping my voice cold and my gaze sharp.
“— The wood of this table was cut from the heart of the primeval forests of Ulthos and brought across the sea by my ancestors long before Valyria ever thought of raising its first obsidian towers.
It possesses infinitely more history and dignity than your entire family.”
Baelon raised his arms in immediate surrender, rubbing his sore shin while contorting his face into a grimace of pain and outrage:
“— Hey!
Remember that my family was one of the noble dragonrider houses of Old Valyria!”
Before I could even waste my breath humiliating him, Daenerys stepped forward, adjusting the folds of her dress, and took the floor with refined, surgical venom in her voice:
“— One of the *lesser* and *least important* families of Valyria, Baelon…
please do not forget crucial historical details when attempting to boast before a sorcerer.”
Baelon looked at his older sister, raised his eyebrows, and flashed an openly mocking grin:
“— Ah, I beg a thousand pardons for my gross ignorance, oh great and holy Maiden of the Seven!
Tell me, my dear sister…
by any chance, is there still any part of your body left that remains truly pure and untouched for your faith?”
Daenerys didn’t even blink.
She maintained an erect posture, chin raised, and answered in a razor-sharp tone:
“— My fist, Baelon.
And it is precisely three seconds away from colliding with the middle of your nose if you don’t close that big mouth of yours.”
Both Baelon and Alyssa were part of what the court gossips and busybodies called “Daenerys’s faction.” In practice, however, there was no real division, rancor, or political infighting among them: Jaehaerys’s children maintained a genuine, loyal, and deep unity.
Even the crown prince, Aemon, had openly positioned himself alongside his eldest sister in her veiled dispute against the king.
It seemed my continuous presence at court and my teachings over the years had managed to decisively influence the mindset of the young generation of dragons.
The problem was that Jaehaerys was still the king—a sovereign monarch who was extremely stubborn, proud, and unyielding.
Realizing their father’s inflexibility, the siblings had opted to abandon the public contest for the crown.
Daenerys herself preferred to preserve the peace and stability of the family rather than drag the realm into an exhausting succession crisis—a choice that, ironically, left Jaehaerys even more furious and frustrated for failing to prove he was right in his decisions.
The trip to my Black Stone Tower was originally planned so Daenerys and I could escape the suffocating politics and heavy air of the South.
But that pair of idiots decided to follow us at the last moment, eager to flee the wedding preparations and the badgering of the capital’s frivolous nobles.
As I turned my gaze back to the window and the landing platform taking shape outside, I heard Baelon murmur provocations and jokes to his two sisters again:
“— If you keep being a nuisance like that, Baelon, I’ll give you a slap that will send you right through this stone wall,” I commented casually, without turning around.
In truth, I didn’t even need to move a single finger.
Alyssa took a quick step forward and delivered a loud, well-placed smack to the back of her older brother’s neck, beginning to scold and lecture him severely for behaving like a spoiled child on the eve of his own wedding.
I looked at Alyssa for a moment, observing her bright eyes and the fire in her stance, and let out a low chuckle.
Alyssa Targaryen had always been an absolutely fascinating girl.
Wild, cheerful, possessing a contagious laugh, and driven by a fierce, untamed determination, she always knew exactly what she wanted out of life.
Although Baelon liked to boast in the corridors of the Red Keep that he was the one who took the initiative to ask for his sister’s hand, I greatly doubted that romantic version; Alyssa had likely cornered him in a castle passage and decided their fate before the lad even knew what was happening.
She possessed another truly unique trait: among all the princesses and ladies of the Targaryen dynasty I have encountered to this day—with the sole exception of her mother, Queen Alysanne—Alyssa was the only one who never displayed the slightest romantic, seductive, or carnal interest in me.
And I respected her deeply for that.
Certain couples in this world were true soulmates, bound by ties of destiny that transcended any sorcery, beauty, or superficial desire.
Baelon and Alyssa belonged to each other absolutely and unbreakably.
She was the only daughter of Jaehaerys with whom I would never lie, and I felt perfectly comfortable, at peace, and content with that established boundary.
Their wedding, set to take place in the coming weeks as soon as we returned, would be vastly different from Aemon’s marriage.
When Jaehaerys tried to marry Aemon to Daenerys years ago, the crown prince firmly refused the union—not out of fear of me or disrespect, but because he feared forcing his own sister.
Aemon would never accept forcing Daenerys into a marriage she didn’t want, especially knowing that the firstborn already maintained a real, true, and deep relationship with me.
The young prince preferred to honor the fraternal bond rather than become an instrument of his father’s stubbornness.
Aemon’s union with his cousin Jocelyn Baratheon began as a convenient political arrangement and transformed, over time, into a genuinely affectionate and respectful marriage.
Baelon and Alyssa, on the other hand, were the exact opposite: in love since childhood, their marriage was the seamless union of their personal desires with the realm’s strict political necessity.
After all, with Alyssa being an active dragonrider mounted on the swift and deadly Meleys, the Crown could never afford to allow her to marry outside the royal family and hand that power over to another noble house.
*Exactly as will happen with Rhaenys in the future…
or rather, as it would happen,* I thought, narrowing my gray eyes and calculating the possibilities.
In the original timeline I knew from the chronicles of my past world, Alyssa and Aemon would suffer early, tragic, and unnecessary deaths.
But in this world, under my constant vigil, with my presence at court, and with my blood sorcery at hand, I would make every effort required to keep them alive and radically alter their fates.
As for little Rhaenys’s future marriage to Corlys Velaryon, I had yet to calmly decide whether it was worth stepping in or letting the tides take their course.
Our days in the North, however, were far from being limited to simple site inspections, hunts in the blessed forests, or discussions about royal politics.
A young couple in love and overflowing with hormones like Baelon and Alyssa would never let the opportunity to enjoy such freedom slip by.
Unburdened by the watchful eyes of the Kingsguard and the suffocating gossip of King’s Landing, the two seized every single second to surrender to passion in absolutely every imaginable corner of my domain. Find the original chapter at g.com.
Whether in the cozy warmth of the tower’s inner chambers, on the obsidian steps, in the secret glades of the valley, or upon the soft moss of the geothermal caves, Baelon and Alyssa fucked with wild vigor.
Not even the harsh Northern cold could freeze the ardor of those two; wherever they went, the dragon fire burning in their veins ensured that clothes were torn off and left upon the snow without the slightest shred of modesty.
And I, obviously, did the exact same with Daenerys.
After all, this pursuit of carnal freedom and unrestrained pleasure had been one of the primary reasons I traveled to the Black Stone Tower in the first place.
While the young couple explored the woods and halls, the eldest princess and I transformed the royal quarters and the most isolated spots of the valley into our own sanctuary of debauchery.
Hours later, in the absolute and comforting silence of my quarters at the top of the tower, the darkness of the night was broken only by the dim, reddish, warm ember of the stone hearth.
I lay on my back upon my broad black oak bed.
Atop my body, Daenerys moved her hips in a slow, fluid, deep, and rhythmic cadence, seeking a calm, intimate, and reassuring pleasure rather than a wild or violent session.
Her head rested gently in the crook of my neck, and the only thing I could see in the chamber’s twilight was her long, silky silver-Valyrian hair spread across my bare chest.
I rested my pale hands on her soft, warm thighs, accompanying and guiding the continuous movement of her ride.
As she let out faint, heavy sighs against my skin, my mind drifted through the deep reasons that led me to officially accept her as my arcana apprentice before the king and court.
The first reason was simple and direct: I genuinely liked Daenerys.
The girl was a fascinating and brilliant blend of Jaehaerys’s sharp intelligence and Alysanne’s passionate, untamed pride.
Fortunately, thanks to my daily presence and direct interference since her childhood, she and most of her siblings hadn’t inherited the worst and most irritating flaws of the king and queen.
Jaehaerys’s veiled rage and resentment toward his firstborn didn’t stem from fear that she would be an incompetent or weak ruler.
On the contrary: deep in his soul, the king knew perfectly well that Daenerys would be his ideal successor, capable of ruling with an iron fist and wisdom.
Jaehaerys’s true trauma and hidden dread was the terrifying prospect of being compared to his late uncle, Maegor the Cruel.
The king harbored a unhealthy obsession and neurosis about being a better, more beloved ruler than his uncle in every imaginable way, wanting to prove to the world and to historians that his father Aenys’s line was indeed strong, legitimate, and far more capable of ruling than Maegor’s strain.
Because of this desperate search for public validation and the absurd dread of being labeled a tyrant or usurper, Jaehaerys preferred to retreat cowed, mutilate the legitimate rights of his own firstborn daughter, and bow to the antiquated traditions of the Andal nobles rather than wield the necessary force to seat Daenerys upon the Iron Throne.
It was a ridiculous and lamentable psychological cowardice.
If the king kept his word and honored his daughter’s right, he would have me, the unbeatable force of the North, the unconditional backing of all the princess’s brothers, and the absolute supremacy of dragons to instantly crush any Southern lord who dared cough against the Crown.
But Maegor’s ghost shackled his every step.
The second reason for taking Daenerys as my apprentice was a strategic safeguard for an uncertain future.
Should all my alterations to the timeline fail and history eventually derail into a Targaryen civil war in the coming decades—the infamous and bloody Dance of the Dragons—my plan was one of devastating simplicity: I would simply rid myself of both sides, eliminating both Greens and Blacks, and place Daenerys, or her direct lineage, upon the Iron Throne as an absolute and unquestionable ruler.
And I had a subtle, bitter hunch that despite all my efforts to alter the royal family’s mindset and education, blind greed for that ugly, uncomfortable throne of swords would eventually lead the Targaryens to destroy one another at some point in the future.
When analyzing history with the detachment of an outsider, I realized that perhaps a civil war occurring in this era, under my strict control and intervention capability, was infinitely better than allowing abominations like the Blackfyre Rebellion or an Aerys II with fully grown dragons to destroy the world and magic in the future.
Only a king like Aegon V, *Egg*, knew how to utilize simplicity and love for the true good of the common people.
Emerging from my deep arcane and political reveries, I firmly grasped Daenerys’s soft hips, easily flipped our positions on the bed, and came over her pale body.
I aligned my body with hers and began driving into the princess with force, cadence, and an unshakeable rhythm.
Daenerys let out a loud, satisfied gasp, locking her shapely legs around my waist to hold me firmly against her body—a sweet and unnecessary gesture, since I had not the slightest intention of pulling out early.
After releasing my heat and seed deep within her womb, I turned her soft body face down upon the black silk pillows, held her hips high, and resumed the intense pace without giving a second of rest.
I would leave worries about the distant future, prophecies, and coming wars for when they finally arrived at my doorstep.
On that blessed night in the North, my only real duty was to give the beautiful, proud princess before me precisely the pleasure and ecstasy she had come to seek in my tower.
After a few pleasant days on my lands, hunting in the blessed forests of the valley, enjoying the tranquility of the North, and inspecting the progress on the suspended courtyard construction, we finally assembled our party.
It was time to don our finest clothes and return to King’s Landing on The Cannibal’s back.
After all, we had Baelon and Alyssa’s grand wedding to attend and celebrate in the capital.