nⷬnͧgͭ mͫgͤvuͪlͤgͬtͤṅah. Ymg' epgoka ya geb.
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Will they answer m...
Ọ̸̞̫͕̻̬͍̘̦̗͖̣̘͗̀̈́͌̓̽͆̾̊̔̄̽̈́͜ͅH̸̖̦͕̲̘̱͖̄̌͒́̔̊̆,̷̢̹͔̭̩͉̥̖̼̎͂͒͛͐̊̃̕̕̕͝͝͝ ̸̨͉̻͎̭͎̲̩̙̟̜͕̰̜̰̘͓̦̖̕D̵̨̨̢̛̰̬̖͍̬̞̼̖̳͈͔̫̯̺̣̥̥̦̙͈̗̮̯̽̎̀͂̀̾̓͂̂̌̀̀̽̇̓̔̂̀̏̉̎̃̾̕̚̕͘͝͝O̸̢̡̧̨̨̢̡̳͔͎͓̰̞̞͉̳̜͍̭̪̗̮̞͍͍̙͉͂̈̀̐̄̕͘ ̶̢̨̛̯̞̻̩̜̥̙͎̩̱̘̞̜̲̠͕̜̗̞̂͑̍̑̈́͐̆́̉̐͗͒͌̌̔̄̈̈́͊̋́̈̚͜͝A̷̡̛̮̯̦͚̤͔̮̰͚̺̙̭͓̯̬̦̻͈͚͙̰̥̯͇̗̤̜͓̮̯̺̯̼̙̼̦͋͗̔̒̀̉͊̽̏̆͂̉̄͌̐̔̃̍̂͆̌̈́̔͒̿̔̈́̈́̋̀̀͝S̴̡̨̹̲̱̯̠̬̲̟̰͍̭̳̦̲̗̲̮̭̙͈̈́͗̉͗̓̀̋̍̂̍̉̇̀̋̄̉̆̋̑͆͑̽͘ͅ ̶̢̨͍̩̮͎̖͈̞̪͔̰̭̻̤͍̑̃̆̔̃͐͋̉͆͗̈́́̄͘͜͝ͅͅY̷̡̡̨̧̘̤̗̘͎̠̼̣̝̩̳̠̱̦̗͍̬̠͎̖̹͒̐̌ͅO̵͉̓̀̀̉̀̇́Ư̴̧̨̡̛̛̲̲̲̦̟̼̰̘͓̱̺̮̳̝͕̥͈̜̥̻̗̙͂̅͋̍̂̎̔̅̋̄̐̊͑̇̑̋͐̈́͌̈́͒̕͘͜͠͝͝͝͝ͅ ̴̧̛̘̖͖̰̩̌̍̌̑̍̇͒̽͌͑̍̀͂̆̽̈́̂͗̈́̈̎͆̅͑͑̈̎͛̀̚̕̕͠͝͝͠͠͝Ẃ̷̛̲̇͗̎̓͛̉̓̉̎͌̃̋́́̒̈́̓̅̐̆̈́̅̊̈́̆̂̈́̒͂̇̔̎͑̌̈̅͠I̴̡̛̠̝͈̜͈̯̖̣͍̘̞͔̠̝̲̟̾͋̏͋̍͑̽͛̈͊̓̆͒͗̉̓̇̏̎̔́͐̑̽̽̀̿́͊̔̕͘̚̚͝Ş̶̨̢̢̨̛̼͙̱͙͍͚̺̱̣͎̱̳͎̼̺̬̖̻̺̥̼̰͕̜̤͔̤͙͉̭̹̃̏́̅̑̐̀̄̄̀͐̋̅͑͂̈́̊̀̃̉͘̚͝͝ͅH̵̢̨̢̛̛̺̻̖̪̲̤͈̗̻̪̺̠͙̰̞̟̝͎̺͊̈̓̓͆̾͌͊͒̕͜͜͝ͅ,̷̡̧̨̧̨̟͍̭̝̻̝̭̼̲̰̳̮̟̜̥͓͖͔̖̩̟̟̾̀͗̊̓̽̍͋͐̅̈̑̃͋̈́́͜͝͠ͅ ̴̧̢̛̳̲̙͚͉͉̝̯̳̜͍̏̿͜͠ͅC̶̢̛̺̜̪͙̰̱̦̟̫̰͍̻̦̱̠͆̐́̆̅͝Ḩ̷̯̪̻͈̩̘͖̜̣͗͗̽͐̐̆̂̂́̕͘ͅǑ̸̧̧̡̮̗̟̝͖̠̘̠̠̞͇͙͖̙͖̼̹͎̞͔͈͖͐̓̄̈́͠ͅŞ̴̨̦̻̖͎̝̟͇̩̬̖͓̙̻̤̞͑ͅĘ̸̡͕̬̟̪̣̩̣̳͉̻̯̬͚̝̮̯̖̓͆̆͛͛͑̑̑͒̌̾͌͗ͅN̷̨͖̝̘̹͓̻͇͈͓͒̂̒̿̈́̂͆͛͘͜͠ ̴̨̛̦̺̼͇̜̩͚͉̭̫̦͈̙͔̱̘̟̩̯̦͓͕̥̹͉̲̻̾̇̇͌̓̉́̅̌̓͋͌̅̓͐̄̅͋̈́̈́̎̾͗͘͘̚͘͜Ơ̵͙͎̗̻͎̼̗͂̀̃͑̅̓͆͂̒̐̅̍̊̃̐̓̃̈̋̅̃̆́͑͝N̶̨̢̨̡͓͎̦̬̖͚͖̹̻̖̦͎̩̺͔̟̟̤̺̦͈̹̝͈̰͖̞̟̣͗́̊̊̃̑ͅĘ̷̧̡͇͔̩͉̼̳͈̺̙͇͓̞̟̼̫͙͔̭̫̝̪̖̝̣͖͎̜̳̤͙̹͎̱̙͔̑̈̐̀̋̇̀͌̕͘̚͜͝.̸̨̛͉͕̬̲̞̼̗̠͙̪̖̭̦͇̙͔̩̣͓́̐̾̄̇̂̓̆͌͛̆̍̃̍̓̍̊͂̒̽͂̑̏̈́̓̇͋̈́͌̋̽͘̕͠͝͝ ̶̪̊̀̌̽W̶̡̛̼̮͖̯͔̗̱̠̺̜̻͓̳̫̰̺̣̪͎͖̩̫̟͕̰͉͉̪͉̟̱̦͕̼̙͍͌́̿̔̆̆͐̆̔͌͂̋̆̆̾͛̊̋̍̈̆́͐̍̾͑̚͘͜͠͝͠ͅȨ̶̘̗̥̙̰͈̘̟̞͙̟̝̗̙̻͍̟͍̟̖̺̰̖̲̳̖̯̙̮̥́͊̿̌͑̍̈̑͐̕̚̕͠͝ͅ ̵̣̱̤̠̠̘̮̪̺̳̲̗̳̬͚̀̍̍͐͆̈́̿́̈́͂̋̂͘͝͠͝͝Ạ̵̡̡̛̛̣̬̭̖͓͕̏̎̄̅́́̌̊̾̂̉̑́͊̀̃̄̉̾̋̀̇̽̒͗̓̌̑͑͗͘̚͝͝͠͝͠R̷̺̮͕̜̞̮͍̜̱̬͍̒̚E̵̢̡̡͙̫̰̜̯͌̀̂̓ͅ ̷̣͎͎͕̺̦̯͍͚̖̠͇̻̉Ẁ̵̧̡̢̢̤̩̤̩̖̻̣̙͙͇͕̙̜͔̳͖̺͓̭̂͂̈́͆̄̋ͅͅA̶̧̟͇̳͎̬͇͈̋́̎̐̊̈͊̄̎͛̔̏̉͛̉͒́̾̿̐́͋̚̕͘͝T̸̛̬̹͓̘̠̬̙͎̣̒͑̿͛͆̆̂͛̎̄̆̄̿̏̃̄̀̓̆́̂̎̉̒̑̄̿̆͘C̷̢̧̧̡̡̻̞̩̮̤̞̪̺͉̳̤̙͔̟̯̰͉͙͙͇̠̭͇̦̬̹̲͉̊͂͒͆̊̒̅͂́̎͊̊̽̅̋͛́̋̓̒̊̎͆̍̃͘͝͝͝͝ͅH̶̛̛̯̞̺̭̪̹͕͖͇̭̻̝̾̀̅̀͛́̅͌̃̒̂͗͂̀̾̏̍̌̃̌̏͑͗̀͗̀͝͠͠ͅḬ̸̧̨̧͇̣̞̩͎͚͖͓̯̝͉̙̠̼̼̦͎̼̠̪͕̲͖̰̲̝̉͂͆̽̄̋͒͋̎̈͋́̑̇̃̈́́̈́̈́͛͆̾̀̊̇̑̎̎̽͆͘͠Ņ̶̲̠͇̻͑̈͆̇̔͂͗́͋͊̆̿̽̏́̈́̈́̇̒͘͘͘͝͝ͅͅĢ̸̢̢̡̛̛̛̯͕͕͔̩̫̖̣̥̞̬̺̤̈́̎͋͆̓̂̈͛̈̀̌̐͌͆́̉̕͜͝ ̷̺̅̽̄͑͛͒͝ͅŶ̷̧̡̢̡̛͕͉̯̝̹̙̖̫̭̮͈͕̩͙͚̫̜̰̦̘̲͇͖͈̼̹͍̻̲̘͂̊̃̌̈́͗̓̂̿́͒̿͋̽̂͘ͅO̵̧̡̬͖̩̰͎̯͓̯͎̝̳͇͈͖̱͕̹̠͖͉̭͚̖̗͍̤̞͉͚̲͖̩̞̲̔̃̊̇̍͛̃͛̈́̂͛͑̑̄̀̑͋̓̉̔͂͑̆̇̕͜͠ͅƯ̵̛̛̫̬͚̭̼̹͙͓͕̜̬̯͙̖̣̖͎̤̔͑̌̔̓͌͊̃̈́̔́̈́͊̓̊̈͊́̌͐̒̋̐̎̅̐̅̅̆̕̚̚͘͜͠͝͝ͅͅ,̴̛̝͕̀͆͊͗̑͒̓̽͑̈́͒̇̃͊̐̈́̕͝ ̶̡̢̡̧̛͉̰̖̞̱̹̟̭̗̤̱̘͙̦̩̠̼͙̘̦̹͔̱͈̣͉̻̮̇͂͂͒̿̃̓̉͜L̶͚̙̫̦̮͖̪̝̱̬̼͖̺̘̻̯̬̯̱̜͍͆̒̿͌̅͌͂̿͑̃̊͒̑̀͘̚ͅĬ̷̡̧̠̖͓̞̮͇͙͓̼̮̥̘͔̥̼̥̯̮͕̮͖͛̎̊̊̈͘ͅT̷̡̡̛͚̼͕̯̥̼̼̰̰͖͔̭̳̥̲̙̙̟͓̦͍͖̫̹̠̭͚̦͕̯͌̽̌̏̎̓͛̔̍̈́̄͐̑͆͌̆͆̈̂̄͑̀͑̆̔̎̂͒̐̑̕͘͠͝͠ͅṮ̴̛̛̹̺̭̳̯͙͉̳̫̖̗̖̬̠̆̽̇̏̀͑̈͐́̂̅̅͋́͒̃̈̐͐͛͌̚͝L̵̢̡̡̛̺̻̼̦͉͙̖̭̫̥̟͕̯͎͔̮͉͍̠̘͉̪̝͓̍̓͑̈́̅͊́͊͒͗͌̄̽́̈́̈́͂͆̂̀̑̄̅̊́̐͆̃̾̀͛͌̍̒̑̈́̒̕͜ͅḚ̷̡̡̡̨͈̬̪͖̣̞͙̭̤͇͉̱̭̣͇̩̱̪̝̙̪̝̼̝̰̙̲̙͚̺̈́͒̀́̈́̅̀́̋̄͘̚͘͝ ̸̢̡̡̢̨̡̨̹̠̥̬̙̭͚̫̱̘̹͉͖̲͕̹̞̳̹͓̼̪̘̀̅̆̀̃͂́͜͜͝F̴̢̧̧̨̘̰̗͍̰̳̠̝̜̆̔̿̍͂̾̍L̵̨̨͍͈͇̹͙͈̤̯̳̪̱̩͖͈̰̞͓͈͎͔̰̼͚̱̜̪̃̓͑̂̄̋̎̈́̏͐̀̿̃͋͐̎̀͊̆͂̓̕͜͝Ä̸̡̧̝̲̝̮̬͎̭͍̟̙͓̝̞̘̱̣͙̘͓̉̊̐͊̉̎͛̑̊͛̂͜͠͠M̸̨̡̼͍̭͚̖̺͍̻͙̖͌̏̀͐̈̈́̈́̇̑͒̌̈́͗̈̿̈́̈́͗̓͝͝͝͝Ḙ̶̡̡̛̹̦̻͖̭͍̥͉̭̗͕͖͈͒͌͐͌̏̓̿͋̀͊̚͝.̴̧̡̛̰̪͈̲̺̺͉͎̞̳̲̖̹̬͈̦̼̺͈̣̝̯̉͐̑͑͗̋̅̍̽͒̉͒̔̏̀̿̊͋͝ ̸̧̡̧̡̧̧͕̗͈̺̱̰͎̰̩̤̮̯̝̺̖̳̤̻̳͔̹̞̗̰͎̆͆̓͊̉̿̉͘͜J̵͉͖͎̯̘̼̭̱̙̦̳̱͔̗̬̦͉̗͇̜͇̯̀̽̿̀̐̾̅͑̈̋͘̕͝͠͝O̴̝͑͌̽́́͌͑͐̆͐͒̋̈́̉̇̌̈́̐͛̄̂̈̅͒̉́͌͊́͊̽̏̊͘̚͘̕͠͠Ĩ̷̡̧̧̢͔̩̺̜̰͙̰͕͇͖͚̞͓̫̙̹̹̝͓̣̩̦̠̞̳̙̩͇̍͆̐̅̍̀̓̇͌̅͗̄̈́͋͊̏̍̿̾̐̇͜͜͜ͅͅŅ̴̦̦̦̗̼̿͝ͅ ̶̨̧͕̠̣̇̎̔̓̅̎̀̓͑̍̈́̓̉̃̅̋̂̊͌͑̽̓̎̍͗̊͌͂̈̕̕̚͘͝U̵̳̖̭̥̺̺̠̘̮̟̫̟͚͕͚̘̖̘͔͉̣͍̫̠͇͍̤͂̊̂́͂́͜S̶̡̡̛͈̺̟̦̻̘̜̗̼̟̝̝͍̳̗̰̪̼͈̘̻̑͑̓̈́͒̍̑̓̑̑̃̄͌̓̓́̓̎͊͌̑̈́̈́̐̇͌͛̃̅̀̇̕͜͠͝͝ ̵̛̻̣̘͎̻̠̼̼͉͎̬͙̗̹̏͊̋̕͝͝ͅI̶̢̛̬̥̣̫̫̅̾͂̀͑͗͌̐̉̎͌͊̀̈͑̔̾́͛̆̐̓̇̎̉̆̋̍͋̐̋̈́̌̕̕̕͠͝Ņ̴̧̡̧̧̧̨̲͚̭͈̯͇͔̞̖̱͓͍̬̠̩̺̘̙̮͖̯̟̥̠̳̇̅̅͒ ̷̡̡̗̫͖̼̼̝͈̜̤͖̰̱̩̫̱̤͚͎̲͉̬͕̭̜̹̖̙̬͇͚̙̩̻͛̌̈́̆̎͂̊͗͗͆̀̐͝͝T̸̨̛͓͎͉̠̲̫̞̠͇̮̯̤̩̞̣̫̪̹̃͑̇͆̿͌͌̋̓̉́̒͆̒̉̀͊̄̀̑̓̀̈́͋̏̓͐̋̕͘ͅI̶̜̹͊̽́̀͆̽̽̀̈́̊̓̒̊̓͝͝ͅM̸̡̧̨̬̦̺͔̱̗͍̘̗̹͉͎͎̘̱̯̝͇̰̜̼̤̠͓͖̱̰̹̝͕̤͔̲̔̐̈͋̍̄̔̎̈́̉̀̆͌̓̍̔̅͌̾́̏̿̓̀͋̆̈́̀͜͜ͅE̶͕̟͇̠̮̯̩̝͚̤̬̤̯͖͍͗̄͗̀.̶̡̡̨̭̳̤̪͇̫͖͇̫̼͚̠͓̱̲̋͋ͅ ̴̯̠̱͙̼̫̘̺̗͚̐̀͗F̵̨̡̛̠̣͕͙̳̤̙͍̦̟̮̣͇̘͋̉̔́̄͌̒͌̈́̇̈́̿̾͒̾͛͗̏͌̅̐̀͗̔̃̆́͌͂̏̚͘̕͘͝͝͝Ą̷̧̗̳͚͖̻̯̖͍̺̟̰̟̪̩̬͎̗̺̱͕̯̟̥̳͕̳͚̝̳͓̗̦̿͂̈́͒͐̋̐͂́̂̊̎̎́̐͆͆̀̕̕͜͝ͅŖ̴͔̝̦͇̖͚̹̮̝͖͆̅̏̓̂̓̀͋̍̅̎̏̎́̓̐̇͆̌͋͒̉̈̓͒̃͘͜͝͝Ẻ̶̢̜̳͇̣̩̯̩̲̘̳͖̖̟͖̦͕̭͉̗̬̟̠͖̖̤̤̤̥̝͍̞͇̭̲͉̔͂̍̾̈́̍͑̏́̔̃̀̓̎͋̇̈́̓́͆̉̿͋̎̕̕̕͜͜͝͝ͅW̸̻̭̥͈̰̳̱͖͕̝͍͚̞̲̘̺̬͖̽̌̋E̷͔̜̳͔̼̲̥̩͙͉̳͊̒̎͊͊̅͂̈́̍̆̾͆͂̈̍̏͗̒̂͝L̷̡͎̩̲͍͙̠̳͉̘̟̿̍͗͝L̷̨̢̡̨̨̧̧̧̛̬̪̳̫̼̺̝̲̠̻̳̳͔͔̩͈̼̟̝͍̰̪̖̱̝̪̅̇̓̉̄̄͐̔̌̐́̊̉̀̓͆̐̀̎̉̀͊̎̕͜ͅ ̵̥͔̳͚̪̰̤͈̮̣̣̪̀̈́̀̃̈́̀̈́͌̉͑͐̂͛͗̾̅̄́́͗̾͑͌̒̽͐́͘͘͠͠͝F̷̧̛̙͕̘̣̦̘̻͍̣̯̯̦͇̦̙͍̘́̇̊͌̾̏͗̐͋͑͆̽̾̃̈̑̄͒̐̊͒͛͘͘̕̕̚͠ͅǪ̷̨̝̦̘̦̬͍͖͉̠͉͕̥̹̤͖͓̣̜̹̜͔̝͖̭͎̫͓̖̜̹͔͍̃͊́̈̄̔̃̀̊̒̀̕͜R̸̲̙̱̪͖̯̣̝̳͔͔̖̮͇͈̬̫̤̘̯͔̭͖̟̠͎̗̔̔͑̽̋̂ ̴̡͈̬͚̩͔̯̩͔͇͇̺͔̘̝̭̩͕̜̟̠͍͚͕͔̭͍͐͒͜Ņ̵̢̛̛͙̪̺̰̝̼̤͔̣̣̜̹͇̞̟͍͙̬͔̩͚̰͓̊͑̔͊̆́̄͑̿̿̏̾̂̇̀̈́͐̂͋̄͐̄̑̈́͝͝͝O̶̡̡̨̖̝̥̞͔̞̰̯̺̲̦̙̺͓̳̙̖̥̘̱̞͇̼̠̤̰͍̠̣̟͆̎͋́͆̓̾̅͆̀̈̽͐̈́͜͜͝͝W̵̻̮͙̘̖̭̓̈́̂̒͆̄̃̅́̆̎͠͝ͅ.̴̡̡̢̧̛̛͙̰̭̦̺̮̱̘̦͚̫̫͂̎̐̍͑̅͗͊͗́́̈́͒̈͆̍̅̒̃̚̕
̴̡̧̨̺̲̬̞̫̱͍̭̟̘̥̣̱̦̥̓̀͝ͅͅ
̷̥̯̗͎̣̯͍̞̻͓͒̄̀̕ͅ
O̵u̸c̵h̶.̶ ̸I̵ ̴l̷i̴t̸t̸l̴e̵ ̷l̷o̸u̷d̷.̷ ̵B̴u̵t̴ ̴t̸hank you for your time! Wow, these guys are really great, huh. Super polite and stuff! I won't pray for you guys, but even so, you're all very cool, Unspeakable Horrors! One day, I'll join you!
But now... Huh, I was going to do something important... Oh, yeah! I was so scared that I
Harwin."
The words escaped her lips before she had consciously formed them. Where was her lover? Her bed was empty.
Smoke covered her quarters. A dull orange glow shone from under her door. Outside her windows, the sky was pitch black. She could barely see anything through the darkness and the thickening haze that had begun creeping beneath the door.
Her children. A bolt of lightning hit her. Rhaenyra sent Harwin to the nursery this night. With her nuncle and her father both here, and that loathsome vermin Vaemond around, she sent her man to look over her children. Him and Ser Lorent both. She also dispensed her Ladies-in-waiting to their own quarters.
She still felt awful and ugly from the birth, fat, swollen, and grotesque. Elinda always told her she was still beautiful, and Harwin too, but Nuncle made a comment some nights past, and she felt like the smallest thing in the world… She wanted to be alone this night.
She locked her door… She knew Nuncle Daemon enough to know that after today (yesterday?), his blood would boil. He never liked to be vexed by others, specially those that he doesn't respect. He gets grabby when that happens. Too bad, he can use Laena for his lusts tonight. Is him at her door? No...
A child's voice?
"SISTER! OPEN THE DOOR!"
The smell of smoke becomes stronger.
What is happening?
"RHAENYRA!"
Rhaenyra jumped out of bed so suddenly that she fell to the floor. Its hot, too hot. Fire? Fire!
Where are her keys? Her keys, Her keys!
BANG!
The doors to Rhaenyras's chambers are made of 3-inch oak. Even so, Aegon Targaryen, a child of ten namedays, broke them on his third kick.
A hush of smoke and hot air hit Rhaenyra. Absurdly, for a moment she was more concerned with the state of her clothes than with the heat. Dragons don't burn.
Aegon stood barefoot by the broken door, with his silver-gold Hair disheveled, a grim expression and utterly sooth stained.
Before Rhaenyra could articulate some thought, her little brother reached her. "WE HAVE TO GO! NOW!"
"What?" She coulnd't breath, she couldn't think.
"MY PRINCE!" A man voice's roared from the corridor. The same corridor outside glowed a fierce orange.
"FOR FUCKS SAKE ERRIK, I AM IN MY SISTER'S QUARTERS! COME HELP ME BEFORE WE ALL DIE HERE YOU DUMB FUCK!"
Aegon's scream started to truly wake her up.
Dragonstone was stone. Blackfused Valyrian stone. Fire should not consume Dragonstone. What is happening?
Before me, a piece of the Seven Hells escaped and imprinted itself on the World.
Smoke poured the windows of the Stone Drum. Servants were shouting and praying. Men-of-arms were scuttling around like rats on a sinking ship. Huge fires were burning around the maw of dragon-like structure, like the Keep was truly breathing flames. People were screaming for water.
Totally awesome!
Entire sections blazed in the central keep of Dragonstone... Especially the guest quarters and the nursery.
Bye bye, Harwin! Bye bye Criston! Bye bye Daemon! Bye Bye my oh so beloved Strong nephews. Sorry, not sorry.
Have no fear, my imaginary friends! I, little Aegon Targaryen, helped save the day! Well, night! After "waking up" and sneaking into the kitchens (something Aegon-that-was usually did at night in the Red Keep, so It was not suspicious at all), I smelled a "mysterious" odor of smoke. I alerted the men-at-arms, and thanks to my efforts, I saved many lives! Lol!
I even fled from my sworn sword, which wanted to take me to a safe corner with my little siblings, to save my beloved older sister Rhaenyra! Sorry Errik! Don't worry about him, he's fine! Well, Mom wants him publicly dismembered for letting me expose myself to danger like that, but okay.
Ah, right now, my mother is hugging my siblings and me so tightly that I can almost feel my ribs breaking again. I hope she lets us go soon, but I don't have much hope about it. Oh, my ribs? Oh, the Warrior fixed that for me, I guess. Well, if anyone asks, it wasn't that bad, they were just bruised. Old Gerardys was exaggerating. Speaking of him, the poor man fell down some stairs during the commotion. May the Mother above have mercy on his poor soul.
Father is doing the same with poor Rhaenyra. She looks completely devastated, with a lifeless gaze.
...
Sorry, but you cheated on me with Harwin. And Daemon. And Criston, maybe. I'm not sure about his case, but it's better to be safe than sorry. Anyway, bad girls get punished. But don't worry, RhaeRhae! The most dangerous creature in this world is now your personal protector! I will help you through this difficult time, don't worry! In time, you will understand how I am the key to your happiness and safety. I guarantee you that.
Ah, man, the fat fuck Viserys almost had a heart attack! Ser Criston died heroically trying to get the king and the Queen out of their chambers. Unfortunately, he was lost in the flames before reaching the royal quarters. How sad.
Strange how castles like this can seem so much bigger in situations like this... It's almost as if the corridors were looping or something. What, strange geometries are an Eldritch thing? What a Ghastly accusation! I'm a hero!
Strange how the flames started in the nursery. It's almost as if three certain dragon eggs exploded. Ouchie! Sorry, Jace! Sorry, Luke! Sorry, Joffrey! In your next life, reincarnate as trueborns! Your life expectancy will be much better! Sorry Harwin!
Oh, you are welcome, by the way, Lord Corlys, Princess Rhaenys. It was wonderful to save you both. Sorry about your son. To die burned alive after getting lost in the smoky corridors searching for his good friend Qarl Correy... How sad!
And you Laena, I am so, so sorry about Nuncle Daemon! He was extremely noble and brave trying to save my elder sister's life. What a shame the flames caught him before he got there... The corridors of this castle really do seem much longer than they should be sometimes, don't they?
You all are in my thoughts and prayers.
AHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHHAHAHAHHAHAHAHHAHAHHAHAHHAHAHHAHAHHAHAHHAHAHHAHAHHAHAHHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!
What? What the hell was I thinking? Why the fuck did I set everything on fire?
Rude!
It's not my fault! It's the curse of Harrenhal!
Strangely, around the same time that Harwin and his bastards caught fire, Harrenhal also exploded in flames... Almost as if a pyromancer had used the deaths of 3 Strong boys as sacrifices to curse all the members of their father's family. But that would be crazy, wouldn't it? Oh, I guess that Larys and Lyonel died too. Sad! Fortunately, the Red Keep didn't got to badly burned by their spontaneous combustion. Guess that Harren's ghost doesn't like Strong people. Ah, but nobody knows that yet. Only I know about the disasters at Harrenhal and King's Landing.
I'm suspicious? You guys are so mean!
AHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHHAHAHAHHAHAHAHHAHAHHAHAHHAHAHHAHAHHAHAHHAHAHHAHAHHAHAHHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHHAHAHAHAHHAHAHAHAHHAHAHAHHAHAHAHHAHAHHAHAHHAHHAHAHHAHAHAHHAHHAHAHHAHHAHAHAHHAHAHHAHHAHAHAHHAHAHAHAHAHHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!
AN: Time skip next chapter!
Some of you asked for something like this before, so, since this chapter is full of eldritch text, nonsense in other languages (that don't even exist), and so on, here's the meanings:
Ph'lloig ye'bthnkk mgep bthnkor! Remember the shapes before the flesh!
Yͥ'ͫ'mⷫ ͦnͭaᵍfͦlͥ ⷫᵍl'ͭ ͦbuͩgͤ ̾aͭhͬ'ͦmⷱgeͭhͪyͥe̾ fⷲaͦhͬᶫfͩ ̇shuͥᶠggⷱoͦgͧ. ⷲ ͣIⷫfͭ ͤyͩmgͫ'ͤ mͭgͦepͩgͦotͥhͭa̓ yͭaͦ ͦl'ⷡ ͣhͩ'̇ aⷱhͦ,ͧ nⷬnͧgͭ mͫgͤvuͪlͤgͬtͤṅah. Ymg' epgoka ya geb. I'm not going to destroy this world. If you wanted me to do it, too bad. You put me here.
Ọ̸̞̫͕̻̬͍̘̦̗͖̣̘͗̀̈́͌̓̽͆̾̊̔̄̽̈́͜ͅH̸̖̦͕̲̘̱͖̄̌͒́̔̊̆,̷̢̹͔̭̩͉̥̖̼̎͂͒͛͐̊̃̕̕̕͝͝͝ ̸̨͉̻͎̭͎̲̩̙̟̜͕̰̜̰̘͓̦̖̕D̵̨̨̢̛̰̬̖͍̬̞̼̖̳͈͔̫̯̺̣̥̥̦̙͈̗̮̯̽̎̀͂̀̾̓͂̂̌̀̀̽̇̓̔̂̀̏̉̎̃̾̕̚̕͘͝͝O̸̢̡̧̨̨̢̡̳͔͎͓̰̞̞͉̳̜͍̭̪̗̮̞͍͍̙͉͂̈̀̐̄̕͘ ̶̢̨̛̯̞̻̩̜̥̙͎̩̱̘̞̜̲̠͕̜̗̞̂͑̍̑̈́͐̆́̉̐͗͒͌̌̔̄̈̈́͊̋́̈̚͜͝A̷̡̛̮̯̦͚̤͔̮̰͚̺̙̭͓̯̬̦̻͈͚͙̰̥̯͇̗̤̜͓̮̯̺̯̼̙̼̦͋͗̔̒̀̉͊̽̏̆͂̉̄͌̐̔̃̍̂͆̌̈́̔͒̿̔̈́̈́̋̀̀͝S̴̡̨̹̲̱̯̠̬̲̟̰͍̭̳̦̲̗̲̮̭̙͈̈́͗̉͗̓̀̋̍̂̍̉̇̀̋̄̉̆̋̑͆͑̽͘ͅ ̶̢̨͍̩̮͎̖͈̞̪͔̰̭̻̤͍̑̃̆̔̃͐͋̉͆͗̈́́̄͘͜͝ͅͅY̷̡̡̨̧̘̤̗̘͎̠̼̣̝̩̳̠̱̦̗͍̬̠͎̖̹͒̐̌ͅO̵͉̓̀̀̉̀̇́Ư̴̧̨̡̛̛̲̲̲̦̟̼̰̘͓̱̺̮̳̝͕̥͈̜̥̻̗̙͂̅͋̍̂̎̔̅̋̄̐̊͑̇̑̋͐̈́͌̈́͒̕͘͜͠͝͝͝͝ͅ ̴̧̛̘̖͖̰̩̌̍̌̑̍̇͒̽͌͑̍̀͂̆̽̈́̂͗̈́̈̎͆̅͑͑̈̎͛̀̚̕̕͠͝͝͠͠͝Ẃ̷̛̲̇͗̎̓͛̉̓̉̎͌̃̋́́̒̈́̓̅̐̆̈́̅̊̈́̆̂̈́̒͂̇̔̎͑̌̈̅͠I̴̡̛̠̝͈̜͈̯̖̣͍̘̞͔̠̝̲̟̾͋̏͋̍͑̽͛̈͊̓̆͒͗̉̓̇̏̎̔́͐̑̽̽̀̿́͊̔̕͘̚̚͝Ş̶̨̢̢̨̛̼͙̱͙͍͚̺̱̣͎̱̳͎̼̺̬̖̻̺̥̼̰͕̜̤͔̤͙͉̭̹̃̏́̅̑̐̀̄̄̀͐̋̅͑͂̈́̊̀̃̉͘̚͝͝ͅH̵̢̨̢̛̛̺̻̖̪̲̤͈̗̻̪̺̠͙̰̞̟̝͎̺͊̈̓̓͆̾͌͊͒̕͜͜͝ͅ,̷̡̧̨̧̨̟͍̭̝̻̝̭̼̲̰̳̮̟̜̥͓͖͔̖̩̟̟̾̀͗̊̓̽̍͋͐̅̈̑̃͋̈́́͜͝͠ͅ ̴̧̢̛̳̲̙͚͉͉̝̯̳̜͍̏̿͜͠ͅC̶̢̛̺̜̪͙̰̱̦̟̫̰͍̻̦̱̠͆̐́̆̅͝Ḩ̷̯̪̻͈̩̘͖̜̣͗͗̽͐̐̆̂̂́̕͘ͅǑ̸̧̧̡̮̗̟̝͖̠̘̠̠̞͇͙͖̙͖̼̹͎̞͔͈͖͐̓̄̈́͠ͅŞ̴̨̦̻̖͎̝̟͇̩̬̖͓̙̻̤̞͑ͅĘ̸̡͕̬̟̪̣̩̣̳͉̻̯̬͚̝̮̯̖̓͆̆͛͛͑̑̑͒̌̾͌͗ͅN̷̨͖̝̘̹͓̻͇͈͓͒̂̒̿̈́̂͆͛͘͜͠ ̴̨̛̦̺̼͇̜̩͚͉̭̫̦͈̙͔̱̘̟̩̯̦͓͕̥̹͉̲̻̾̇̇͌̓̉́̅̌̓͋͌̅̓͐̄̅͋̈́̈́̎̾͗͘͘̚͘͜Ơ̵͙͎̗̻͎̼̗͂̀̃͑̅̓͆͂̒̐̅̍̊̃̐̓̃̈̋̅̃̆́͑͝N̶̨̢̨̡͓͎̦̬̖͚͖̹̻̖̦͎̩̺͔̟̟̤̺̦͈̹̝͈̰͖̞̟̣͗́̊̊̃̑ͅĘ̷̧̡͇͔̩͉̼̳͈̺̙͇͓̞̟̼̫͙͔̭̫̝̪̖̝̣͖͎̜̳̤͙̹͎̱̙͔̑̈̐̀̋̇̀͌̕͘̚͜͝.̸̨̛͉͕̬̲̞̼̗̠͙̪̖̭̦͇̙͔̩̣͓́̐̾̄̇̂̓̆͌͛̆̍̃̍̓̍̊͂̒̽͂̑̏̈́̓̇͋̈́͌̋̽͘̕͠͝͝ ̶̪̊̀̌̽W̶̡̛̼̮͖̯͔̗̱̠̺̜̻͓̳̫̰̺̣̪͎͖̩̫̟͕̰͉͉̪͉̟̱̦͕̼̙͍͌́̿̔̆̆͐̆̔͌͂̋̆̆̾͛̊̋̍̈̆́͐̍̾͑̚͘͜͠͝͠ͅȨ̶̘̗̥̙̰͈̘̟̞͙̟̝̗̙̻͍̟͍̟̖̺̰̖̲̳̖̯̙̮̥́͊̿̌͑̍̈̑͐̕̚̕͠͝ͅ ̵̣̱̤̠̠̘̮̪̺̳̲̗̳̬͚̀̍̍͐͆̈́̿́̈́͂̋̂͘͝͠͝͝Ạ̵̡̡̛̛̣̬̭̖͓͕̏̎̄̅́́̌̊̾̂̉̑́͊̀̃̄̉̾̋̀̇̽̒͗̓̌̑͑͗͘̚͝͝͠͝͠R̷̺̮͕̜̞̮͍̜̱̬͍̒̚E̵̢̡̡͙̫̰̜̯͌̀̂̓ͅ ̷̣͎͎͕̺̦̯͍͚̖̠͇̻̉Ẁ̵̧̡̢̢̤̩̤̩̖̻̣̙͙͇͕̙̜͔̳͖̺͓̭̂͂̈́͆̄̋ͅͅA̶̧̟͇̳͎̬͇͈̋́̎̐̊̈͊̄̎͛̔̏̉͛̉͒́̾̿̐́͋̚̕͘͝T̸̛̬̹͓̘̠̬̙͎̣̒͑̿͛͆̆̂͛̎̄̆̄̿̏̃̄̀̓̆́̂̎̉̒̑̄̿̆͘C̷̢̧̧̡̡̻̞̩̮̤̞̪̺͉̳̤̙͔̟̯̰͉͙͙͇̠̭͇̦̬̹̲͉̊͂͒͆̊̒̅͂́̎͊̊̽̅̋͛́̋̓̒̊̎͆̍̃͘͝͝͝͝ͅH̶̛̛̯̞̺̭̪̹͕͖͇̭̻̝̾̀̅̀͛́̅͌̃̒̂͗͂̀̾̏̍̌̃̌̏͑͗̀͗̀͝͠͠ͅḬ̸̧̨̧͇̣̞̩͎͚͖͓̯̝͉̙̠̼̼̦͎̼̠̪͕̲͖̰̲̝̉͂͆̽̄̋͒͋̎̈͋́̑̇̃̈́́̈́̈́͛͆̾̀̊̇̑̎̎̽͆͘͠Ņ̶̲̠͇̻͑̈͆̇̔͂͗́͋͊̆̿̽̏́̈́̈́̇̒͘͘͘͝͝ͅͅĢ̸̢̢̡̛̛̛̯͕͕͔̩̫̖̣̥̞̬̺̤̈́̎͋͆̓̂̈͛̈̀̌̐͌͆́̉̕͜͝ ̷̺̅̽̄͑͛͒͝ͅŶ̷̧̡̢̡̛͕͉̯̝̹̙̖̫̭̮͈͕̩͙͚̫̜̰̦̘̲͇͖͈̼̹͍̻̲̘͂̊̃̌̈́͗̓̂̿́͒̿͋̽̂͘ͅO̵̧̡̬͖̩̰͎̯͓̯͎̝̳͇͈͖̱͕̹̠͖͉̭͚̖̗͍̤̞͉͚̲͖̩̞̲̔̃̊̇̍͛̃͛̈́̂͛͑̑̄̀̑͋̓̉̔͂͑̆̇̕͜͠ͅƯ̵̛̛̫̬͚̭̼̹͙͓͕̜̬̯͙̖̣̖͎̤̔͑̌̔̓͌͊̃̈́̔́̈́͊̓̊̈͊́̌͐̒̋̐̎̅̐̅̅̆̕̚̚͘͜͠͝͝ͅͅ,̴̛̝͕̀͆͊͗̑͒̓̽͑̈́͒̇̃͊̐̈́̕͝ ̶̡̢̡̧̛͉̰̖̞̱̹̟̭̗̤̱̘͙̦̩̠̼͙̘̦̹͔̱͈̣͉̻̮̇͂͂͒̿̃̓̉͜L̶͚̙̫̦̮͖̪̝̱̬̼͖̺̘̻̯̬̯̱̜͍͆̒̿͌̅͌͂̿͑̃̊͒̑̀͘̚ͅĬ̷̡̧̠̖͓̞̮͇͙͓̼̮̥̘͔̥̼̥̯̮͕̮͖͛̎̊̊̈͘ͅT̷̡̡̛͚̼͕̯̥̼̼̰̰͖͔̭̳̥̲̙̙̟͓̦͍͖̫̹̠̭͚̦͕̯͌̽̌̏̎̓͛̔̍̈́̄͐̑͆͌̆͆̈̂̄͑̀͑̆̔̎̂͒̐̑̕͘͠͝͠ͅṮ̴̛̛̹̺̭̳̯͙͉̳̫̖̗̖̬̠̆̽̇̏̀͑̈͐́̂̅̅͋́͒̃̈̐͐͛͌̚͝L̵̢̡̡̛̺̻̼̦͉͙̖̭̫̥̟͕̯͎͔̮͉͍̠̘͉̪̝͓̍̓͑̈́̅͊́͊͒͗͌̄̽́̈́̈́͂͆̂̀̑̄̅̊́̐͆̃̾̀͛͌̍̒̑̈́̒̕͜ͅḚ̷̡̡̡̨͈̬̪͖̣̞͙̭̤͇͉̱̭̣͇̩̱̪̝̙̪̝̼̝̰̙̲̙͚̺̈́͒̀́̈́̅̀́̋̄͘̚͘͝ ̸̢̡̡̢̨̡̨̹̠̥̬̙̭͚̫̱̘̹͉͖̲͕̹̞̳̹͓̼̪̘̀̅̆̀̃͂́͜͜͝F̴̢̧̧̨̘̰̗͍̰̳̠̝̜̆̔̿̍͂̾̍L̵̨̨͍͈͇̹͙͈̤̯̳̪̱̩͖͈̰̞͓͈͎͔̰̼͚̱̜̪̃̓͑̂̄̋̎̈́̏͐̀̿̃͋͐̎̀͊̆͂̓̕͜͝Ä̸̡̧̝̲̝̮̬͎̭͍̟̙͓̝̞̘̱̣͙̘͓̉̊̐͊̉̎͛̑̊͛̂͜͠͠M̸̨̡̼͍̭͚̖̺͍̻͙̖͌̏̀͐̈̈́̈́̇̑͒̌̈́͗̈̿̈́̈́͗̓͝͝͝͝Ḙ̶̡̡̛̹̦̻͖̭͍̥͉̭̗͕͖͈͒͌͐͌̏̓̿͋̀͊̚͝.̴̧̡̛̰̪͈̲̺̺͉͎̞̳̲̖̹̬͈̦̼̺͈̣̝̯̉͐̑͑͗̋̅̍̽͒̉͒̔̏̀̿̊͋͝ ̸̧̡̧̡̧̧͕̗͈̺̱̰͎̰̩̤̮̯̝̺̖̳̤̻̳͔̹̞̗̰͎̆͆̓͊̉̿̉͘͜J̵͉͖͎̯̘̼̭̱̙̦̳̱͔̗̬̦͉̗͇̜͇̯̀̽̿̀̐̾̅͑̈̋͘̕͝͠͝O̴̝͑͌̽́́͌͑͐̆͐͒̋̈́̉̇̌̈́̐͛̄̂̈̅͒̉́͌͊́͊̽̏̊͘̚͘̕͠͠Ĩ̷̡̧̧̢͔̩̺̜̰͙̰͕͇͖͚̞͓̫̙̹̹̝͓̣̩̦̠̞̳̙̩͇̍͆̐̅̍̀̓̇͌̅͗̄̈́͋͊̏̍̿̾̐̇͜͜͜ͅͅŅ̴̦̦̦̗̼̿͝ͅ ̶̨̧͕̠̣̇̎̔̓̅̎̀̓͑̍̈́̓̉̃̅̋̂̊͌͑̽̓̎̍͗̊͌͂̈̕̕̚͘͝U̵̳̖̭̥̺̺̠̘̮̟̫̟͚͕͚̘̖̘͔͉̣͍̫̠͇͍̤͂̊̂́͂́͜S̶̡̡̛͈̺̟̦̻̘̜̗̼̟̝̝͍̳̗̰̪̼͈̘̻̑͑̓̈́͒̍̑̓̑̑̃̄͌̓̓́̓̎͊͌̑̈́̈́̐̇͌͛̃̅̀̇̕͜͠͝͝ ̵̛̻̣̘͎̻̠̼̼͉͎̬͙̗̹̏͊̋̕͝͝ͅI̶̢̛̬̥̣̫̫̅̾͂̀͑͗͌̐̉̎͌͊̀̈͑̔̾́͛̆̐̓̇̎̉̆̋̍͋̐̋̈́̌̕̕̕͠͝Ņ̴̧̡̧̧̧̨̲͚̭͈̯͇͔̞̖̱͓͍̬̠̩̺̘̙̮͖̯̟̥̠̳̇̅̅͒ ̷̡̡̗̫͖̼̼̝͈̜̤͖̰̱̩̫̱̤͚͎̲͉̬͕̭̜̹̖̙̬͇͚̙̩̻͛̌̈́̆̎͂̊͗͗͆̀̐͝͝T̸̨̛͓͎͉̠̲̫̞̠͇̮̯̤̩̞̣̫̪̹̃͑̇͆̿͌͌̋̓̉́̒͆̒̉̀͊̄̀̑̓̀̈́͋̏̓͐̋̕͘ͅI̶̜̹͊̽́̀͆̽̽̀̈́̊̓̒̊̓͝͝ͅM̸̡̧̨̬̦̺͔̱̗͍̘̗̹͉͎͎̘̱̯̝͇̰̜̼̤̠͓͖̱̰̹̝͕̤͔̲̔̐̈͋̍̄̔̎̈́̉̀̆͌̓̍̔̅͌̾́̏̿̓̀͋̆̈́̀͜͜ͅE̶͕̟͇̠̮̯̩̝͚̤̬̤̯͖͍͗̄͗̀.̶̡̡̨̭̳̤̪͇̫͖͇̫̼͚̠͓̱̲̋͋ͅ ̴̯̠̱͙̼̫̘̺̗͚̐̀͗F̵̨̡̛̠̣͕͙̳̤̙͍̦̟̮̣͇̘͋̉̔́̄͌̒͌̈́̇̈́̿̾͒̾͛͗̏͌̅̐̀͗̔̃̆́͌͂̏̚͘̕͘͝͝͝Ą̷̧̗̳͚͖̻̯̖͍̺̟̰̟̪̩̬͎̗̺̱͕̯̟̥̳͕̳͚̝̳͓̗̦̿͂̈́͒͐̋̐͂́̂̊̎̎́̐͆͆̀̕̕͜͝ͅŖ̴͔̝̦͇̖͚̹̮̝͖͆̅̏̓̂̓̀͋̍̅̎̏̎́̓̐̇͆̌͋͒̉̈̓͒̃͘͜͝͝Ẻ̶̢̜̳͇̣̩̯̩̲̘̳͖̖̟͖̦͕̭͉̗̬̟̠͖̖̤̤̤̥̝͍̞͇̭̲͉̔͂̍̾̈́̍͑̏́̔̃̀̓̎͋̇̈́̓́͆̉̿͋̎̕̕̕͜͜͝͝ͅW̸̻̭̥͈̰̳̱͖͕̝͍͚̞̲̘̺̬͖̽̌̋E̷͔̜̳͔̼̲̥̩͙͉̳͊̒̎͊͊̅͂̈́̍̆̾͆͂̈̍̏͗̒̂͝L̷̡͎̩̲͍͙̠̳͉̘̟̿̍͗͝L̷̨̢̡̨̨̧̧̧̛̬̪̳̫̼̺̝̲̠̻̳̳͔͔̩͈̼̟̝͍̰̪̖̱̝̪̅̇̓̉̄̄͐̔̌̐́̊̉̀̓͆̐̀̎̉̀͊̎̕͜ͅ ̵̥͔̳͚̪̰̤͈̮̣̣̪̀̈́̀̃̈́̀̈́͌̉͑͐̂͛͗̾̅̄́́͗̾͑͌̒̽͐́͘͘͠͠͝F̷̧̛̙͕̘̣̦̘̻͍̣̯̯̦͇̦̙͍̘́̇̊͌̾̏͗̐͋͑͆̽̾̃̈̑̄͒̐̊͒͛͘͘̕̕̚͠ͅǪ̷̨̝̦̘̦̬͍͖͉̠͉͕̥̹̤͖͓̣̜̹̜͔̝͖̭͎̫͓̖̜̹͔͍̃͊́̈̄̔̃̀̊̒̀̕͜R̸̲̙̱̪͖̯̣̝̳͔͔̖̮͇͈̬̫̤̘̯͔̭͖̟̠͎̗̔̔͑̽̋̂ ̴̡͈̬͚̩͔̯̩͔͇͇̺͔̘̝̭̩͕̜̟̠͍͚͕͔̭͍͐͒͜Ņ̵̢̛̛͙̪̺̰̝̼̤͔̣̣̜̹͇̞̟͍͙̬͔̩͚̰͓̊͑̔͊̆́̄͑̿̿̏̾̂̇̀̈́͐̂͋̄͐̄̑̈́͝͝͝O̶̡̡̨̖̝̥̞͔̞̰̯̺̲̦̙̺͓̳̙̖̥̘̱̞͇̼̠̤̰͍̠̣̟͆̎͋́͆̓̾̅͆̀̈̽͐̈́͜͜͝͝W̵̻̮͙̘̖̭̓̈́̂̒͆̄̃̅́̆̎͠͝ͅ.̴̡̡̢̧̛̛͙̰̭̦̺̮̱̘̦͚̫̫͂̎̐̍͑̅͗͊͗́́̈́͒̈͆̍̅̒̃̚̕ Do as you wish, Chosen One. We are watching you, Little Flame. Join us in time. Farewell for now.
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̷̥̯̗͎̣̯͍̞̻͓͒̄̀̕ͅLast edited: Yesterday at 5:01 PM Like ReplyReport Reactions:Gluttz, Zepunisher, Jeff Roy and 579 othersVictor-FigueiredoJun 23, 2026NewAdd bookmarkView discussionThreadmarks Chapter 7 - Consequences New View contentVictor-FigueiredoNot too sore, are you?Jun 24, 2026NewAdd bookmark#303Hello again, my imaginary friends!
Did you miss me? Because I missed you!
The last few years have been pretty boring, so I assume this is one of those time-jump situations. There's no way you could have spent the last two years watching me mess around in my vacation. That would be really boring!
Well, what have I been doing these past few years? Well, lately I've been working hard, studying a lot, and eating and sleeping and murdering plenty! No, I didn't put a charge on Ki or Martial Arts. I simply took an "Turtle School" approach to the Hercules Method. Making violent murder a fun and relaxing activity! Uhm, don't worry, I'm just killing Dornishmen. And believe me, this time, they truly and undeniably deserve it. Ask the Stormlanders!
Ah, But I'm putting the cart before the horse, aren't I! You probably don't have the context! Well, maybe you do if you've actually been watching me the whole time... If so, shame on you! I think a great hero (lol) like me deserves some privacy!
Ah, okay, okay! I'll explain it to you!
The last two years have been a bit complicated for the House of the Dragon. Despite anything I (or anyone with a shred of common sense) might think of Daemon, the guy was truly respected and feared. Similarly, Laenor, although by no means a household name, was still a Dragonlord.
In short, the adult males of the family who rode dragons died. Tragic. Unfortunately, this world is terribly misogynistic. Horrible, I know! Good thing a True Feminist™ like me ended up here! Result: My house's enemies ended up getting very cocky.
"Ah, the only ones riding dragons are three women and a child!" Those idiots from the Three Daughters must have thought, then. The fact that RhaeRhae and Laena fell into a severe depression didn't help. Worse: Rhaenys strangely placed the blame for what happened, and consequently for Laenor's death, on Rhaenyra . Something about divine punishment and all that. Well, I don't think Rhaenys is very religious, but I think the fact that everything was so obviously supernatural scared a lot of people. Harrenhal is still without a Lord after 2 years! In fact, the situation there is so bad that Father and Lord Tully routinely have to send knights to clear the Castle of invaders such as outlaws and bandit hedge knights. Only the most desperate criminals seek to spend the night in the even more ruined fortress. And considering that they all tend to die by the sword very quickly, the legends about Harren's curse have reached unprecedented levels! Harrenhal is considered the most haunted and cursed castle that ever existed. Nightfort needed thousands of years to earn a fraction of Harren's Folly's reputation.
But not everyone blames the curse. Divine punishment is also a factor.
Seriously! You wouldn't believe how many people say the Strongs were punished by the Seven for trying to usurp the Seven Kingdoms! Quite unfair to them, actually. I actually really liked Lord Lyonel! Despite his dubious offspring, Lyonel Strong was a just and loyal man, completely powerless in the face of an awful situation, and did his best to serve my father well. The Seven Kingdoms became poorer after his death.
But I think from an outsider's perspective, it really does look like that, doesn't it? Poor Otto Hightower, after serving the Old King Jaehaerys and the (then) Young King Viserys with wisdom and loyalty, is sidelined so that "huge brute", Lyonel Strong, can step in with his sinister lame son and his other, even worse spawn, who stole the innocence and heart of the Realm's Delight! Worse, he conspired to place his three bastard grandchildren not only on the Iron Throne, but also as heirs to High Tide! Line thief is a very serious crime, you know?
Although Ser Harwin (and Ser Lorent Marbrand, but who cares?) died in the burning hell of the nursery, there were some survivors. Nannies, other men-at-arms who were there... You know. Most died shortly afterwards from the terrible burns and smoke inhalation, but those who lived swear by the Seven Above that the Dragon eggs in the boys' cribs simply exploded! The fact that the awful flames that licked the room there to naked Blackstone were olive green, pale violet and pearly white, with an intense glow the same color as the eggs in question, also ended up spreading around.
Heh. I think the Father Above judged them harshly (lol!). Huh? So why did I kill Lyonel too, if I liked him? Obviously because I wanted everyone to blame the Strongs! After all, blaming the victim is a classic villain tactic. And guess what? It worked!
AHAHAHAHHAHAHHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!
Ahen, anyways, without the Strong boys to marry the Pentoshi twins, the Velaryons ended up distancing themselves from my poor older sister and from House Targaryen as a whole. That's bad!
Actually bad, this time.
Because the Queen that Never Was really locked in! Well, that it's not that bad.
When the fleets of the Three Daughters slew the reigning King of the Narrow Sea (some useless pirate from the basilisk islands with more courage than common sense), and began to harass the ships of the Seven Kingdoms again, Rhaenys seized the opportunity to vent her frustrations in a target-rich environment. Meleys, the Red Queen, had more than her fair share of the slaughter. Between her and Lord Corlys' fleet, they almost managed to hold out. Almost.
Then the Fire Nation Dorne attacked! Again.
Just as he had done years before, Qoren Martell ended up allying himself with the Triarchy. At the same time, a Vulture King began to destroy the southern Stormlands! This new Vulture King raised an army in the Red Mountains. He and his Dornishmen burned Blackhaven to the ground. Again.
Except that this time, they did it with the entire Dondarrion family inside. Tragic.
And this time, that useless piece of shit that calls himself a Prince didn't even try to send a letter denouncing the insurrection.
So, troubles all around! Opsie Daisie! Guess my actions have some consequences!
Oh, well. At least, these consequences affect others. Those are the best type of consequences.
Anyways: The atmosphere at the Royal Court was heavy when I left.
I've spent the last two years fooling around, playing with my siblings, helping RhaeRhae with her depression, "training" in weapons (I admit I'm terrible at holding back. I haven't killed anyone unintentionally, but I have a reputation for being monstrously skilled with all weapons, age aside. Strangely, this made people reaaaaaally like me. Based Westerosi, they love a good jock), wandering around King's Landing and flying over some parts of the Kingdom (with my parents' permission and escorted by a member of the King's guard, obviously. Am I not a good boy?).
I also spent a good amount of time with my parents, whether it was spending days chatting and reading alongside Alicent (Who is still very clingy and emotional. Seriously, this is kinda creeping me out!), or helping Viserys talk to Rhaenyra when she's in one of her sad moods (RhaeRhae lives with us in the Red Keep now. Weirdly enough, she doesn't want to go back to Dragonstone). I even carry the fat old fuck on my dragon's back when he decides to visit some of his subjects. Sorry Issaros! It's a good exercise for you, however.
And since I make a point of cutting off any story about becoming an heir, I spend a good deal of my time defending my older sister's reputation and good name to anyone who will listen, and I've ended up crippling one or twenty squires who were foolish enough to say that my sister was punished for being a whore in the squire melees that accompany my father's many and frequent Tourneys, RhaeRhae really likes and trusts me. Who would have thought that acting kindly, attentively, and protectively toward someone who is super duper depressed would make that person super duper like you?
Anyway, I spent my time having some good and (generally) innofensive fun. I have an excellent reputation, I'm well-loved by the Lords and the Smallfolk, and I don't have many enemies... For now. I think I'll make some soon (lol!).
But being a perfect prince only has value within a perfect kingdom.
So, for the good of the Kingdom, I've decided it's time to intervene in the mess in the Narrow Sea and the whole Dorne issue too! But honestly, babysitting and holding the hands of great Lords while they waffle around is so boring...
So I decided to act with a bit more decisiveness. I left a letter for my Mother (for obvious reasons) and for Rhaenyra (who sometimes has trouble sleeping and needs someone to talk to when things get tough. No bad thoughts! We spent those nights chatting in the Red Keep's Library. Just wholesome friendship between siblings! At least for now), mounted my dragon to fly through the morning skies, as is my custom... And I didn't return to the city.
Where am I now exactly? How the hell am I supposed to know? The Red Mountains are all the same, really.
The head in my hands still looks like it's in agony, with a horrible expression of utter terror.
The head in my hands, you say? Oh yeah, I just killed the Vulture King. And all his followers. When you have a dragon, magic, and can break solid stone boulders with a single blow, it's super duper easy.
But this is just the beginning, right?
I still have a few Dornish Lords to punish. Severely.
Lord Perrion Blackmont thought he knew fear.
He was no coward. He fought on the Triarchy's side when the Rogue Prince dared to set foot on the Stepstones. As if the brave men of Dorne would allow it!
Perrion was terrified in his battles, hearing the roar of the Blood Wyrm, but he did not crumble. He and his friends and allies fell upon the Hounds of the Targaryens, again and again and again, until the days became strange tides of blood and death and decay. He lost a brother on those islands, and a wife too. Wylla Wyl was as mad as any member of her family, but she was sweet and gentle in bed, a brave woman who deserved better than to die from the infection that Caraxes' burns had inflicted on her.
But victories require sacrifice, so he knew in his heart of hearts that she and his brother smiled in the Heavens Above when they managed to push Daemon and his dogs off those islands forgotten by the Gods.
So when he heard about that old cunt Rhaenys and her dragon, another red dragon, rampanging in the Narrow Sea, he was filled with fear and fury. He knew that one of his bastard cousins was looking north from the Red Mountains with a sinister, hungry gaze, and he also knew what such a look meant. The Vulture King would fly again to his plunder and righteous vengeance against the Dragon Kings. The current king was weak and dragonless, a fat old man out of his prime. His heir was a broken woman, everyone already knew that, and cursed besides. While the other Dornish Lords gathered money for Sellsails, Perrion financed Mallon's small insurrection. Three of his boys and many other cousins and kin decided to accompany Mallon north.
At first, everything went well, more than well, success after success while that stupid brute Borros Baratheon moved from one point to another following false leads and cold paths.
Things then started to go wrong. For several weeks, news disappeared. None of his cousin's men showed up to ask for supplies. An ominous silence began to spread like wildfire across the Red Mountains.
Then Doom came for Blackmont on his Stranger's wings.
"Perrioooon, where are you?"
A child's voice has no right to sound worse than a dragon's roar. But, considering the boy's family, perhaps he is a dragon too, one that just appears human. The worse kind.
Perrion was hiding in his secret chambers beneath the castle with his remaining servants and men-at-arms. All others are dead.
When Perrion saw the foul glow of sickly green fire in the distance, he knew what had happened. In his weakness, the Dragon King had sent his son, a boy not even 12 years old, to die in Dorne. The young dragon prince had a reputation as a promising young warrior, having won several squire's melees, but a boy of that age has no place in wars.
It was foolish of him to come here, Perrion thought then. So what if the brat had a dragon? Blackmont had plenty of scorpions. They only needed a shot.
They never had the chance. The Black Dragon that the dragon prince, in his pride and heresy, called by the name of the Stranger, simply hovered in circles above the castle, like one of the Vultures in his family's banner.
Something fell from the dragon's back. When Perrion realized it was the boy, he thought it must be one of those jokes the gods tell using men as examples.
But.
The Thing (because nothing human could have survived that fall) crashed like a falling star onto the castle battlements. Stone cracked and splintered, but the Thing simply settled down and began to kill Blackmont's brave men. One by one by one. Arrows, swords, spears, nothing helped. Ten against one, twenty against one, one hundred against one, nothing helped. The boy didn't even use weapons, but... They were meat on a butcher's table. His remaing two boys, barely older than the Thing that came from north, died there, fighting bravely against a monster of legend. Forgive me, Wylla.
Perrion was scared, but even so, he tried to fight, crippled as he was. The Thing just kicked him so hard that he flew against a wall and lost consciousness, smelling blood. When he came to, he had been carried away by some of his loyal men-at-arms to the place that had saved his family from the Dragons a little over a century ago, during the Dragon's Wroth, when his ancestors had hidden in the caves beneath the castle. Many of his men-at-arms and loyal servants stayed behind to delay the monster. Brave men and women. All dead.
BANG!
The doors leading to the hideout, made of oak and iron, shattered as if a giant had struck them with a stone hammer, like in the Songs. What passed through the threshold, with the careful, swift step of a predator, was a tall child, very tall and strong, but clearly not even a grown man. Gore caked him from head to toe.
His remaing men didn't break. Armed with spears, they tried to surround the Thing. It leaped above them like a cat, punching Merio, a boy of not even 7 and 10 Namedays, in the head while still in the air. Merio's head flew out of his neck in bloody chunks. A piece of his skull hit Perrion were he was, huddled half-dead against a wall.
The Thing grasped the spear that Merio let go in death, then moved. It was like watching a farmer cut wheat. Every movement of the short spear just there, with the thrusts of his men being negligibly slapped aside by the monster's empty hand. By the end, only three remained. Anders, Olyvar, and Symon, men who served his father before him, gray and grieving, for the Thing surely killed all their family too, roared and advanced with the strength born of despair. The monster moved again and kicked Anders' knee so violently that it exploded. It's leg continued the charge until it reached Symon's foot, which was coming behind, crushing it.
Both of them, crippled and dying, tried to hold the monster, to delay it while Olyvar speared it. Please, Warrior, give them strength! He just kicked Symon in Olyvar's direction. His foot then lifted and crushed Anders' head, who was on the ground screaming, with a disgusting crunch. He then calmly walked over to Olyvar and Symon, who were still lying on the ground.
Olyvar raised his spear, quick as a cat! But the Thing just broke the handle with a lightning-fast punch, grasped the bladed end and used it to pin his two loyal men together to the ground.
The Thing then turned and looked to him. It smiled:
"Hi and Bye!"
The thing raised its hand, and...
Hⷡōͦzͥᶫiͥgⷫᵍonⷡᶫ ͦĀͦnͩogar!
Perrion Blackmont exploded from the inside out, covering in boiling hot blood the still-living bodies of the two remaining guards of Blackmont Castle, who had watched his life and his children grow up.
And so ended the line of the Lords of Blackmont, who once were Kings of the banks of the Torrentine.
Ha! That was a good workout!
I really needed that. You know all that stuff in The Strange Talent of Luther Strode about the Path of Cain causing murderous psychosis? Yeah...
Well, I can control myself, but when the world presents me with so many acceptable targets, how can I say no? That would be rude! (lol!)
So, here's the list: Vulture's King? Gone! Wyl of Wyl? Gone! Manwoody of King's Grave (Wtf was that name?) Gone! Blackmont of Blackmont? Gone too! Yay!
You're welcome, people of Westeros. I live to serve!
Now that everyone in the castle is dead, is time to burn everything. If someone asks, my Issaros did all the work! I'm simply following the Daeron the Daring's grindset.
Ah, I think it would be fair to leave some bodies for my dragon to eat. I ended up getting quite attached to my girl in these years I passed in this new world of mine.
Uhm... I'm starving! Let's go back to the kitchens. Ignoring the fresh corpses there (Issaros lunch! Pure protein, just as a growing dragon needs!), this place must have something to eat. Oh, I'll also check the well. I need another bath. I'm stinking here!
After I finish here, it's time for Starfall (Sorry, not sorry, Daynes! Your family's sword is way too cool). Then... I guess I can give dear Cousin Rhaenys and her husband some help. It would really give me some Good Boy Points™.
And, most importantly, someone needs to resolve this silly family feud!
We are the House of the Dragon! Are we really going to let Harren's Curse and whispers of divine punishment stand between us?!
Valyrians fear neither curses nor gods! We are above such things, Rhaenys! You need to understand this!
...
What? I caused this problem to begin with? Oh yeah, I kind of did that, didn't I? Tehe!
AHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAAHHAHAHAHAAHHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAAHHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAAHHAHAHAAHHAHAHAAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAH!
Well, I guess it's kind of my obligation to fix it now, right? Heh!
I love my new life!Last edited: Jun 26, 2026 Like ReplyReport Reactions:Gluttz, tikki, Albert Scoot and 617 othersVictor-FigueiredoJun 24, 2026NewAdd bookmarkView discussionThreadmarks Chapter 8 - Flying New View contentVictor-FigueiredoNot too sore, are you?Jun 25, 2026NewAdd bookmark#377AN: Trigger warnings for this chapter: Mentions of past suicidal thoughts.
I missed this.
Even amidst the black fear and anguish twisting her heart, Rhaenyra could not deny the relief of flying again. I should have done this a long time ago. Aegon never stopped giving me opportunities for that.
Aegon. Her not-so small, insolent, mad little brother. Aegon. Always close, always kind, always pacing back and forth with long, strong strides, never pausing for even a heartbeat. I should have known. Aegon would never, ever let innocents suffer when he could do something to help. How could she have been so foolish? To speak of the horrors committed by the Vulture King in front of that foolish, brave, gentle boy? What if Aegon were hurt? Hadn't the world already taken enough from her?
Syrax, sensing her distress, roared. She roared back. "FASTER!" She shouted in High Valyrian that it was her ancestral heritage. "FASTER, SYRAXES!"
She found Aegon's letter weeks ago. Weeks upon weeks during which she locked herself in her room again like a little girl, instead of acting like the future Queen she is by right. It was a shame she thought she had let go of.
In the first weeks and months after...
…After Dragonstone, the world was nothing but a dark cloud.
Rhaenyra had once thought of grief as a cut into the heart and soul. That was how she felt after her mother's death, so many years ago. But that was a child's pain. Rhaenyra was a woman now, grown, flowered, deflowered, and a mother thrice over.
Grief is no mere wound. It is no singular catastrophe cutting a life neatly into a before and an after, the sort of suffering singers preferred because it possessed charm. The bards could not, after all, sung a song about the grey little pain that lingered in corners, nested like a disgusting little spider, always wainting to bite, transforming even the most mundane activities into torture most foul.
What do they know of the days and nights spent in bed, staring at cobwebs and cracks in the ceiling, gazing out an open window and wondering if the fall would be high enough to smash her head open and end the pain once and for all?
She knew better now.
Grief was a cruel torturer.
Calmly tearing out fingernails, flaying skin and flesh, cutting and breaking fingers and limbs, ripping out teeth, and shaving off hair. Leaving you diminished and uglier, until you simply do what it wants because it is easier than existing that way.
Day after day after day, in which breathing required more effort than it was worth, that smiling was slave labor under the summer noon, that laughter of others inspired the blackest of rages, and that her own memories and Dreams had become treacherous, because the remembrance in them brought not joy but absence.
Gradually, almost everyone gave up on her. Beautiful Elinda Massey, scarred by the same flames that had killed the other ladies-in-waiting, tried for weeks to help her, only to be met with screams and a barrage of plates, vases, and whatever else was within Rhaenyra's reach. Her father too, stopped trying to understand after a turn of the moon.
Only Aegon continued to visit, despite the insults, shouting, blows, and terrible threats from her. Only he understood that she needed that anger, that the feeling was actually good, because otherwise, she would have nothing but sadness and dead memories for company.
And when the anger began to fade, he was there too, chatting about whatever mundanity he could find in the city to distract her. He helped her reconnect with the friends she had pushed away in her grief, as well as with her father. Always bringing a new dancing bear or pyromancer or singer. He even tried to find her a new fool for her, but on that, she put a stop. Mushroom was a memory of the simpler days of her childhood, and she would never replace him. Aegon ended up bringing her a cat, a beautiful white male with blue eyes that she named porridge. For some reason, the name made Aegon smile. Recently, her little brother had started bringing the most beautiful jewels Rhaenyra had ever seen. When she asks where he buys them, he just gives her that mischievous boyish smile that makes her want to bite his cheeks.
Aegon didn't leave her alone during the worst moment of her life; so what right does she have to leave him alone now? Aegon belongs to her, she understands that now. He was born to be hers, to protect and comfort her. She'd been blind to it for years because of the Hightower's cow, but not anymore.
She wanted her little brother. Now.
Syrax shifted beneath her. The dragon banked westward.
Storm clouds gathered near Shipbreaker Bay.
Below her, stretched the green rainy forests of the Stormlands. Rhaenyra flew over rivers and villages coming here. How small and fragile things look from above. Flying again reminded her that she is of the Dragon's Blood.
Anger: this must be her grief. If those Dornishmen have laid a finger on a single hair of her brother...
She had left King's Landing before dawn, against Father's wishes and his Coucil's advice.
Aegon had departed south nearly a moon ago on his Cannibal. Issaros. A name as shocking as it is absurd, considering her brother's generally gentle and kind disposition, but she can understand the appeal. Syrax is a divine name, too, and who hasn't dreamed of taming Death?
Weeks passed, with no ravens and no news.
Silence. An awful, terrifying and utterly unacceptable silence. She imagined ambushes, Scorpions, Dornish poisons. Her Aegon dead.
That low, vile rabble knows nothing of honor or decency. They could never fight the Blood of the Dragon fairly, so they resort to any underhanded trick they can devise, using the low cunning that passes for wit in those infernal sands.
No. Rhaenyra won't lose anyone else. Woe betide anyone who tries. Syrax descended.
Storm's End rose up beneath her.
Immense and circular, Durran's defiance againt the gods seemed to rise from the ancient cliffs, ceaselessly battered by the raging winds and waves sent by Elenei's parents.
Stubborn as an old soldier and twice as homely, she had heard that in a song about the castle. Honestly, she could understand why. Though certainly impressive, the pile of stone lacked charm. Simple and circular, it looked like a massive, infinitely sturdier version of something a child might build with wet sand.
Not every castle is like the Red Keep, Rhaenya thought, firmly avoiding any thoughts of her family's other castle. The place she never intended to set foot in again as long as she lived.
She circled the castle walls three times, flying lower each time, giving the inhabitants time to prepare properly for a Princess's arrival.
Guards shouted and Horn calls echoed as Syrax finally landed on the pale-grey stone yard.
Servants rushed, and some Stableboys stared. They stared at her, not at her dragon, but Rhaenyra had long since ceased to care about such things. Men had begun staring at her before her breasts had even grew, entranced by her peerless features, a testament to her Valyrian heritage. In time, she even came to enjoy the way men (and some women) looked at her, provided they kept a respectful distance. Most even do. Dragonriders inspired both awe and fear, after all.
Lady Elenda Caron arrived on the yard.
Young, Dark-haired and Elegant, the wife of Borros Baratheon was visibly pregnant. Rhaenyra felt as if a giant had punched her in the stomach. A buzzing sound began to ring in her ear. A small part of Rhaenyra's mind, not occupied by the sight of that pregnant woman, foolishly thought about names. Elinda, Elenda... It must be a common name in the Stormlands.
Lady of Storm's End curtsied. "Princess."
"My lady." Responded Rhaenyra, only half-aware. Stop this. You are the Blood of the Dragon. The Blood of the Dragon doesn't cry.
"You honor us."
"I apologize for arriving unannounced."
"Storm's End is always happy to welcome the House of Dragon." Elenda then smiled gently. "You appear exhausted."
Rhaenyra felt herself laughing softly. What a inadequate observation. Exhaustion implied something that sleep could fix. She needed her brother. Now.
Breathe, Rhaenyra. You will need force later, she thought to herself.
"I could appreciate a room and food. I intend to continue south tomorrow, to the Marches."
Elenda's expression shifted in a strangely. "My princess. There is no need."
Rhaenyra frowned. "No need?" She nearly screamed, enraged. The buzzing was louder now. "A Vulture King is burning the southern lands of your husband's domain, and you, my lady, say there is no need?" Her Aegon can be in danger and this whore was saying that he has no need for Rhaenyra? Syrax, feeling her rising rage, snapped at the air with a shrill scream.
Lady Elenda did not let herself be daunted, despite stepping back half a pace. "A r-raven arrived this morning, my princess, from Nightsong." She stopped to even out her breathing. "Lord Caron's men accompanied my husband in his Vulture's Hunt."
"So…" Rhaenyra was starting to lose her temper. Say your piece, your stupid Stormlander cow!
"The Vulture King is dead." Relief arrived so fast that Rhaenyra felt confused for some moments.
Aegon must be alive and well, then. Surely.
Elenda continued. "There might be another matter."
Rhaenyra waited. The relief from the previous moments was starting to slip away. "Just say what you have to say, my lady." Rhaenyra did not shout, nor did she alter her tone beyond the imperious note she had begun to use more frequently thanks to the constant praise from her little brother. She was proud of that.
"The men of my husband spoke of fires."
"Fires?"
"In the Red Mountains. Castles, hideholds, small villages… Something destroyed half the Dornish lands there"
Rhaenyra swallowed. Don't hope yet. Syrax continued to snap.
"Dragonfire?"
Elenda hesitated. "They say the flames are green, bright green." She continued, eyeing Syrax a little pale. "Visible for leagues. The men said they've burned for days."
Rhaenyra froze. Green. Then a loud peal of laugther escaped her throat. She laughed so hard she had to lean against her dragon, while Elenda, her servants, and the men-at-arms of Storm's End watched her and her dragon cautiously. She couldn't help it; the relief was so profound that she had to let it all out.
Issaros, the black dragon that starred in a hundred tales of Dragonstone's nursing maids, breathed green fire... And her Aegon rode it.
Her brother. Her impossible little brother. Burning castles and bandits upon the back of a dragon that should never have accepted a rider. Rhaenyra slowly exhaled. She felt the love she held for Aegon double again in her heart. Of course. The gods' little gift to her had to be extraordinary to be worthy of her, didn't he?
For the first time in weeks, Rhaenyra felt at peace. All is well.
Fuck, I love flying!
Of all the new sensations I've experienced in this new life of mine, flying is right up there with the best. Feeling the wind screaming in your face, your stomach churning every time your dragon moves, your back starting to burn from the effort of maintaining an upright posture!
It's the best!
Huh? Am I an adrenaline junkie? Pals, you guys saw me dropping like a bomb into a castle and murdering everyone inside!
You saw it, right? I hated reading fanfics in my past life where the author would just skip over a good scene. I hope whoever is writing this for you guys isn't that kind of hack. My imaginary friends deserve the best!
Anyways, I kinda destroyed most of upper Dorne. I think only Ironwood and the Fowler remain from the Dornish side of the Red Montains. I know, I know, you're all welcome! This is my most heroic feat yet!
After slaughtering the Dayne family, both at Starfall and at High Hermitage, I heroically (lol!) secured some more food for myself, in addition, of course, to burning down both castles to the ground. Oh, and I also claimed Dawn for myself first. Pillage, then burn, always remember that! I even had the time for some little rascality! Heh, I imagine the look on Prince Qoren's face.
Dawn is a curious sword, though. It seems to possess some level of agency. Ah, nothing I can't overpower, fear not, my friends. But at the same time... How disappointing. I could do better. That is how I feel about this sword.
What? Oh, yeah! I said I wouldn't use my charges for things I can learn on my own. Yes, I remember!
So what gives? You might be wondering. Well, my friends, some charges yield far more than just "craftsman knowledge." Take my charge in Valyrian Sorcery, for example: I learned blood magic, pyromancy, general evocations, curses, some history, High Valyrian, and even philosophy! The last one is surprisingly important, annoyingly enough.
You know, sorcery is a mental exercise. It demands much more than just visualization, willpower, incantations, and the power to wield it. It also requires a certain state of mind, a specific mental framework. Sorcery is, more or less, a form of dogmatized reality warping, with the emphasis on dogmatized.
A mental shift is necessary to properly use magic. Let's speculate a bit, just you guys and me:
Melisandre, our favorite witch! Do you think she could pull off even half of what she does if it weren't for her blind faith in the Red God? Nope! I distinctly remember reading her chapters in the books, a lifetime ago. She's kind of a fraud, isn't she? Strip away her shadowbinding and minor divination, and all she's left with is a handful of dust and powders, a true prestidigitator!
Of course, my ancestors had no use for "True Faith," so they turned to philosophy. Valyrian philosophy is pretty much just "Baby's First Nietzsche book"... And misinterpreted, to top it all off. Good old Mustachio hated the slave morality, but he also hated Masters too, didn't he? And Nietzsche wasn't a solipsist. Valyrian phylosophy can be simplified as: We are better! So, its our right to crush and slave all others and have utter domination over the Earth. But its okay, because the other aren't real people anyways. Only we truly have souls, and only we truly exist. Well, what can one expect from a civilization based on blood magic and slavery?
What? Do I think that way? Wow, you've really hurt my feelings this time (lol!).
Well, of course not. Everyone here is just as real and relevant as I am, people with hopes and dreams just as significant as my own... And that makes me feel even better after killing them!
AHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHHHAHAHAHA!
Ahen, What was I talking about again? Oh, yeah! Charges! My charge of Valyrian sorcery did gave me the know-how of both Valyrian steel and magical items like the Glass candles. But: It didn't give me smithing and craftsmanship knowledge for using that properly. Kinda stingy, no? Well, fortunately, I've earned a few charges over the years.
My little bit of tomfoolery (lol!) at Dragonstone netted me four charges. Certain knock-on effects (such as the chaos in the eastern Riverlands caused by the abandonment of Harrenhal by basically everyone who wasn't a bandit) ended up earning me another three over the years.
After killing so many Dornish families on these last weeks, I gained two more. I imagine I'll end up accruing more and more as a result of that over the years, given the Discord I'm sowing. Capitalized "D" on Discord. Why?
Oh, I have used some of these charges. Two, specifically. Now, it's time to use one more. 6 on reserve is a good number, no?
Fëanorian Craftsmanship III
Yes, my friends. The best boy of Silmarillion, the Elf who did nothing wrong (lol), the myth who created beautiful things like the Silmarills, the Palatíri, general Literacy and, of couse, his best invention: Kinslaying!
AHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!
As I laughed maniacally, I felt the power settling upon my Fëa. Man, this is actually pretty inspiring, I've already used three charges on this, and there's still shit left to unlock.
Who would've thought that the mightiest of all the Children of Ilúvatar, in body and mind, bearing, understanding, skill, and subtlety; the guy who only died when a whole squad of Balrogs jumped his ass (and even then, mostly because he was simply too angry for his wounded body to contain his burning spirit), would be such a big deal?
Thank you, Fëanor (or Curufinwë, if you prefer be called like that)! I swear to use your knowledge for important things! Like making increasingly beautiful jewelry to help me seduce my sisters! I might even name one of our future children in your honor!
What? He would have hated the idea? I know! (lol)
Ah, jokes apart, this choice of mine not only gave me the necessary ability to make Valyrian Steel and the magic doohickeys of my Ancestors, but to massively improve on them. Like I pretend to do with Dawn, in time. It could have been much better forged; most of its power and significance comes from the material used. Furthermore, the blade is simply too pale for my taste. It would clash horribly with my favorite greens and blacks.
Well, speaking of the sword, I have to admit that my saddle on Issaros is getting more and more cluttered. Besides Dawn, there are also one or two Valyrian swords (the Wyl and the Manwoody of all people had them! Disgusting! Dornish rats should never hold a blade like this! Apparently, it was stolen from some losers from the Reach and the Stormland during the Dornish Wars. I think I'll gain some Good Boy Points™ giving them back!), my bow, a bag of jewels (more material for crafting than anything else. Like hell I'll give my RhaeRhae, my Helaena, and my Mother some badly made shit like this), a bag of snacks for my travels, some water jugs... And of course, a huge bag with a lot of rotting heads. Heh. Sunspear, here I come!
The heat had a way of changing people. He once heard that men from colder kingdoms, like the distant North, imagined heat as just some sort of inconvenience, as sweat gathering beneath collars from tunics, a mild discomfort relieved by shade, good wine, or the arrival of the night.
Prince Qoren Nymerios Martell, as any men of Dorne, understood that true heat possessed passion. His people have a fame for ardor and rashness for a reason.
The heat seeps in, permeating moods and conversations, turning patience into anger and sense into stupidity. This becomes even more apparent in summer, especially on windless, cloudless days like this one. This is specially relevant if one lacked a good night of sleep.
Prince Qoren Martell had not slept properly in nearly two weeks. Not since the ravens from the Red Monstains stopped coming. At first, it was nothing unusual.
An eagle catches a Raven. Sand storms arose unexpectedly among the Red Mountains. Messengers delayed themselves in taverns by a pretty whore. Simple facts of the live. There were reasonable explanations, so Qoren drunk a good wine at the evenings in the first two days, even as the sleep evaded him at night.
Qoren had always considered himself sensible. His father had often called him cautious. Regardless, Qoren Martell is a man that preferred order: problems that could be measured... Like the Vulture King. Annoying, petty and idiotic, the Vulture Kings were, nonetheless, a good way to keep the sight of the Dragons alway from somewere incovenient. Like, at this moment, the mess in the Narrow Sea.
Prince Qoren stood upon the balcony outside his solar overlooking the inner courtyards of Sunspear. Below sprawled his Shadow City, loud as always: Vendors shouted, children ran, whores and men negotiated and argued prices. After a troubling night, Qoren likes to just see his city at daylight. This makes him remember that life is always persisted. No matter what, the Sun rises again after a night. Things will end well.
...
Sunspear remained beautiful, with its pale sandstone towers glowed golden beneath afternoon sunlight. The Tower of the Sun rose proudly above walls first raised by Martell princes centuries before. The palace overlooked the sea beside the crowded districts of the Shadow City, representing both Rhoynish and ancient Dornish traditions of rulership.
Usually he loved this view... And yet... Its not helping at all!
Four castles had ceased communication. Wyl. Kingsgrave. Blackmont. Starfall. Wyl guarded approaches near the Boneway. Kingsgrave guarded secrret caves and resources deep within the Red Mountains, while Blackmont and Starfall overlooked the Torrentine. Silence. No ravens, no riders, no merchants and NO NEWS!
This silence was a disease. It started on Wyl then descended the Montains slowly like a plague! He had sent riders and scouts, each on sand steeds. But none returned.
As though nothing existed where castles should stand. With a sigh, Qoren poured himself some wine. He drank, grimacing. Not even Dornish Red could wash the taste of anxiety from his mouth.
Flies circled, as they often do. One landed close to him. He crushed it, stared the tiny black smear.
Gone, he thought. Its life effortlessly reduced. Qoren forced down a full body shudder. He suddenly thought about dragons. Unbowen, Unbent, Unbroken, those are his house words. But nobody ever said anything about Unburned. As if it wasn't bad enough that Daemon Targaryen burned half the Stepstones trying to forge himself a Kingdom, he also has to deal with that old bitch Rhaenys! Others take the Targaryens and their dragons!
A knock. "Enter." He said, disheartened. Qoren didn't know if it was the heat, the lack of news from the Red Mountains, or the excess of news from the Narrow Sea that was draining his strength and robbing him of sleep.
Old, sweating and nervous, Maester Lyman entered the balcony of his solar. The old man is scared. "Prince. A-a raven came from Starfall."
Hope and caution warred within him. Why was the old man afraid? It felt as though a thousand beetles were scurrying in his stomach. Too much wine. What kind of example was he setting for his children? Get a grip, Qoren.
"Read." The maester hesitated.
"Read!"
"My prince."
"Read!"
"Fire and b-blood."
...
"Give me this!" He snatched the letter from the Maester's hands with unnecessary roughness. The letter was written in blood. Qoren stared, for a time... Then a shadow crossed the balcony, like a passing could.
This is a cloudless day. Qoren looked upward.
Empty blue expanse... Except for a tiny, black dot bloting the sky. How in Seven Hells nobody noticed! Fear gripped his heart like a claw.
The speck grew, slowly and surely. There is no way to that thing be a vulture. Its...
Large, black wings. An impossibly long and serpentine neck. There were moments in a man's life when his mind betrayed him out of kindness, erecting walls between wit and observation aso that his heart might continue beating. Qoren understood only that he had spent precious moments trapped behind such a wall, watching a dragon approach his Sunspear while some foolish and desperate portion of his mind insisted upon grasping alternative explanations.
The dragon descended lower, with its scales reflecting little light. A pitch black beast, like the Black Dread that dominates all stories for misbehaving children. Be good, or the Dragon king and his black dread will take you!
Luminous green eyes shone like distant stars on the beast's head. Ah. He thought, almost as if in a dream. That is the young prince's dragon. Issaros. Qoren, like any Dornishmen with a lick of sense, made a point of knowing who among the House of the Dragon were dragonriders. Qoren suddenly realized that he had stopped breathing. "The alarm!"
"M-my prince?"
"THE ALARM! WHY ARE YOU FOOLS NOT SOUNDING THE ALARM YET!" Finally, his guards and Maester started to act.
A trumpets blared, guards shouted, soldiers rushed along the battlements as servants fled courtyards. No time! We have no time!
The city bellow started to notice the incoming horror.
Mothers gathered children, merchants abandoned stalls, people rushed one over the other, crushing the slow under foot. Seven Hells!
"Scorpions! Ready the scorpions!" The captains shouted.
Crews hurried toward the great weapons positioned atop the walls. Heavy torsion weapons from old, but always well maintained. The dragon descended further, and then, It screamed. The sound did not resemble Balerion's distant roars described by singers, the thunder that brings the end of the days. It resembled stone grinding against stone beneath the sea. The sound vibrated through bones, making men and women closer to the beast to drop to their knees, clutching bleeding ears. Children cried, horses panicked...
The dragon opened its jaws, where green fire gathered. Qoren heart stopped. Then the dragon breathed, releasing a tide of acid-green flames over Sunspear's battlements.
The foul flame iluminated towers, walls and faces with a sinister emerald glow, blackening and melting stone, igniting men and destoying his scorpions. All men there, with their crossbows, recurve bows and trowing spears, just died under dragonfire before even doing anything.
The dragon turned, corrected itself in the air and breathed again.
Green fire struck a tower. The thing just exploded, like the flames had a physical weight to them.
Fragments rained across Sunspear and the Shadow City, burning holes in roofs and walls as the flaming debris rained everywhere.
The dragon flew higher in the air, as people screamed and begged and died.
Higher and higher... An then it circled, like a vulture. Once, Twice, Thrice... Seven times. Is this supposed to be joke on us? Some message?
Just as Qoren thought on that, the dragon passed above the courtyard. Something fell.
A sack. It made a wet, crushing sound when it struck stone. The sack rolled a little and stopped. The dragon roared again, and then it rose in the air, with a speed that no beast of that side should have. It flew quickly eastward, so fast that within moments, It was a dot in the skies again.
...
Did that really happen? Is this the power of a dragon? How did his ancestors fight that?
Nobody moved. For many heartbeats, no one moved at all. Qoren, who throughout the attack, never really moved, proceeded to leave his quarters. He went to the stairs of his keep, and descended. This whole nightmare couldn't have lasted more than two minutes. Two minutes!
When Qoren arrived there, someone had already opened the bag. Horror had spilled out.
Heads, cleanly severed. Bloody banners from proud Dornish Houses were in the sack, too.
Lord Wyl.
His daughter and heir.
The heir of Blackmont and all his brothers.
The Lord and the heir of Starfall, along his brothers and nephews and nieces.
The Knight of High Hermitage and his brothers.
A Manwoody boy scarcely older than five and ten.
There were others, too rotten to be properly recognized.
Their faces were frozen in a rictus of pain, with eyes missing and open mouths lacking tongues.
Qoren stared fixedly, unable and unwilling to look away. The castles had not fallen silent. He thought, in vain. They had all died, one after another.
Qoren Martell looked upward. As if the gods were mocking him, the sky was blue again... except for the rising pillars of smoke. He then understood something terrible. He, and everyone else in Sunspear and the Shadow City, were alive because the dragon and the beast that he rode were not here for Conquest.
This dragon wanted fear.Last edited: Jun 26, 2026 Like ReplyReport Reactions:Gluttz, tikki, Albert Scoot and 648 othersVictor-FigueiredoJun 25, 2026NewAdd bookmarkView discussionThreadmarks Chapter 9 - Boiling New View contentVictor-FigueiredoNot too sore, are you?Jun 26, 2026NewAdd bookmark#447Once upon a time, an arrogant prince of the purest Targaryen blood had said to Rhaenys that the Stepstones were an unworthy place for his glory.