100AC
Corlys Velaryon stood tall beside the wooden railing, his hand gripping it tightly.
The waves were strong today, but they had calmed significantly compared to yesterday, he thought, as he watched the grey sea.
A group of seagulls flew high above.
Gone.
A massive black dragon shot past, opening its jaw slightly.
The ship was hidden in its shadow for a moment.
It had grown over the past two years.
It truly had, just like Maekar.
Corlys turned toward the deck.
It was busy with sailors tilting the sail, tightening the ropes, bracing against the waves.
In the middle, next to the mast, a boy and a man were dueling.
Steel rang across the ship.
The man was black-haired and handsome.
Criston Cole.
The Prince had brought him along.
He was a very promising warrior, Corlys could see that much.
A rare talent, one who had been knighted by Ser Clement only a year ago.
Beside them at the railing stood Ser Clement, watching the fight carefully.
Maekar lost.
But ultimately, Maekar won.
Lasting against a knight like Ser Criston was an unbelievable feat for a boy of eight namedays.
“A splendid match.” He said, as he descended towards the main deck.
Maekar wiped away his sweat.
“Thank you, Corlys.” He said, nodding.
“How far till Tyrosh?” the Prince asked.
“About one day.”
Maekar nodded, looking towards the horizon.
“It was due time for a Targaryen to visit them again.”
Corlys only nodded, his mind elsewhere.
He could see it every day.
He had always seen it.
Ultimately, he had seen it in the throne room on that fateful day.
Prince Maekar was no third son.
No.
He was a wolf.
A dragon, more fittingly.
Preying on everything around him.
And his fangs were fearsomely big even at this age.
He commanded the third biggest dragon in the realm, only Vhagar bigger.
Vermithor was roughly the same size, but according to the Maester, he was bigger still.
Morghul, he called it.
Death.
Corlys scoffed, while his gaze moved to the horizon once again, following the gaze of the Prince.
This voyage would not last forever, though.
Soon enough, they would return to Driftmark.
And from there, another journey awaited him.
Harrenhal.
After relentless pressure, the King had finally agreed to a Great Council, hosted in the fortress in half a year’s time.
It was what Corlys had asked for himself, back in that throne room, before everything had spiraled into chaos and blood.
The realm was in need of stability, after all that had happened.
The words “civil war” had been muttered far too often in the last two years…
Jaehaerys sat inside the Iron Throne.
The hall was empty.
It was only him and the grotesque, melted steel.
His gaze remained on the floor before him.
The very place where Septon Barth had been beheaded.
The very same place where his grandsons had stood.
The memory shot through his mind once more, as if playing out again before him.
Yes, he had acted out of anger.
But for the first time in his life, he did not blame himself for it.
In a twisted, cruel sense, Jaehaerys could not deny it.
His grandsons had been right.
The Faith had shown itself dangerous, ungrateful, ungrateful to all he had done for it.
He had been too blind.
But now he understood that the Faith, as it stood, was an enemy to his House, and ought to be controlled.
So two weeks after the Princes had left the capital, Jaehaerys had mobilized the entire Targaryen forces.
And he had spoken to the realm, using a strategy he and the new Hand devised.
He could recite the words even now.
His lips moved slightly.
“In my name as King Jaehaerys of House Targaryen, First of my Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm,
That Septon Barth, once called wise, once called faithful, stood revealed as a murderer and a traitor.
He conspired against the blood of my house.
He poisoned my son, Prince Baelon and sought to hide his crime beneath the robes of the Faith.
For this, he has answered.
For this, he is dead.
This once again reminded the crown of its oldest duty: to protect all who live within the Seven Kingdoms, and not the followers of the Seven alone.
Too long have the worshippers of the old gods, of the drowned god, of the lord of light, and of every other faith carried in the hearts of my people, lived as guests in their own land, tolerated rather than protected.
This ends today.
From this day forth, every man and woman within the Seven Kingdoms shall be free to worship as their heart and their ancestors have taught them, without fear of the crown, and without fear of the Faith.
No septon, no septa, no high septon to come, shall raise a hand or a word against them, nor shall any man be named lesser for the god he kneels to.
Should any among the Faith, or any lord of this realm, choose defiance over peace, and answer this decree with blade or rebellion, let them remember what fire and blood have built, and what fire and blood can unmake.
The High Septon had been forced to resign and was now confined to his own residence.
It had been more of a symbolic act than anything else.
The outrage had been immense, though it had not lasted any longer than Jaehaerys had expected.
For a brief moment, it had truly seemed as though the realm was on the brink of civil war.
But the new High Septon and the new Hand of the King had played a crucial role in preventing that.
At first, Jaehaerys had been skeptical because of his ties to Oldtown, but Otto Hightower had proven to be a capable Hand.
He had found an effective way to weaken the Faith without provoking an all out escalation.
He shall serve Viserys well, Jaehaerys thought, before the doors to the hall were opened.
A familiar figure stepped through.
Alysanne.
“Alysanne.” He repeated out loud, slowly standing up.
“Why bother standing up, Jaehaerys?” Alysanne asked, her voice tired.
“Because I care.” Jaehaerys answered, descending the Iron Throne.
When he drew closer, Alysanne sighed.
“I worry.
For the realm, for my grandsons, and for you, my husband.” She said, taking his hands.
Jaehaerys looked at her for a long moment.
“I did what I had to do.
Was I wrong?”
Alysanne tilted her head, her expression shifting.
“You sent them away.
Alone.
Far away!” She said, water collecting in her eyes.
“We have lost far too many, and if it is because of those sitting in their septs and studies, then you should have hit them harder.”
“I’ve weakened them.
I can’t just burn them, although I wish for it.”
Alysanne laughed quietly, before pulling her hands away.
They trembled.
Jaehaerys had only noticed now.
“I have no strength left to argue or fight, Jaehaerys.” She muttered.
“I too wish for something instead.
I wish to see my grandsons.”
“I will allow them to attend the Great Council.”
And so his wife gave him a quiet nod before walking away.
The distance between them increased with every step she took.
It must have already been four when Jaehaerys wondered.
Why did it feel so much further?
“I am sorry, Alysanne.” He whispered, turning in the opposite direction, the crown on his head feeling so heavy today.
While Maekar was far away, Daemon was close to suffocating.
It was a joke he did not find funny when he thought about it.
“Runestone.” He muttered, lying in his bed.
The castle was lifeless, a shadow of the Red Keep, not to mention Dragonstone.
Then there was his wife, Rhea.
She wasn’t ugly, but she wasn’t beautiful either.
Instead, Daemon saw her more as a man.
His wife rode, hunted, even ate like a man, and that disgusted him.
What disgusted him even more was himself.
On a certain night, after a feast, he had done it.
Intoxicated by wine, he had bedded her.
Daemon massaged his forehead, anger rising within him.
Rhea was pregnant.
He had no interest in becoming a father, especially not with that wife of his.
Suddenly the door burst open.
“Daemon.” A rather unkind voice entered his ears as he turned.
It was Rhea Royce in person, clad in the typical Runestone armor, a bow in her hand.
“I will go hunting.” She announced.
“You will not!” Daemon ordered, standing up.
The door already closed shut.
Daemon opened it again.
Two Runestone guards blocked his way.
“Hah.” He scoffed, a smile appearing on his lips, not reaching his eyes.
He met their eyes for a long moment.
They stepped aside. Get faster updates on g.com.
But Rhea was already gone.
Daemon shook his head as he walked through the narrow hallways.
Everything here was beneath him.
Especially her.
“One day I will kill her.” He muttered, as he exited the castle onto the outer courtyard.
A cool breeze brushed against his face.
The yard was quiet, with only the sound of wooden swords clashing in the distance.
A handful of men were training.
Daemon stepped past them, looking past them.
Caraxes was lying on a small grass hill outside the walls, sleeping.
The dragon immediately raised his head at the sound of footsteps.
A few moments later, the crimson dragon took to the skies.
“Ao jāhor ēdruta gaomagon jorrāelzi, yn ao?”
You like sheep as well, don’t you?
Caraxes roared in agreement…
Maekar had taken his seat on Morghul, now high in the air.
The wind embraced him from all sides.
It truly was part of the freedom he had sought for.
Jaehaerys had done him a favor, more than anyone else.
Corlys was a powerful and shrewd man, but as powerful as he was, he respected power just as much.
If shown enough of it, he would submit.
But not without all the little things first.
Like his daughter, for example.
Laena was the same age as Maekar, and Corlys had tried numerous times to bring them closer.
On Driftmark, they had been seated together, their rooms next to each other.
Even when he was training, he had always felt her purple eyes watching him.
But just as Corlys had his whispers, Maekar had his own.
He had often mentioned his support for Rhaenys at the upcoming Great Council, planting the seed of hope in the lord’s heart.
A quiet laugh escaped Maekar.
Of course she wouldn’t become queen.
But the fall after would be harder, and more infuriating for the Lord.
It would bind them closer together, whether Corlys wished it or not.
He looked at the small ship below him as Morghul tilted right.
Two escort vessels flanked it, the sunset reflecting across the vast sea.
Then, suddenly, he saw movement.
Little figures running around.
Maekar squinted and looked further out and saw it.
“Pirates?” He asked out loud, surprised by their boldness.
Five vessels, packed with ragtag men.
Morghul descended as his hair fluttered in the wind.
It was long already.
He would cut it soon, he thought, as the ships finally seemed to spot him.
Too late.
“Dracarys, Morghul.” Maekar said quietly, as fire erupted from the dragon’s jaw like a storm, hitting two ships at once.
The wood was cut through like cake, exploding on all sides.
Men burned, screamed, wept.
Maekar closed his eyes as Morghul set out for another charge.
He could feel the heat collecting once more.
“What lovely sounds.”
Fire and death continued to rain down upon the pirates.
Alas, what remained was wood and corpses, swimming in the sea.
It was late in the evening.
The Tyroshi nightlife was in full swing, the streets packed with people.
Many sailors, some noble lords, and mostly slaves roamed around.
“Red Lady, may I ask for a dance?” A drunken, fat lord asked, stumbling around, supported by his two slaves.
The lady in question turned around.
She was indeed clad in an elegant red gown, coupled with her blood red hair.
She truly was a red lady.
She looked at the lord with her crimson eyes, a sweet smile on her lips.
The man stumbled backward, his own eyes wide, as though he had seen something far more horrifying than the woman standing before him.
“Monster!” he shouted, pointing at her as he retreated.
She just stood there for a moment, people moving around her like a swarm of fish.
Some glanced at her, most didn’t bother.
Then she tilted her head toward the darkening sky.
A huge black dragon flew over the city.
People around her started shouting, running into their homes or dropping to their knees in fear.
She didn’t.
Instead, she just walked in the direction it had flown…
Leave my man Jaehaerys in peace.
He’s finally got a capable Hand to help him…