The training grounds of Vaes Drakarys sprawled across nearly three acres of reinforced stone and packed earth, designed to withstand the kind of punishment that would reduce ordinary arenas to rubble. Enchanted barriers lined the perimeter—my own work, layered with absorption matrices that could drink in everything from dragonfire to lightning strikes without so much as cracking. I'd built this place specifically for moments like this, when newly transformed warriors needed to learn the limits of bodies that no longer obeyed mortal physics.
Artoria stood at the center of the main ring, Excalibur gleaming in her grip. The afternoon sun caught the blade's edge and scattered light across her pristine white armor, the lion helm tucked under her left arm as she adjusted to the weight distribution of her new equipment. Behind her, the tower shield rested against a weapon rack, its golden lion face seeming to watch the proceedings with regal patience.
"The armor feels lighter than it looks," she observed, rolling her shoulders experimentally. "I expected plate this thick to restrict my movement, but it's almost like wearing silk."
"Chaos-Forged materials adapt to their wielder," I explained, my Dragonborn form casting a long shadow across the training sand as I circled her position. "The armor will never impede you—if anything, it enhances your natural movement patterns. But that adaptation works both ways. If you develop bad habits, the equipment will reinforce them. So we're going to establish good fundamentals from the start."
Barristan had already taken position at the eastern edge of the ring, Dawn's Edge held in a guard stance that spoke of decades of muscle memory. His silver scales caught the light differently than Artoria's platinum ones—more metallic, less luminous—and his white wings were folded tight against his back, still learning to exist as natural extensions of his body rather than foreign appendages.
"How do you want to approach this?" he asked. "Structured drills, or should we simply spar and see what emerges?"
I considered the question carefully. Both of them were experienced fighters—Artoria had spent years training with weapons most knights wouldn't touch, and Barristan was arguably the finest swordsman in Westeros before his transformation. They didn't need me to teach them the basics of combat. What they needed was to understand how their new bodies changed the equation.
"Sparring," I decided. "But with specific parameters. Artoria, you're going to fight Barristan using only your sword and shield. No elemental abilities, no enhanced strength beyond what your Draconian form provides naturally. I want to see how your instincts translate to this new body."
Artoria donned her helm—the lion's mane of white fur framing her face, the visor open to allow clear vision—and retrieved her shield. The weapon felt natural in her grip, balanced perfectly despite its considerable size.
"And me?" Barristan asked.
"Same restrictions. Sword only, no breath weapon, no flight. We're testing fundamentals before we add complications." I stepped back to the edge of the ring, my tail curling around my feet as I settled into an observation stance. "Begin when ready."
They circled each other for a long moment, each taking the measure of the other with the assessment of experienced warriors. Barristan moved first—a probing thrust toward Artoria's left side, testing her reaction time and the weight of her shield.
Artoria didn't block. She caught the blade against her shield's edge and redirected it outward, stepping into Barristan's space with a speed that surprised them both. Excalibur came up in a rising cut aimed at his torso, and Barristan barely twisted aside in time, the blade passing close enough to scrape against his armor.
"Faster than expected," he noted, resetting his stance with professional calm. "The transformation enhanced your speed more than I anticipated."
"I noticed." Artoria's voice carried a note of wonder beneath the focus. "My body responds before my mind finishes thinking. It's like the gap between intention and action has been compressed to nothing."
"That's the draconic nervous system," I called from the sideline. "Your reaction time is now measured in fractions of what it was before. The challenge isn't speed—it's learning not to overcommit when your body can move faster than your tactical planning."
Barristan absorbed this information and adjusted his approach. His next attack came as a combination—high cut, low sweep, thrust to the center. But his new Dragonborn body added power to each strike that his human form could never have achieved, and Artoria found herself giving ground despite her shield work.
She caught the thrust on Excalibur's crossguard, turned it aside, and countered with a shield bash that would have broken a normal man's ribs. BASH! Barristan caught the shield's edge on his bracer and used the impact to spin away, creating distance.
"Good adaptation," I observed. "You're both starting to trust your enhanced strength. Now let's see what happens when you stop holding back."
The second exchange was faster, harder, and far more dangerous. Artoria pressed forward with combinations that would have been impossible for her old body—shield strikes flowing seamlessly into sword work, footwork that covered ground in explosive bursts. Barristan met her aggression with technical precision, his decades of experience allowing him to read her attacks and respond with counters that exploited the smallest openings.
Dawn's Edge caught Artoria across the shoulder—a strike that would have been devastating against normal armor but merely scraped across her Chaos-Forged plate with a shower of sparks. She responded by driving her shield into his guard with enough force to stagger him, then following with a thrust that he barely deflected.
"You're leaving your right side open after the shield bash," Barristan noted between exchanges. "Old habit from when the shield was heavier?"
"Probably." Artoria adjusted her stance, tucking her elbow closer. "The tower shield I trained with weighed nearly as much as I did. This one feels like it weighs nothing at all."
"That's exactly the kind of habit the equipment will reinforce if we don't correct it now," I interjected. "Again. This time, focus on keeping your guard tight through the entire combination."
They reset and went again. And again. Each exchange revealed new quirks—old habits that no longer served them, new capabilities they hadn't yet learned to exploit. Barristan discovered that his wings could provide stability during rapid direction changes, turning what would have been awkward pivots into smooth transitions. Artoria found that her enhanced perception let her track multiple angles of attack simultaneously, allowing her to position her shield with almost prescient accuracy.
The session continued for nearly two hours, the sound of Chaos-Forged metal meeting Chaos-Forged metal ringing across the training grounds like thunder made solid.
"Enough sword work," I announced finally, noting the way both warriors had begun to anticipate the other's patterns. "You've established a baseline. Now we test your elements."
Artoria removed her helm, shaking out hair that had somehow remained perfectly arranged beneath it—one of the minor conveniences of Chaos-Forged equipment. "How do I access it? The holy light, I mean. I can feel something in my chest, like warmth waiting to be released, but I don't know how to channel it."
"Draconian elemental manipulation is instinctive rather than learned," I explained, moving to stand beside her. "You don't cast spells in the traditional sense—you express your nature. The Radiant Iron element is about protection and illumination. Think about what you're defending. Think about what you're standing against. The power will respond to your conviction."
Artoria closed her eyes. I watched through my magical senses as the energy in her core began to shift, responding to whatever memories or emotions she was calling upon. Her scales began to glow—faintly at first, then with increasing intensity—and light gathered around her like a visible aura.
"I'm thinking about the people I failed to protect," she said quietly. "Renly. The innocents who died because I couldn't reach them in time. The oaths I couldn't keep."
"Don't dwell on the failures. Use them as fuel, but focus on what you're protecting now. What you will protect."
The light shifted, becoming warmer, more golden. Artoria opened her eyes, and they blazed with holy radiance.
"Lady Sansa," she said. "I swore an oath to her mother to keep her safe. She's still in King's Landing, still trapped among enemies who would use her or destroy her. I will find her. I will bring her home."
The light erupted from her in a wave, washing across the training ground with almost physical force. It wasn't destructive—quite the opposite. Where it touched, the air itself seemed cleaner, brighter, purified of some intangible taint I hadn't even noticed until it was gone.
"Excellent." I nodded approvingly. "That's your defensive manifestation—a cleansing radiance that can banish corruption, weaken undead, and provide protection to those you consider worthy. With practice, you'll learn to focus it into a shield, a weapon enhancement, or a healing pulse."
"It feels... right," Artoria breathed, looking at her glowing hands with wonder. "Like this is what I was always supposed to be."
"That's because it is. The conversion doesn't create something from nothing—it reveals and enhances what was already there. You were always a protector, Artoria. Now you have the power to match your conviction."
Barristan's elemental training took a different approach.
"Sun-Iron is more aggressive than Radiant Iron," I explained as he stepped into the center of the ring. "Your breath weapon is molten light—capable of melting through armor, incinerating undead, and purging magical corruption through destruction rather than cleansing. The holy aspect gives it effectiveness against supernatural threats, while the metal component provides raw physical devastation."
"How do I trigger it?" Barristan asked, his golden eyes—still a novelty after decades of brown—focused intently on my instruction.
"Same principle as Artoria, but with different emphasis. You're not a guardian standing firm—you're a knight charging forward. Think about the enemies you've faced. The ones who deserved to burn but escaped justice because you served kings who protected them."
Barristan's expression flickered, old pain surfacing briefly before being controlled. "There were many such enemies. The Mad King's favorites. The monsters who wore noble faces in Robert's court. The men who murdered Rhaegar's children while I stood guard over a different door."
"Hold that anger. Don't suppress it—use it. Channel it through your core, up through your throat, and out."
Heat began building in Barristan's chest, visible as a golden glow spreading beneath his scales. His wings unfurled slightly, responding to the energy surge, and his jaw opened to reveal fangs that hadn't existed an hour ago.
The breath weapon erupted in a stream of liquid gold—not flame exactly, but something that burned even hotter, light made molten and given physical form. It struck one of the target dummies I'd prepared and the construct didn't just burn. It melted, iron and wood and straw dissolving into slag under the assault of purified destruction.
"That... is considerably more powerful than I expected," Barristan admitted, closing his mouth with visible effort as the heat continued to radiate from his throat. "Is there a risk of harming allies with this?"
"Always. Breath weapons are area effects by nature—precision comes with practice. But your holy attunement will reduce the damage to those you consider allies, and with training, you'll learn to narrow the spread when necessary." I gestured to the melted remains of the dummy. "For now, understand that you're no longer just a swordsman. You're a siege weapon in human form. Plan accordingly."
The rest of the afternoon was spent on mobility training—teaching Barristan to use his wings for short glides and stabilization, helping Artoria channel her light into her shield for enhanced blocking, and ensuring both of them could switch between their elemental abilities and mundane combat without losing momentum.
By the time the sun began its descent toward the horizon, both knights were exhausted in ways their old bodies couldn't have achieved. Draconian and Dragonborn physiology required immense energy to operate at full capacity, and they had pushed themselves hard.
"Adequate progress for day one," I declared, allowing a note of approval into my voice. "Tomorrow we'll work on combination tactics—learning to fight as a unit rather than individuals. But for now, rest and recover. Your bodies will adapt faster if you give them time to process what they've learned."
"Thank you," Artoria said, her armor somehow still pristine despite the hours of combat. "For all of this. I didn't expect such... investment."
"You're not just soldiers anymore. You're the first members of something new." I let that statement hang in the air for a moment before continuing. "Meet me in the main courtyard in two hours. There's an announcement I need to make, and it concerns both of you directly."
The courtyard at the heart of Vaes Drakarys had become my preferred location for important gatherings. It was spacious enough to accommodate dozens of people without feeling cramped, shaded by structures that blocked the worst of the afternoon heat, and positioned centrally enough that anyone I summoned could reach it quickly. The fountain at its center—a gift from one of the converted merchant princes—provided pleasant background noise that made conversations feel private even in open air.
I arrived first, as was my habit. My Dragonborn form settled onto the stone bench I'd claimed as my unofficial throne, tail curling around my feet, wings folded tight against my back. The position looked casual but allowed me to observe every entrance simultaneously—old habits from a lifetime of expecting ambushes.
Geralt arrived next, his heavy white-grey fur mantle marking him as visually distinct from the Dragonborn guards who patrolled the perimeter. The Wolf Witcher's transformation had changed him in subtle ways—his eyes were sharper, his movements were more fluid and his presence carried an edge of contained predatory power that hadn't been there before. He nodded to me and took position against one of the pillars, clearly preferring to stand.
"Training went well?" he asked, voice carrying that characteristic gravel.
"Better than expected. They're both naturals. Give me a month and they'll be able to hold their own against most threats this world can produce."
"Hm." Geralt's noncommittal grunt conveyed a wealth of meaning. In his experience, confidence about timeframes usually preceded unpleasant surprises.
Arya appeared next, moving through the courtyard with silent grace. She'd taken to her new abilities with almost frightening ease, as if some part of her had always been waiting for permission to become the predator she now was. She claimed a seat on the fountain's edge, legs folded beneath her in a casual position that would allow her to spring into action instantly.
Ciri, Yennefer, and Triss arrived together—the trio had become nearly inseparable over the past weeks, bound by their shared experiences and the Soul Link that connected us all. Ciri's ashen hair caught the fading light as she settled beside Arya, the two young Dragon Witchers exchanging a look of quiet camaraderie. Yennefer chose to remain standing, her midnight scales gleaming as she positioned herself where she could see both the entrances and my face. Triss, in contrast, claimed a spot directly beside me, close enough that our shoulders almost touched.
Feeling possessive? I asked through the Link, amused.
Feeling like I want to be near you, she replied, her mental voice warm with affection. Is that a problem?
Never.
Artoria and Barristan arrived last, both having changed into less martial attire for the meeting. Artoria wore her elegant blue dress with golden accents, the white shawl draped over her shoulders, while Barristan had selected robes of silver and white that complemented his new scales. Both still carried their weapons—old habits dying hard—but the overall effect was more courtly than military.
"Good," I said once everyone had settled. "You're all here. Before we discuss the main topic, there's something I need to formalize."
I rose from my bench, my Dragonborn form commanding. "When I first began building the Wyrmborne, I focused on creating an army—soldiers who could fight, workers who could build, citizens who could form the foundation of a new civilization. And that has served us well. But an army without elite leadership is just a mob with matching armor."
I turned to face Artoria and Barristan directly. "What I'm creating now is something different. A core of warriors who will serve as my personal guard, as champions of the Wyrmborne's ideals, and as the standard by which all other fighters will be measured."
The word rose from somewhere deep in my memory, carrying weight that transcended its simple meaning.
"The Drakengard."
Yennefer raised an eyebrow. That word has significance for you, she observed through the Link. I can feel the resonance.
It does. In my first life, the Drakengard was not only the name of my old world but there were also a faction with a similar name who were dragon knights—mortals who formed pacts with dragons and became something more. The name means 'Dragon's Guardians' in the old tongue. I paused, letting the memory settle. I'm reclaiming it. Giving it new meaning.
"The Drakengard will be more than soldiers," I continued aloud. "They will be paragons—examples of what the Wyrmborne can become when potential meets purpose. Each member will be personally selected, personally trained, and personally equipped by me. They will answer only to me and to Daenerys, and their authority will supersede that of any commander except the Crimson Council itself."
I looked at Barristan, meeting his golden eyes. "If I had to compare it to something familiar to some of you, think of the Kingsguard. Seven knights sworn to protect the monarch, bound by oaths that supersede all other loyalties. But the Drakengard will be more than that. They won't just protect—they will represent. Every action they take reflects on the Wyrmborne as a whole."
Barristan's expression was complex—pride warring with old pain at the mention of the Kingsguard. "I served in the Kingsguard for most of my life. I know what such oaths mean, and what it costs when they're broken or betrayed."
"You served under kings who didn't deserve your loyalty," I replied. "Aerys was mad, Robert was indifferent, Joffrey was a monster wearing a crown. Your oaths were wasted on men who couldn't comprehend their value. Here, that changes. Here, your service will be honored, your sacrifices acknowledged, and your counsel sought." I let that promise hang in the air. "I asked you both once if you were willing to bind yourselves to this cause. Now I'm asking formally. Will you accept membership in the Drakengard? Will you stand as the first of my dragon knights?"
Artoria stepped forward without hesitation. "I will. My life has been defined by broken oaths and failed duties. Let this be the beginning of something different—something I can be proud of until my last breath."
Barristan hesitated—not from reluctance, but from the weight of what he was accepting. "I swore once before that I would never serve another unworthy king. When I came here, I came because I believed in Queen Daenerys, not because I sought another master." His eyes met mine. "But you have proven yourself worthy of loyalty, Angelus. Not through conquest or intimidation, but through the civilization you're building and the people you're protecting. I accept."
"Good." I felt something settle into place—not magic exactly, but the satisfaction of a foundation properly laid. "I haven't forgotten your request, Barristan. You wished to swear your loyalty directly to Daenerys. That ceremony will wait until she returns, so she can witness and accept it personally. For now, know that your service to the Drakengard is service to her as well."
"Thank you." The words carried genuine gratitude. "That means more than you know."
With the formal announcement complete, I settled back onto my bench and let the atmosphere shift from ceremonial to practical. "Now, there's something else we need to discuss. Something that concerns Arya directly."
The Wolf Girl straightened, her grey eyes sharpening with attention. "What kind of something?"
"The kind that involves your family."
Silence fell across the courtyard. Even Geralt shifted his weight, recognizing the gravity of what I was introducing.
"I've been monitoring events in Westeros through various channels," I began. "Spy networks, merchant reports, the occasional magical scrying when the situation warranted it. Two events are approaching that will reshape the political landscape of the continent, and both of them are connected to the war your brother Robb is fighting."
Arya's hands had curled into fists without her seeming to notice. "What events?"
"The first is called the Purple Wedding in some of the intelligence reports—though obviously the participants don't know that name yet. Joffrey Baratheon will be poisoned at his own wedding feast. The culprits will frame Tyrion Lannister for the murder, which will set off its own chain of consequences, but the important point is that the monster who ordered your father's execution will be dead."
A flicker of something dark crossed Arya's features—satisfaction, perhaps, or the ghost of the rage she'd carried since Ned Stark's head had rolled. "Joffrey dead. Good. I hope he chokes on it."
"He will. Quite literally, from what I understand." I paused, letting her process that before continuing. "The second event is more immediately relevant. It's called the Red Wedding, and it involves a betrayal that will occur at the Twins—the castle controlled by House Frey. Your brother Robb, your mother Catelyn, and most of his bannermen will be murdered at what was supposed to be a wedding celebration."
The color drained from Arya's face. For a long moment, she didn't speak—couldn't speak—as the implications crashed over her like a wave.
"No." The word came out hoarse, barely audible. Her hands were shaking—she hadn't noticed until now. "That's not... Robb has an army. He's winning. He wouldn't just—how could they—"
"Walder Frey's wounded pride and Tywin Lannister's gold," I said flatly. "Your brother broke his betrothal to marry another woman—a field nurse named Talisa, or Jeyne Westerling depending on which reports you believe. Frey never forgave the insult. Tywin offered him revenge and legitimacy for his treachery. The result will be a massacre. Robb, Catelyn, and everyone loyal to them slaughtered while under guest right. The war effectively ended in a single bloody night."
Arya's breathing had gone ragged. Ciri reached out and put a hand on her arm but Arya barely seemed to notice.
"When?" she demanded. "How long do we have?"
"A few months. The Purple Wedding comes first, but the Red Wedding will follow within weeks."
"Then we stop it." Arya stood abruptly, her whole body taut with desperate energy. "We go there, we warn him, we—"
"Sit down." My voice wasn't harsh, but it carried enough command to cut through her panic. "I understand your reaction. I expected it. But before you make any decisions, you need to hear everything I have to say."
She remained standing for a long moment, every line of her body screaming defiance. Then, slowly, she sat back down. Her eyes never left my face.
"I'm going to be honest with you, Arya, because you deserve honesty even when it's uncomfortable." I chose my next words carefully. "When I first learned about the Red Wedding, I had no intention of intervening. Your brother made choices that led him to that fate—choices that were, frankly, stupid. He broke a betrothal oath to marry a woman he barely knew, alienating a crucial ally in the process. He executed Lord Karstark against the advice of his counselors, losing half his army. He trusted people he shouldn't have and ignored warnings he should have heeded."
"You're saying he deserves to die?" Arya's voice was dangerous now, the predatory edge of her Dragon Witcher nature bleeding through.
"I'm saying that his decisions have consequences, and those consequences aren't my responsibility to fix. The Wyrmborne has no stake in the war between Stark and Lannister. Getting involved would cost us resources, attention, and potentially lives for the sake of a king who might just make the same mistakes again."
"Then why are you telling me this?" The question came through gritted teeth.
"Because something has been bothering me. A detail that doesn't quite fit." I leaned forward, resting my elbows on my knees. "Your brother was betrothed to a Frey girl. The marriage was politically advantageous, strategically necessary, and personally acceptable—by all accounts, the girl was pretty enough, and Robb understood his duty. Then he met Talisa. A foreign woman, conveniently wounded in a battle, conveniently skilled at nursing, conveniently beautiful and charming. And within weeks, a man known for his honor and his understanding of political necessity threw away an alliance worth thousands of soldiers because he'd fallen hopelessly in love."
I let that sink in before continuing. "Does that sound like your brother to you?"
Arya's brow furrowed. "Robb was always... he believed in doing the right thing. Following his heart. Father was the same way."
"Following his heart is one thing. Abandoning everything he'd built for a woman he barely knew is another. And here's what really bothers me—Talisa's mother is Maggy the Frog. A friend of your mother's, allegedly. Also, by some accounts, a fortune teller with genuine prophetic abilities."
Yennefer stirred, her violet eyes narrowing. "You think there was magical influence involved."
"I think it's suspicious. We know the Three-Eyed Raven has been operating in Westeros for a very long time, manipulating events toward outcomes that serve his purposes. We know he tried to get his claws into Daenerys before I intervened. We know he has access to greensight and possibly other forms of mental manipulation." I spread my hands. "What if Robb Stark didn't fall in love naturally? What if something—or someone—pushed him toward that specific woman at that specific moment, knowing it would lead to a chain of events that would destroy House Stark?"
Silence fell as everyone processed the implications.
"The Three-Eyed Raven wanted the Starks destroyed?" Ciri asked, her ashen brows drawn together in confusion. "Why? Bran Stark is supposed to become the next Three-Eyed Raven, isn't he? Why would he destroy his own family?"
"Because Bran isn't the Three-Eyed Raven—not yet. The current occupant is Brynden Rivers, also known as Bloodraven, a Targaryen bastard who's been sitting in a cave beyond the Wall for over a century. His motivations are... opaque. But he clearly wants certain outcomes, and those outcomes involve removing anyone who might interfere with his plans." I looked at Arya directly. "Your family may have been targeted specifically because they posed a threat to whatever future he's trying to create."
Arya's expression had shifted during my explanation—from raw grief to a more focused and more dangerous emotion. "You're saying someone made Robb betray himself. Someone made him stupid on purpose."
"I'm saying it's possible. Even likely, given what we know about the Three-Eyed Raven's capabilities."
"Then we have to stop it." Her voice had steadied now, the initial panic crystallizing into determination. "If my brother was manipulated, if someone made him do this, then the betrayal isn't his fault. And I won't let him die for someone else's scheme."
"Before you commit to that, let me lay out what intervention actually looks like." I held up one clawed hand, ticking off points on my fingers. "Advantages of getting involved: We potentially save your brother and mother. We gain a powerful ally in the North if Robb survives and recognizes his debt. We strike a blow against the Three-Eyed Raven's plans, which may be valuable in itself. And we deny Tywin Lannister his victory, which weakens our eventual enemies."
I switched hands. "Disadvantages: We commit resources to a conflict that doesn't directly affect us. We reveal capabilities that we might prefer to keep hidden. We make enemies of House Frey and House Bolton, who will know we interfered even if we do it subtly. We potentially bind ourselves to supporting a king who may continue making poor decisions even after we've saved him. And we take on responsibility for an entire war that has nothing to do with our actual objectives."
Arya absorbed this with visible effort, forcing herself to think strategically when every instinct screamed for immediate action. "You said I'm affiliated with the Wyrmborne now. Does that mean my family becomes your problem?"
"It means your family becomes a factor I'm willing to consider, when I wouldn't have before. I still don't particularly care about Robb Stark—he's made choices that would have gotten him killed with or without magical manipulation, and I'm not interested in babysitting kings who can't protect themselves." My voice softened slightly. "But I care about you, Arya. You've proven yourself worthy of that. If saving your brother is what you need, then we'll find a way to make it happen. I just need you to understand what you're asking for."
The young Dragon Witcher was quiet for a long moment. When she spoke, her voice was steady. "I'm not asking you to save the North. I'm not asking you to win Robb's war for him. I'm asking for a chance to warn my family before it's too late. To give them a choice—the same choice they were denied by whoever manipulated them into this mess."
"And if Robb doesn't listen? If he dismisses your warning or refuses to believe the Three-Eyed Raven exists?"
"Then I'll have done what I could, and the rest is on him." Arya's grey eyes were hard. "But I won't let my mother die at a wedding feast without at least trying to stop it. If you won't help me, I'll do it alone."
Geralt, who had been silent throughout the discussion, finally spoke. "She won't be alone. I've watched families torn apart by forces they couldn't see coming, couldn't fight, couldn't even name. If there's a chance to stop another massacre before it happens, I'll take it. Every time."
Ciri nodded firmly, her ashen hair catching the fading light. "Me too. While we don't have any debt to the Starks, we do care about Arya and understand the importance of family." She met Arya's eyes. "And if the Three-Eyed Raven is behind this, then stopping him isn't just about your family. It's about everyone he's manipulating. We'd be fighting him eventually anyway."
I looked around the courtyard at the people who had become my inner circle—my lovers, my allies, my family in everything but blood. Their support for Arya was unanimous and unconditional.
You're not actually surprised by this, Yennefer observed privately. You knew they would support her.
I knew they would want to. I needed to make sure Arya understood the weight of what she was asking before they committed.
And your own position?
I considered the question carefully before answering aloud. "We'll intervene. Minimal footprint, maximum impact. The goal is to give the Starks warning and extract them if necessary, not to win their war for them. If Robb wants to continue fighting the Lannisters after we've saved his life, that's his choice—but we're not supplying his army or committing Wyrmborne forces to his cause."
Arya's shoulders sagged with relief. "Thank you. I know this isn't... I know you don't have to do this."
"No, I don't. Remember that when I ask for something in return." But there was no real threat in my voice—just acknowledgment of the favor I was extending. "Now, let's start planning. We have a few months to work with, and I want every contingency covered before we commit to action."
"If I may your majesty." Artoria interrupts before they disperse, stepping forward to face Angelus. "Since we are talking about the Starks, if there ever comes a time to rescue Lady Sansa from wherever she's captive in King's Landings. I want to be part of that operation, with your permission of course." Artoria finished.
Arya's expression didn't change but I can tell from a glance that she likely remembers Artoria's Oath to Catelyn Stark to rescue her daughters. Now that Arya is safe, the only one left is Sansa.
I tap my right knee with one of my claws for a few moments before responding.
"You have my permission when the time comes Artoria." Artoria releases a breath through her nose that she didn't know she was holding. "But I expect you to hide your identity when the time comes. We don't need most of Westeros thinking that we changed our minds and decided to conquer them and then start bothering us by preparing for war." I snort some smoke out of my nostrils. "A war they wouldn't win obviously."
"Of course your majesty!" Artoria salutes in a Westerosi function. Reminding me that she's going to need to learn how to salute like a Wyrmborne in the future. "I'll make sure to be as discreet as possible."
Arya scoff at that. "Somehow, I doubt you can do that. With your new appearance and armor, discreet might as well be a foreign language for you."
Artoria bristles at that but couldn't correct her. Even she knows that she's not the most stealthy individual. Even though her new form should make it slightly easier, she somehow still manages to make too much noise.
"Luckily we have magic. So Artoria can just try to learn some stealth related spells if possible."
Artoria smiles at that and steps back to her original position.
"Now are there any more interruptions?" No one answers. "Good. Now let's get back to what we were going to do."
The weeks that followed passed in a blur of preparation and routine.
I divided my attention between multiple priorities—supervising Artoria and Barristan's ongoing training, coordinating with Vaelos on expansion plans for the mining operations, maintaining the Wyrmborne's infrastructure through my usual rounds of conversion pools and equipment forging. The Red Wedding operation required careful planning, but it was still months away. There was time to be thorough.
TRANSITION - Third Person POV
Two thousand miles to the west, the army of the Dragon Queen moved through the grasslands of central Essos like a great serpent of scale and steel.
Daenerys Targaryen rode at the column's head, her white scales catching the afternoon sun as Swiftclaw carried her forward with predatory grace. The fire-colored D-Raptor moved with a eager energy befitting a creature bred for speed and violence, her clawed feet eating up the grassland in smooth, powerful strides. Daenerys's silver-gold hair streamed behind her, contrasting sharply with the dark plates of Draconis Imperium—her Chaos-Forged armor that fit her Draconian form like a second skin. Soulfire hung at her hip, its crimson runes pulsing faintly with contained power, while her other weapons—whip, dagger, spear-glaive, and modified crossbow—were arranged in the practiced organization she's come to make a habit of.
Behind her, arranged in formations that blended Dothraki mobility with Wyrmborne discipline, came the force that would secure her holdings against any threat. Drogo rode to her right, mounted on Drakkarion. His red eyes sweeping the horizon. His masterwork griffin-material armor gleamed in the sunlight, and his arakh hung at his side alongside his heavy crossbow and throwing axes. Above them, Balerion circled lazily—the black dragon's shadow passing over the column like a promise of destruction. He had evolved far beyond his wyvern origins in blood and presence, his volcanic form now rivaling the dragons of old Valyria, and his bond with Drogo was a constant presence that needed no words.
To her left rode Jhogo, Champion of the Wyrmborne. He sat astride Sho'keth, his unique teal-and-gold Drake whose feather-like crests rippled in the wind as they moved. His custom armor of drake scales and troll hide fit perfectly over his transformed body, and his curved Valyrian steel blade—enhanced with corrosive runes—hung at his side alongside his secondary dagger and modified crossbow. Where Drogo commanded through overwhelming force, Jhogo led through tactical brilliance—his scouts ranging ahead on their D-Raptors, gathering intelligence that would prove invaluable when they reached their destination.
Further back in the column, the two newest Champions rode with the main force. Zyrenna's dark blue scales caught the light as she guided Storm through a banking turn overhead—the lightning Drake's bioluminescent patterns flickering with barely contained energy. The first lightning Champion had earned her position through skill and determination, and her bond with Storm went deeper than most rider-mount pairs, having formed during the Drake's hatching itself. Nearby, Lysara rode with the Battlemage corps she had built from nothing, her Bladestaff secured across her back. Both women were warriors first and foremost, Champions who had proven themselves in battle rather than council chambers.
Daenerys had insisted that her entire command structure travel with the army. She wanted Angelus to see firsthand the strength they had built during their months of conquest—not just soldiers and beasts, but leaders who could stand beside any the Wyrmborne had produced.
How are things at home? she asked through the pact bond, the mental connection spanning the distance between them as if it were nothing.
Productive, Angelus's voice responded, warm with affection despite the distance. Artoria and Barristan are progressing well. The Drakengard is taking shape. And I've committed us to a rescue operation that you'll probably want to discuss when you arrive.
A rescue operation?
Arya's family. The Red Wedding—we've decided to prevent it. I'll explain the full plan in person.
Daenerys felt a flicker of surprise. She remembered their earlier conversations about the Stark plot—how Angelus had been uncertain whether intervention was worth the cost, skeptical of Robb Stark's judgment and unwilling to commit Wyrmborne resources to a conflict that didn't serve their interests. Something had changed.
You decided to get involved after all? I thought you said Robb Stark wasn't worth the trouble.
He probably isn't. But Arya is one of us now, and she asked for help. That changes the calculation.
Daenerys smiled slightly, warmth flowing through the bond. For all her talk of pragmatism and cold calculation, Angelus had a weakness for the people she claimed as her own. It was one of the things Daenerys loved most about her.
Is Arya alright?
She's determined. Scared, but handling it. The girl has steel in her spine—she'll be an asset once she's had time to grow into her abilities.
Good. Daenerys let warmth flow through the bond—pride in her dragon, affection for the family they were building together. I'll be home soon. A few more weeks at most.
I know. I'm counting the days.
In the camps and caravans of the Wyrmborne column, life continued its rhythm regardless of the distance traveled.
Soldiers maintained their equipment and drilled in the evenings, keeping skills sharp despite the monotony of the march. Merchants who had attached themselves to the convoy traded goods and gossip in roughly equal measure. Children—the sons and daughters of soldiers and administrators who had chosen to bring their families rather than leave them behind—played games between the wagons, their laughter a counterpoint to the serious business of military logistics.
One of those children, a boy of perhaps eight years with copper scales gleaming on his cheeks—a Dragonborn born to converted parents—had taken to following the column's outriders on his own small horse. The soldiers tolerated his presence with gruff affection, seeing in him the future of the civilization they were building.
"Will the dragon queen really let us stay in the city?" he asked one of the outriders during a rest stop. "My mother says Vaes Drakarys has buildings taller than trees and streets made of stone that never crack."
The outrider—a woman with iron-grey scales and the bearing of a veteran—smiled at his enthusiasm. "She'll let us stay because we're part of her army now. The Wyrmborne don't abandon their own. And yes, the buildings are tall and the streets are strong. You'll see for yourself soon enough."
The boy's eyes went wide with wonder, and he spent the rest of the day peppering anyone who would listen with questions about the capital city.
In Westeros, the war between wolves and lions continued its bloody course.
TRANSITION - Third Person POV
The camp of Robb Stark, King in the North and King of the Trident, sprawled across a valley in the Riverlands—a temporary city of tents and cookfires that had become a semi-permanent fixture of the ongoing campaign. The army that had followed him south had been reduced by casualties, desertion, and the disastrous loss of the Karstarks, but those who remained were hardened veterans, survivors of battles that had broken lesser forces.
Robb himself stood in his command tent, studying the map spread across the central table with eyes that seemed older than his years. The crown of bronze and iron sat heavy on his brow—a weight he'd never asked for but could never set aside. Talisa stood beside him, her presence a comfort even as the strategic situation grew ever more dire.
"Lord Frey has agreed to the meeting," Catelyn Stark reported, entering the tent with an expression that suggested she found the news about as appealing as spoiled meat. "He'll host the wedding at the Twins. Your uncle Edmure will marry one of his daughters as compensation for your... change of plans."
"The old weasel is going to make us grovel," Robb muttered. "Every moment we spend at that castle will be another opportunity for him to remind us of the insult we dealt him."
"Probably." Catelyn's voice was carefully neutral. "But we need the Freys if we're going to retake the North. Without their bridge, without their soldiers, we're trapped between Tywin's forces and a homeland we can't reach."
"I know, Mother." The words came out more sharply than Robb intended, and he immediately softened his tone. "I'm sorry. I know you warned me about this. You warned me about everything, and I didn't listen."
Catelyn moved to stand beside her son, placing a hand on his arm. "You followed your heart. It's not a crime, Robb. It's just... not something kings can afford to do."
"No. It isn't." He looked at the map again, at the careful notations showing enemy movements and friendly positions, and wondered how everything had gone so wrong. The war had started with such promise—victory after victory, the Kingslayer in chains, the North rallying behind its king. Now he was dependent on the goodwill of a man whose loyalty could be purchased by anyone with enough gold, and the woman he'd sacrificed everything for watched him from across the tent with eyes that didn't quite understand the weight of crowns.
I won't fail them, he promised himself silently. Whatever it takes, I'll find a way to bring them home. I'll make this right.
He didn't notice the way his thoughts seemed to slide away from certain conclusions, or how his certainty that Walder Frey would honor guest right felt more like instinct than reasoned assessment.
Far to the north, beyond the Wall, something that had once been a man smiled in the darkness of a cave filled with roots.
TRANSITION - First Person POV (Angelus)
The garden terrace adjacent to my private quarters had become my preferred location for romantic encounters—secluded enough to ensure privacy, beautiful enough to create the right atmosphere, and equipped with comfortable seating that could accommodate various configurations of humanoid and draconic bodies.
Tonight, the terrace was lit by floating orbs of soft light—a minor magical convenience that I'd created for exactly these occasions—and the air carried the scent of night-blooming flowers from the planters that lined the railing. The city sprawled below us, its lights a mirror of the stars above, and the distant sounds of nightlife provided pleasant background music.
Triss sat across from me, looking absolutely radiant in the outfit she'd chosen for our date. The dress was emerald green silk that complemented her auburn hair perfectly—hair that fell in loose waves around her shoulders, freed from the practical arrangements she usually preferred. The neckline was low enough to be enticing without being vulgar, and the fabric clung to her curves in ways that made my draconic instincts very interested indeed.
"You're staring," she observed, her lips curving in a smile that knew exactly what effect she was having.
"I'm appreciating." I didn't bother hiding my admiration. "That dress is dangerous, you know. I'm having trouble forming coherent thoughts."
"Good. That was the intention." She took a sip of the wine we'd been sharing—a vintage from before the Doom, recovered from one of our salvage expeditions to the Valyrian coastline. "You've been working so hard lately. Planning the rescue mission, training Artoria and Barristan, managing the expansion. I wanted to give you a reason to stop thinking about logistics for a few hours."
"Mission accomplished." I reached across the table and took her hand, my scaled fingers intertwining with her more delicate ones. "How did I get this lucky? A few years ago, I was a wounded dragon with nothing but survival instincts and old memories. Now I have Daenerys, Mikhail, Yennefer, Ciri... and you."
Triss's smile softened into something more vulnerable. "You got lucky because you're the kind of person who deserves to be loved, Angelus. You pretend to be all pride and calculation, but underneath that, you care. You care about the people you've gathered around you, you care about building something that will last, you care about protecting the weak from those who would exploit them." She squeezed my hand. "That's not something you can fake."
"You'd be surprised what I can fake," I said, but there was no real deflection in my voice. "Though I suppose there's no point with you. The Soul Link makes it rather difficult to hide emotions from the people connected to it."
"It does. Which is how I know that you're nervous right now, even though you're trying not to show it."
"Nervous?" I raised an eyebrow ridge. "About what?"
"About this." She gestured between us. "You've been building toward something all evening. The romantic setting, the expensive wine, the way you keep looking at me like you're memorizing every detail. Something's on your mind."
She knows me too well, I admitted privately. Aloud, I said: "I've marked Ciri. I've marked Yennefer. Both of them carry my claim on their bodies—proof that they belong to me and I to them. It's not just symbolic; the marks create a deeper resonance in the Soul Link, a connection that goes beyond simple magical binding."
Triss went still, her wine glass pausing halfway to her lips. "And you want to mark me."
"I want to give you the choice. What I feel for you isn't casual, Triss. It isn't temporary. You've become part of my family in ways that matter, and I want to formalize that in the same way I formalized it with the others." I met her eyes directly, letting her see the sincerity behind my words. "But only if you want it. If you're ready."
For a long moment, she didn't respond. I watched emotions play across her face—surprise, consideration, and something deeper that made my heart (metaphorical though it might be in this form) beat faster.
"Where?" she asked finally.
"What?"
"Where would you mark me?" Her voice had dropped to something huskier. "Ciri's mark is on her neck. Yennefer's mark is on her chest. Would mine be the same as one of them?"
I considered the question. The neck was traditional, yes—a visible claim that announced ownership to anyone who looked and Yennefer's version was slightly more bold. But Triss was different. Triss had come to me willingly, without the complicated circumstances that had attended Ciri's marking or the competitive dynamic that had shaped Yennefer's. She deserved something more... intimate. At least more intimate than even Yennefer's version.
"No," I decided. "Somewhere more private. Something that only we would know about unless you chose to reveal it."
Interest flickered in her eyes. "Show me."
I rose from my seat and moved around the table, my Dragonborn form casting a shadow across her in the soft light. She looked up at me without fear and tilted her head in silent invitation.
Instead of reaching for her neck, I knelt before her. The position put my head level with her lap, and I heard her breath catch again as she realized my intention.
"May I?" I asked, my clawed hands resting gently on her knees.
"Yes." The word came out breathy, eager. "Yes, Angelus. Please."
I pushed the hem of her dress upward, slowly, giving her time to object if she wished. She didn't. The fabric slid up her thighs, revealing smooth skin that seemed to glow in the magical light, and I felt her shiver as my scaled fingers traced patterns up her inner leg.
"Here," I murmured, my lips brushing against the sensitive flesh of her inner left thigh. "A secret between us. A claim that no one will see unless you allow it."
"Do it." Her voice was barely above a whisper now. "Claim me."
My teeth found the soft skin and bit—firm enough to mark, not hard enough to truly hurt. Heat bloomed from the contact as my essence flowed through the wound, establishing the bond that would tie us together in ways that transcended physical proximity. Triss gasped, her hands finding my horns and gripping tight as the sensation washed through her.
I held the bite for a long moment, letting the magic settle into place. Then I released her flesh and pressed my tongue flat against the mark, licking slowly across the indentation my teeth had left. She shuddered, and I felt her pleasure echo through the Soul Link—a feedback loop of sensation that left us both breathless.
"More," she managed. "Please."
I moved my mouth slightly higher on her thigh, closer to places that made her grip on my horns tighten, and kissed the heated skin there. She made a sound that was half moan and half laugh—surprised by her own reaction—and I felt her legs part slightly wider in invitation.
But this wasn't the time to push further. Not yet. I wanted her first time with me to be special, unhurried, and the terrace—while private—wasn't the ideal location for what I had in mind.
I pulled back, looking up at her face from my kneeling position. Her eyes were half-lidded, her lips parted, her expression one of dazed pleasure that made me want to abandon all restraint. But I controlled myself, offering her a smile that showed perhaps a few too many teeth.
"There," I said. "Marked, claimed, and mine."
"Yours," she agreed breathlessly. "Completely and forever."
I rose and pulled her to her feet, then into my arms. The kiss that followed was deeper than any we'd shared before—tongues tangling, hands exploring, bodies pressed together with an urgency that threatened to overwhelm us both. When we finally broke apart, both of us were breathing hard.
"Ciri," I murmured against her lips. "Yennefer. Triss. Three beautiful women who've given themselves to me. Three marks on bodies that I've claimed as my own." I traced a claw gently down her spine, feeling her shiver. "Mikhail carries my mark too, from long before any of you. Now there's only one person left who should wear my claim but doesn't."
I heard that, Daenerys's voice came through the mental link, amused and slightly breathless. She must have been following our encounter through the shared bond—or at least the emotional resonance of it. Are you planning my marking already?
Planning it in exquisite detail, I replied, letting her feel the anticipation that colored my thoughts. When you get back, I want to make it special. A ceremony of our own, just the two of us, to formalize what's existed between us since the beginning.
I'll hold you to that. There was warmth in her mental voice, and something else—eagerness that matched my own. We're three days out from Vaes Drakarys. Jhogo says the scouts have reported clear roads ahead. If nothing unexpected happens, we should arrive by midweek.
I'll be waiting.
I looked down at Triss, still held in my arms, and felt something very close to contentment settle into my chest. The harem I'd accumulated wasn't just a collection of lovers—it was a family. Each of them brought something unique to my life, filled spaces I hadn't known were empty, and together they'd turned survival into something that actually felt like living.
Coming home soon, Daenerys added, her voice soft with longing. Coming home to all of you.
Three days later, a scout rider reached the gates of Vaes Drakarys with news that would have the entire city buzzing within hours.
The Dragon Queen was returning.
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End of Chapter Twenty-Eight