Chapter 36: The Dragonstone Gambit
The island of Dragonstone was a sliver of Old Valyria set adrift in a cold, western sea. It was a place of black sand beaches, volcanic stone, and salt-scoured air. Its fortress, a grim and wondrous creation of dragonfire and forgotten sorcery, was shaped with towers like coiled dragons and gargoyles that seemed to scream into the endless wind. For a century, it had been the last refuge of the last Dragonlords, a brooding, isolated exile. Now, on the cusp of the twenty-sixth year after the Doom, it had become the staging ground for a new empire.
In the heart of the fortress lay the Chamber of the Painted Table. The room was circular, with high, dark windows that offered no view but the churning sky. It was dominated by a single, immense piece of furniture: a great, carved wooden table, shaped and painted in a flawless, detailed map of the continent of Westeros. There were no chairs. To stand at this table was to stand as a god, looking down upon a world ripe for the taking.
Three figures stood around it now, their shadows long in the torchlight. They were the last of their kind, the final echo of the world's greatest empire.
Aegon Targaryen, his hands resting on the lands that would one day be called the Crownlands, was the fulcrum of their ambition. He was tall and broad-shouldered, his handsome face serious, his pale lilac eyes fixed on the map with a conqueror's intensity. He was not a king yet, but he carried himself with the weight of a man for whom kingship was a foregone conclusion, a destiny to be seized, not requested.
To his right stood his elder sister, Visenya. Her beauty was a severe, hard-edged thing, her face angular and her pale eyes sharp and assessing. Her hand rested near the pommel of the Valyrian steel sword, Dark Sister, that was always at her hip. She was a warrior born, a pragmatist who saw the world as a series of threats to be neutralized and objectives to be secured. Her gaze was fixed on the North, on the stubborn, icy kingdom of the Starks.
To his left was his younger sister, Rhaenys. Where Visenya was sharp, Rhaenys was lithe and graceful. Her features were softer, her expression more given to whimsy and curiosity. Her fingers danced over the southern coast, over the deserts of Dorne, her mind seemingly more interested in the beauty and mystery of the lands than in the logistics of their conquest.
"The fleet is ready," Aegon said, his voice quiet but resonant, the voice of a man accustomed to command. "The levies are mustered. Our preparations are complete."
"The seven kings are divided," Visenya stated, her tone crisp and analytical. "Harren the Black rules the Riverlands with fear, but he is hated. Argilac the Arrogant in the Stormlands is old and has no male heir. The Lannisters and the Gardeners are rich but soft. The Starks are stubborn but isolated. And the Arryns hide in their mountain fortress, believing themselves untouchable."
"And Dorne?" Rhaenys asked, a playful note in her voice. "You always forget Dorne, sister."
"Dorne is sand and sun and snakes," Visenya replied with a flicker of disdain. "They will be a nuisance. They are not a true threat."
Aegon nodded. "Every calculation has been made. Every weakness assessed. We will land here, at the mouth of the Blackwater." He tapped the map. "We will build a new fortress on the highest hill, a new seat for a new dynasty. From there, we will demand the fealty of the kings. Those who bend the knee will keep their lands and their titles, as wardens of their regions. Those who defy us…" He did not need to finish the sentence. The answer lay sleeping in the caverns of the Dragonmont, the great volcano that loomed over their fortress. Balerion, Vhagar, Meraxes. The true argument for his kingship.
They were on the precipice. The final plans were laid. The ambition of a lifetime was about to be unleashed upon an unsuspecting continent. It was in this moment of supreme, final confidence that a servant entered the chamber, his face pale, bearing a single, sealed scroll.
"My lord," the servant stammered. "A patrol found this. On the beach at the foot of the Stone Drum tower. A ship… it was a small, grey cog. It flew no banner. It approached the shore, a man lowered a small boat, placed this on the sand, and then they sailed away before they could be challenged."
Visenya's hand immediately went to Dark Sister. "An assassin's message? A threat?"
"Bring it," Aegon commanded.
The scroll was of a quality he had never seen before, a vellum so fine and smooth it felt like cooled silk. The seal was not of wax, but of a strange, hard, golden substance, pressed with the image of a single, coiled dragon. Aegon broke the seal. The script within was High Valyrian, but penned with a calligraphic elegance that was both familiar and foreign. He read the letter aloud, his voice steady, but a new, cold note entering it as he progressed.
"To the blood of Old Valyria," he read. "It has come to our attention that you intend to bring the fire of our ancestors to a new continent. A worthy ambition. As the preeminent power in Essos and the inheritors of the true, living legacy of the Freehold, we watch your endeavor with great interest."
He paused, looking at his sisters. Visenya's eyes had narrowed to slits. Rhaenys's playful curiosity had been replaced by wide-eyed wonder.
Aegon continued. "We do not seek conflict with our distant kin. We trust you will confine your ambitions to the lands west of the Narrow Sea. Essos is under our protection. Should your gaze ever drift eastward, know this: the world is larger and more full of wonders and terrors than your maps have told you. There are more dragons in the sky than just your own."
He finished reading. The scroll hung from his hand. The silence in the chamber was absolute, broken only by the crackle of the torches and the distant moan of the wind. The letter was an earthquake that had just shattered their entire worldview.
"More dragons?" Rhaenys whispered, her voice filled with a breathless awe. "The stories from the east… they are true. A dragon god. A golden one. Can you imagine it, sister? A new Valyria, rising not from the ashes, but from a new faith."
"I can imagine it," Visenya snarled, her voice a low, dangerous hiss. "And I see it for what it is. A threat. This is not a greeting. This is a line drawn in the sand of the world. 'Confine your ambitions,' he says. A god does not make suggestions, Aegon. He gives commands."
She paced before the table, her hand a white-knuckled grip on her sword. "For years we have heard the merchants' tales. A new power in Slaver's Bay. A city of former slaves that humbled Volantis. An army of eunuchs that shattered the Yunkai'i. We dismissed them as exaggerations. But this…" She gestured at the scroll. "This is the confirmation. They call themselves the 'preeminent power in Essos.' They call themselves the 'true, living legacy of the Freehold.' This is a direct challenge to us, to our blood, to our claim."
"It is a warning," Aegon said, his mind working, processing the strategic implications. The initial shock was giving way to the cold calculus of a king. He laid the scroll on the table, on the painted lands of Dorne.
Rhaenys knelt, her fingers tracing the elegant script. "But who are they? A god? A true god? Or just a man with a powerful dragon who calls himself one? They speak of kinship, 'distant kin'. Perhaps they seek an alliance. Two great dragon empires, one in the west, one in the east. Think of the glory of it!"
"Think of the reality of it," Visenya shot back. "There is no glory in sharing power. There can only be one sun in the sky. They have dozens of dragons, if the tales are true. We have three. They rule a unified, zealous empire. We are about to invade a fractured continent of savages who will fight us every step of the way. They are strong, and we are, as yet, weak. This letter is the growl of a larger predator, telling us to stay away from its kill."
"So what do you propose, sister?" Aegon asked, his lilac eyes fixed on her. "Do we abandon our conquest? Do we turn our ships east, to face this unknown power with our three dragons against their fifty?"
"Of course not," Visenya said, stopping her pacing. "To do so would be suicide. But we cannot ignore this. This changes everything. Our conquest of Westeros is no longer a matter of simple ambition. It is now a matter of survival. We thought we were the last dragons. We are not. We are simply the other dragons. And the world is not big enough for two Valyrias."
Aegon nodded slowly, seeing her point. The nature of his war had just changed. It was no longer a war of conquest. It was a race for power.
"They say Essos is under their protection," Lyra's counterpart in Visenya reasoned. "That is their sphere of influence. Westeros is to be ours. It is a division of the world."
"A division dictated by them!" Visenya argued. "They are the established power, dictating terms to us, the upstarts. I do not like it."
"Then we will grow so powerful they can no longer dictate terms to anyone," Aegon declared, his voice cutting through their debate with finality. He stood straight, his presence seeming to fill the room. The moment of shock had passed. The King had arrived at his decision.
"Rhaenys, your desire for knowledge is a worthy one. We will send agents to Essos. Quietly. We will learn everything there is to know about this Golden Dragon Theocracy. We will learn the nature of their god, the true strength of their armies, the number and size of their dragons. We will not be in the dark again."
"Visenya, your caution is also wise," he continued, turning to his other sister. "You are right. This is a threat. A great, looming threat for the future. But it is a future threat. Our present threat is here." He slapped the Painted Table. "Seven kings. Seven armies. A continent of stone and steel and stubborn pride."
He looked at them both, his eyes burning with a new, harder fire. The letter had not cowed him. It had enraged him. It had focused him.
"This changes nothing about our immediate plan. We sail for Westeros on the morning tide. But it changes the purpose of our plan. This is no longer just about forging a kingdom for our dynasty. It is about building an empire strong enough to face the one across the sea. Every victory we win here, every kingdom that bends the knee, every soldier that joins our cause, will be a stone in the great wall we must build against the east."
"We will conquer this land not just for glory, but for strategic necessity. We will bleed the Seven Kingdoms and forge them into one great, unbreakable sword. We will build a fleet that can challenge any in the world. We will raise a new generation of dragonlords from our own bloodline. We will make ourselves so powerful that when we next receive a message from this 'god', it will be as equals. Or not at all."
His words hung in the air, a new and terrible vow. The conquest of Westeros had been transformed from an act of supreme ambition into a desperate act of imperial defense. They were no longer just building a kingdom. They were building a fortress against a rival superpower they had never met.
He walked to the great, arched window and looked out at the churning sea, towards the west. The setting sun cast the sky in colours of blood and fire.
"Let them have their Essos," he said softly, to himself as much as to his sisters. "Let them have their golden god and their legions of the faithful. We will take this land of savages, this cold, hard, ungrateful continent. And we will make it our own. We will make it a fortress of dragonstone and iron, and from its throne, we will look back across the water. And the world will see which of us is the true heir of Valy-ria."
Visenya and Rhaenys came to stand beside him. The three of them, the last of their line, watched the last light fade from the sky. Outside, from the smoky peak of the Dragonmont, a great roar echoed across the island. It was Balerion the Black Dread, a sound of ancient power and limitless hunger, impatient for the dawn. He was answered by the calls of Vhagar and Meraxes.
The Targaryens were ready. Their war for Westeros was about to begin. But in their minds, a new, far greater war, a war for the very soul of the dragon legacy, had already been declared. And it would be fought not just with fire and blood, but with the weight of empires yet to be born.