Prologue: The Weight of a Name
The salty wind of Eastwatch-by-the-Sea carried the acrid smell of tar, sweat, and accumulated tension. Aegon Targaryen, son of Alicent, watched with a grave expression as the last ships disgorged their human cargo onto the already crowded dock. Men from all Eight Kingdoms - for the ninth was yet to be conquered beyond the Wall - disembarked in precarious formation, a living tapestry of armor, banners, and expressions as gloomy as the overcast sky that covered them.
Beside him, Jacaerys Velaryon watched the same scene with that mask of serenity Aegon knew too well to be fooled by.
"Looks like the King decided to bring half the world to our little northern party," Aegon murmured, leaning discreetly toward his nephew. "I bet that Northerman over there sleeps cuddling the bear he uses as a cloak, and probably snores louder than the animal."
Jace let out an almost inaudible sigh, but the corners of his mouth betrayed a slight smile. "I prefer the Northmen to the Crownlanders, to be honest. At least the bears are probably more hygienic than some of these soldiers from the last shipment."
"Ever the optimist, nephew," Aegon grumbled, adjusting his glove. "But seriously, how many seconds do you think we'd last if, say, we accidentally set fire to the wine supplies they brought for the lords?"
"You? Maybe five seconds before they lynched you. Me... I'd last ten, at least. I'm considerably faster at running," Jace retorted, maintaining his composure but with a glint of amusement in his eyes.
That's how it had always worked between them since childhood. The nervousness that now dulled their senses was a deep pit in their chests, a sharp fear of failing, of disappointing the man who had forged an empire from chaos and discord. And they turned that dread into banter, as if humor could ward off the shadow of incompetence.
"He entrusted this to us, Jace," Aegon said, his voice temporarily losing its jocular tone. "I still sometimes wonder what he saw in the two of us to give us such responsibility."
"A pair of fools sufficiently dedicated to die for his cause, I suppose," Jace replied, more serious now. "But he's not a man who is easily mistaken, that we both know."
Aenar. The name echoed in Aegon's mind like a reverent mantra. To him, Aenar Targaryen had always been more of a father than the kind, sickly ghost that Viserys had been. While his blood father withered in his chambers, consumed by illness and disillusionment, it was Aenar who had shown Aegon what it truly meant to command, to have respect without needing to demand it, to wield power without the need for ostentation. An admiration that transcended blood ties or political conveniences.
The sudden sound of armor clinking in unison interrupted his thoughts. The Kingsguard was approaching in tight formation, a spectacle of white steel carving an authoritative path through the crowd. And then Aegon saw her. In the center of the protective circle, dressed in the austere black clothes she had adopted since being widowed, was his mother, Alicent Hightower.
"By all the gods," he muttered under his breath to Jace, his eyes fixed on the unexpected figure. "What is she doing here? This is a battlefield, not a court stroll."
Jace followed his gaze and frowned, genuine confusion marking his face. "Your mother? This is truly... unexpected. She should be in King's Landing."
The two nephews exchanged a bewildered look before stepping forward. The Kingsguard greeted them with respectful nods. There were the Cargyll twins in their immaculate armor and, right behind, the ever-austere Ser Criston Cole, whose face remained a model of severity.
"Mother," Aegon greeted, leaning in to gently kiss her cheek. He observed her more closely, unable to avoid noticing how her youth was maintained - a "blessing" he attributed with considerable internal irony to the "Seven," knowing full well the true source of that renewed vitality. Alicent remained remarkably young for a woman who had already buried a husband, as did Aemma, the other maternal figure in his life.
Inside the thick stone walls of the castle, in a war room filled with unrolled maps and siege models, silence fell as soon as the initial greetings were exchanged.
"Mother," Aegon began, crossing his arms over his chest. "What brings the Dowager Princess so far from the safety of King's Landing to an outpost like this? This is a military camp, not the court."
Jace, standing supportively by his uncle's side, added: "The journey is most perilous for a princess of the royalty. Your presence here surprises us greatly."
Alicent looked at the two young men, her serious, pondering eyes moving from one face to the other with that intensity both had known since childhood.
"I was sent by Queen Gael," she clarified softly, implicitly correcting any assumptions about her titles. "Her Grace believes that the King, in his campaign to bring civilization to these wild lands, may require... a feminine perspective to advise him on certain matters. Someone who understands the nuances that military advisors might inadvertently neglect."
Aegon fell silent for a long moment, processing the information. He exchanged a meaningful look with Jace, who seemed equally thoughtful. Despite the unusual nature of the argument, both knew that everything related to Aenar tended to defy conventions. After several seconds of ponderous silence, Aegon simply nodded.
"As the Queen wishes," he said, his voice restrained.
Jace made the same gesture of acquiescence, a respectful nod.
Without another word, the two young men turned in unison and left the room, leaving Alicent under the protection of the Kingsguard. The heavy oak door closed behind them with a solemn thud, and they were immediately enveloped by the organized chaos of the castle courtyard.
"Feminine perspective," Jace murmured as soon as they were out of earshot of unwanted listeners, while they walked towards the commanders awaiting them with reports.
"Translation: Queen Gael thinks the King might be being overly... dragon-like in his treatment of the wildlings," Aegon retorted, a tired smile playing on his lips. "And to be honest, she's probably not wrong."
He cast one last look over the mass of soldiers organizing themselves, feeling the immense weight of command descend upon his shoulders once more. There were entire armies to manage, battle plans to review, and a destiny to shape. The doubts and nervousness were still there, a persistent chill at the base of his spine. But for now, they would be suffocated by duty and determination. The future ninth kingdom awaited its birth, and they would be the midwives of its fate.
Part 1: The King-Beyond-the-Wall
The icy wind of the True North howled through the camp, carrying the stench of rotting meat, sweat, and fear. The King-Beyond-the-Wall, a brute of a man with broad shoulders and a face marked by scars and tattoos, watched the clan leaders gathered in his mammoth-skin tent. Anger was a burning coal in his chest, and he fed it with every breath.
"I ask again, Ravenskin," his voice was a growl, directed at the old warg sitting before him. "Are you sure? Absolutely sure that the Sorcerer King passed through the Wall on his dragon?"
The warg, a thin man whose mind wandered more in the bodies of his beasts than in his own, nodded slowly, his glassy eyes focusing on the king. "Yes. My raven saw. He passed like a shadow, but it wasn't the shadow that carried him. It was his hand. It glowed, like a piece of the sun he stole. The Wall... yielded to him."
The king gritted his teeth until they hurt. His knuckles whitened on the haft of his axe. Dragons were not supposed to pass the Wall. The ancient enchantments, as old as the ice, were meant to keep them out. His plan, meticulous in its brutality, was to let the southern army drag itself through the Wall, tired and vulnerable. Then, he would ambush them, burn their supplies, and perhaps, if the gods were generous, he would bury his axe in the skull of the so-called Sorcerer King himself. A king who hid behind magic and soft words was a weak king. Or so he should be.
"He bypassed the enchantments," the warg added, as if reading his thought. "Like a man bypasses a swamp, stepping on the dry stones. He didn't break the Wall... he tricked it."
The king raised his gaze, sweeping the hard faces around him. He saw the Thenn chieftain, his cold eyes calculating. He saw the Bone Men matriarch, her bony fingers drumming on a human leg bone. And he saw, as clear as a southern day, the fear. A wet, cowardly glint in the eyes of many. The talk turned into argument, voices rising in accusation and fear. Some were already whispering about retreating to the icy lands, about living to fight another day. The anger in the king's chest turned into an even more dangerous cold. His kingdom, forged in blood and terror, was unraveling like snow in the sun.
Before he could crush the argument with a roar, the tent flap opened. One of his guards, a young man with a pale face, announced: "A messenger! A messenger from the Dragon King has arrived!"
Silence fell like a blade. The king grabbed his axe. The other leaders did the same, a sinister chorus of steel being drawn. They exited the tent, forming a hostile semicircle around the stranger.
The messenger was a man in dark armor, without insignia, with a calm that was an insult. His eyes passed over everyone until they found the king.
"I seek the man who styles himself King-Beyond-the-Wall," he said, his voice clear, cutting the frozen air.
"That's me," the king stepped forward, his voice like stone being dragged. "Speak, and pray your words aren't your last."
The messenger didn't even blink. "His Grace, Aenar Targaryen, the First of His Name, King of the Eight Kingdoms, King of the First Men, the Andals, and the Rhoynar, Protector of the Realm, The Dragon, The Healer, and the Plague Knight, invites you to a parley. A meeting at a neutral location, halfway between our camps."
A shock of ice, colder than the deepest winter, ran down the king's spine. Our camps. The Dragon King had not only crossed the Wall; he had placed his army in the True North, in his lands, and no one, no one among his scouts or wargs had noticed. The feeling of being cornered, of being the deer and not the hunter, was overwhelming.
He forced his voice not to tremble. "Where?"
The messenger described a location: a circle of First Men stones, an ancient and neutral place.
"He says you may bring as many men as you wish," the messenger added, and his tone was almost amused. "The meeting will be in three days."
Without another word, the messenger turned and left, disappearing among the tents like a ghost.
Three days later, the king and his leaders, accompanied by fifty of his best warriors, arrived at the stone circle. And there, sitting at a simple table as if in his own garden, was Aenar Targaryen. He was wearing simple clothes, drinking from a cup of tea and eating a piece of soft southern bread. The scene was so mundane it was terrifying.
The King-Beyond-the-Wall watched him. The man was large, yes, broad-shouldered and imposing. But what frightened him was not the man, it was the dragons behind him. One, an emerald-green monster, lay like a giant cat. Another, a beautiful gold and bronze creature, its scales shimmering faintly. But where was his? Where was the great black dragon everyone spoke of?
It was then that day turned to night.
It wasn't dusk. Something, something immense, blotted out the sun. A devastating wind, hot as the breath of a furnace, descended upon them, causing the surrounding snow to evaporate with a whoosh. Hardened warriors screamed and fell to their knees. The King-Beyond-the-Wall looked up, his heart stopping in his chest.
It was a living black mountain. A dragon so colossal that its very existence seemed a blasphemy. It descended from the sky not like a bird, but like a fallen star, impacting the ground with a thud that made the very earth tremble. The Winged Nightmare. It settled behind its rider, and its eyes, pits of ghostly green fire, rested upon the wildlings.
Before the king could catch his breath, a knight in exquisite armor, a white cloak flowing from his shoulders, approached. "His Grace awaits you," said the knight, his disdain palpable.
The King-Beyond-the-Wall looked back at his clan leaders. Courage had drained from their faces. The Thenn chieftain dared not look up. The Hornfoot leader trembled uncontrollably. Resignation and fear had not merely consumed them; they had devoured them alive.
But he was still the king. With a snarl, he stepped forward alone, leaving his men behind. He walked to the table and stopped before Aenar Targaryen.
The Dragon King looked up. His eyes were what finally broke what remained of the King-Beyond-the-Wall's fighting spirit. They were not human. They were purple, with vertical, slit pupils, the eyes of an ancient predator. They assessed him, and in that gaze there was no anger, no fear, no hatred. There was only... curiosity. The same curiosity with which a man looks at a rare insect before crushing it.
Interlude: The Duty of Virtue
Alicent Hightower was alone in the quarters assigned to her at Eastwatch-by-the-Sea. Before a silver mirror, she observed her own reflection with a critical, yet satisfied, gaze. Her hands slid over her still-slender waist, over her hips that retained their youthful curve, over the smooth skin of her neck. The years seemed to have receded, leaving behind a more vibrant version of herself. A gift. A blessing.
She knelt before a cedar chest, opening it with a key she always carried. There, among silks and velvets, were her King's inventions. He called them 'lingerie', a strange word of unknown origin, whose meaning only Aenar and the gods must know. Her hand chose an emerald-green set, almost the color of her House. Finest fabrics and intricate laces that covered everything and nothing at the same time.
After putting it on and observing herself again in the mirror, a sigh of admiration escaped her lips. How the King knew things. How he understood the power of a woman, even a virtuous one. Somehow, it made her feel more... sexual. More aware of every curve, more proud of the body she had maintained, or that had been maintained for her.
Over the lingerie, she put on her modest widow's clothes – a dress of thick wool, austere in cut and somber in color. The contrast was delicious. Finally, the idiot and failure Viserys was dead. May the Seven have him. Finally, she was free to serve her true House, the only family that mattered, with all her dedication and devotion. Her Queen, Gael, in her great wisdom, had understood this and given her this crucial mission: to serve her King as an honest, god-fearing woman should. It was a sacred duty, a privilege.
She left her quarters and began walking towards where she knew the King would be. She passed men of the Night's Watch, with their black cloaks and tired faces, and knights from various of the Seven Kingdoms. She felt their covetous gazes running over her body, the unspoken desires that populated those men's minds. In her mind, she laughed at them. They did not understand. She was not a loose woman, a vulgar concubine. She was a pious woman, dedicated to her family, a true example to all. What she did, she did for the stability of the realm, for the good of the Targaryen dynasty.
She used the cage elevator to ascend to the top of the Wall, and her breath caught for a moment. The sight of the frozen lands stretching as far as the eye could see was breathtaking. And soon, soon, they would be her King's lands. The Ninth Kingdom.
He was there. His back to her, motionless, observing the vast white nothingness. Aenar Targaryen.
"My queen knows me well indeed," his voice echoed, deep and calm, without him even turning around. "And she sent the perfect distraction."
He turned then, and his purple, slit-pupiled eyes enveloped her. In one step, he closed the distance between them. His hands pulled her into a abrupt encounter, pressing her back against the icy parapet of the Wall. Alicent gasped, feeling the entire length of his hard body against hers, and most notably, the unmistakable and already rigid bulk of his member, a succulent and promising weight against her thigh.
He ran a hand over her hip, over the curve of her back, in a quick and absolute possession. Then, with a sudden movement, he released her, and a strong, resounding slap against her buttocks echoed in the frozen air, muffled by her clothes.
"Now go to my chambers," he ordered, his voice a low, hoarse command. "And wait for me."
Alicent, her face flushed and an intense heat running through her body, merely nodded, unable to speak. She turned and left, walking with firm steps back inside, to prepare herself. To, once again, perform her sacred duty to the Royal Family.
As she made her way to the King's chambers, a pang of pity for Aemma arose in her chest. She missed the other woman's warmth, her reassuring presence, the complicity they shared in this mission. But it was no problem. She was strong. A Hightower. She could handle it all alone. For House Targaryen. For the King. For duty.
Part 2: The Dragon's March
The warmth of their bodies still hung in the air inside the royal tent as Aenar moved. Alicent lay naked upon him, her limbs limp, her reddish-brown hair fanned out like a cloak across his chest. They were still connected, him still inside her, but she had succumbed to unconsciousness long before. A near-imperceptible sigh escaped his lips. He thought, not for the first time, that she alone could not match his vigor, but it did not matter.
With mechanical care, he disentangled himself from her, laying her on her side upon the fur-lined pillows. He covered her with the pelts before rising. His movements were economical, precise. He cleansed himself, donned his campaign clothes—black leather and dark wool—and exited, leaving the woman to rest.
The outside air, sharp and icy, was a bracing reality. In the main courtyard of the camp, he found Jacaerys. The young prince was sweating despite the cold, trading blows with a Dornish knight whose spear danced like a serpent. Aenar watched for a moment, approving. The wildlings favored spears and javelins; familiarizing oneself with such an agile fighting style would be crucial.
The bout ended with the Dornishman sweeping Jace's legs with a fluid motion of his spear's haft. The prince fell into the dirty snow, panting. Aenar approached.
"Where is Aegon?" asked the King.
"Overseeing the salted meat supplies, Your Grace," Jace replied, getting to his feet quickly.
"Good. Begin organizing the marching column. We depart for the North, beyond the Wall, at dawn."
Jace's eyes widened for a fraction of a second before igniting with determination. "Immediately, Your Grace!" He turned and nearly ran off to carry out the orders.
As the camp buzzed with activity, Aenar remained still for a moment. He felt eyes—not human, but those of birds, mostly ravens—watching the movements. Wargs. Spies for the King-Beyond-the-Wall. A subtle smile touched his lips. He shaped his will, weaving illusions directly into the minds of the animals. To them, the forming column appeared to be preparing for a routine patrol along the Wall, not a large-scale invasion. Perhaps it would save trees and lives. He doubted it; the free folk were not known for their tactical intelligence.
The march through the Frozen Lands was a silent ordeal. They made camp in a vast clearing surrounded by bone-white pine trees. It was then that Aenar summoned the war council.
Inside his large tent, lords and commanders crowded around a table laden with maps. His nephews, Aegon and Jace, stood at his right hand. Ser Criston Cole and other members of the Kingsguard stood to the left. And, seated in a corner, was Alicent. She wore dark, modest garments, but her mere presence caused the lords' gazes to drift toward her, again and again. Aenar felt their covetousness and curiosity emanating from them. He laughed inwardly.
He greeted the great lords who had answered his call—a deliberately contained summons. Cregan Stark of Winterfell, with his icy gaze and unyielding posture. Borros Baratheon of Storm's End, massive and boisterous. And, representing Dorne, Lord Dayne of Starfall. It was the latter who most held Aenar's attention. At the Dornishman's hip rested the legendary sword Dawn. Even in the dim torchlight, it seemed to hold its own glow. A work of art forged with magic, but of an ancient and subtle enchantment he did not immediately recognize. I will study you later, he promised himself, looking at the pale blade.
"We will send a messenger," Aenar declared, his voice silencing the murmurs. "I will invite the King-Beyond-the-Wall to a parley. Let us see if the fool can be intelligent for once in his life and avoid an unnecessary bloodbath."
He called the messenger forward, the same man in dark armor, and handed him a small fragment of metal, cold and etched with nearly imperceptible runes.
"This will ensure your safe return," the King said, offering no further explanation.
With the messenger dispatched, the council was dismissed. Aenar withdrew to his tent, but not before a brief nod to Alicent. She would follow later. The campaign was stressful, and she was there, among other things, to relieve that tension.
Now, at the Fist of the First Men, he waited. He had brought only his nephews, Lords Stark, Baratheon, and Dayne. As in the first meeting, his nephews' dragons were already positioned behind them—Jace's green Vermax and Aegon's golden Sunfyre, both lying like great cats but with watchful eyes.
Then, just as before, the day began to darken.
It was not dusk. Something immense blotted out the sun. A devastating wind descended upon them, causing the surrounding snow to evaporate with a whoosh. The wildling warriors accompanying their king cried out and fell to their knees. The King-Beyond-the-Wall looked up, his face pale, as the Winged Nightmare descended from the sky like a black star, impacting the ground with a thud that made the very earth tremble. Zekrom took its place behind Aenar, its ghostly green eyes fixed on the free folk.
Aenar did not stand. He remained seated at the simple table, taking a sip of his tea, which steamed in the cold air. Only when the King-Beyond-the-Wall, visibly trembling, stopped before him did he lift his gaze. His purple, slit-pupiled eyes met those of the terrified man.
The sound of Aenar's cup meeting the wooden saucer echoed in the frozen silence.
And so, the meeting began—exactly as Aenar had planned, with each dragon in its correct place for maximum dramatic and psychological effect.
Part 3: The Surrender or Death
The King-Beyond-the-Wall approached with heavy steps, his eyes fixed on Aenar with a mixture of hatred and distrust. Gradually, the other wildling leaders, encouraged by their king's attitude, gathered their courage and approached as well, forming a hostile semicircle before the table.
King Aenar observed the scene while sipping his tea. How rude, he thought to himself. I am sitting while everyone is standing. Without raising his voice or even changing his expression, he snapped his fingers softly.
In an instant, as if they had always been there, solid wooden chairs appeared behind each wildling leader, and the table expanded to accommodate everyone. The shock was universal. Men hardened by life in the ice jumped back, some shouting and reaching for their weapons. Even Aenar's companions - his nephews and the lords - blinked in surprise, though they recovered more quickly and occupied the chairs that had also appeared for them.
After a few seconds of tense stalemate, as the wildlings recovered from the shock and reluctantly sat down, the King-Beyond-the-Wall spoke, his voice laden with contained fury.
"So? Your armies are far fewer in number. If it's death you've come to find in our lands, you will find it!"
Aenar ignored the provocation. He continued eating calmly, then turned to Lord Dayne. "Lord Dayne, would you be so kind as to pass me the cheese?"
The Lord of Starfall, with a slightly raised eyebrow, slid the cheeseboard toward the King. Aenar cut a generous slice, placed it on the bread, and took a slow bite. Only then, after swallowing, did he stare at the Wildling King before him.
"These lands," Aenar began, his voice as calm as the sea on a windless day, "are now my Ninth Kingdom. The only thing you and your people have to resolve is whether you will be alive to see it."
The King-Beyond-the-Wall opened his mouth to respond, but Aenar continued, as if he hadn't heard him.
"Two hundred thousand people. It is truly a large number. And having one hundred and fifty thousand as part of the army... is something few, if any, of the southern lords can muster." He paused, his purple eyes scanning each wildling leader. "But even so, such force is useless. And you know why?"
He looked directly at the King-Beyond-the-Wall, and his voice took on a sharp, final quality.
"Because absolute force will always reign in this world. And I... I am absolute."
The silence that followed was colder than the northern wind. Aenar watched each leader, seeing fear, anger, and resignation cross their faces. Finally, his gaze returned to his counterpart.
"Return to your people. And choose: you will kneel and live, or lie dead on the frozen ground."
Without another word, the wildling leaders stood and withdrew, their once defiant posture now broken.
Back at the camp, Aenar slid from Zekrom's saddle with the grace of a cat. The great dragon's saddle was so spacious that he easily helped Cregan Stark and the Cargyll twins dismount as well. Aegon joined them as they walked toward the command tent.
"Will they surrender?" asked Aegon, his voice laden with youthful hope.
Aenar laughed, a dry, humorless sound. "There is not the slightest chance of that happening. Many men prefer stubbornness to their own lives. We must prepare for battle."
Three days later, the two armies met in a vast, treeless area. Aenar, wearing his new enchanted armor, looked around. A memory surfaced in his mind: it was here, years ago, that he had faced a White Walker when he came to meet the Children of the Forest. The place would now witness a different bloodbath.
He observed that the wildling army seemed smaller than expected. Perhaps there are still sensible men among them, he pondered. There would be no more talking.
The wildling army advanced like a roaring human tide, a sea of fur, bone, and rusty steel. One hundred and twenty thousand souls against his twenty-five thousand. Aenar looked at his own men. They were calm, serene, their fears suppressed by the enchantments of courage and strength he had woven over them the previous night. He expected insignificant casualties, perhaps even zero.
When the wildling front line was mere meters away, Aenar took a step forward - and then jumped.
It wasn't a jump; it was a launch. He catapulted himself over the first ranks and landed in the middle of the enemy mass with an impact that crushed a dozen unlucky souls, their bodies imploding under the supernatural force of the impact.
For a moment, there was only confusion. Then, the wildlings around him reacted, turning to attack the lone man in their midst. It was then that Aenar drew Blackfyre.
The ancestral blade of House Targaryen, now even deadlier from the enchantments he himself had inscribed, sang as it was unsheathed. And then the carnage began.
His arms moved so fast they seemed to blur, becoming invisible. He wasn't fighting; he was reaping. Every movement of Blackfyre was an arc of deadly light that dismantled bodies into bloody pieces. Arms, legs, heads flew through the air in a festival of horror. He walked, unhurried, toward the center of the army, and in his wake, the wildlings were unmade, their screams muffled by the sound of metal tearing through flesh and bone.
Meanwhile, the rest of the army of the Eight Kingdoms advanced. Their bodies, strengthened by magic, moved with superhuman speed and strength. They were like demons among ordinary men. The rusty weapons, flint pieces, and sharpened bones of the wildlings screeched or shattered against enchanted armor and shields. It was less a battle and more a slaughter.
Within minutes, a clearing formed around Aenar. The wildlings recoiled from him as if he were the plague personified, the very Devil from which they would flee until the end of time. It was then that he saw a group of wildlings dragging someone away, shouting. It was their king.
The King-Beyond-the-Wall's own men, seized by pure terror, dragged him and threw him at Aenar's feet. The wildling king fell to his knees in the bloodied snow.
"We... do not kneel!" he shouted, his voice a mix of despair and final pride.
Aenar looked at him, his dragon eyes impassive.
"Then die."
The movement was so fast it could barely be seen. Blackfyre cut through the air and the head of the King-Beyond-the-Wall rolled across the snow, his expression of defiance still frozen on his face.
With their leader's death, what remained of the wildlings' will to fight shattered. The forty thousand survivors, of the one hundred and twenty thousand who began the battle, threw their weapons to the ground. The air was thick with the smell of blood and the silence of horror.
Aenar returned to his army's lines, walking slowly among the surrendered wildlings. They moved away from him, opening a wide path. His black armor was completely red, soaked in blood from helmet to boots. He did not look like a man, but an entity of pure slaughter.
An older wildling, on his knees, looked at the bloodied figure passing by and whispered to his companion, his voice trembling:
"They call him the Knight of the Plague... But what I saw today was not a bearer of pestilence." He swallowed hard, his eyes wide with terror. "What I saw today was the Knight of Death."
And for the first time, the wildlings understood the true nature of the man who would now rule their destinies.
Interlude 2: The Crown of the True North
The wind howled across the Fist of the First Men, but this time, it did not carry the promise of war. It carried the weight of history. Aenar Targaryen stood not as a conqueror before a defeated enemy, but as a king before his newest subjects. The air crackled with a different energy—a mix of awe, fear, and reluctant acceptance.
Before him, the peoples of the True North had gathered. The Thenns, with their polished bronze armor and stern faces, stood as the representatives of the Free Folk. Behind them were the other clan leaders who had shown the wisdom not to fight, their expressions a complex map of relief and apprehension.
But they were not alone. To the left, Leaf stood with a small contingent of the Children of the Forest, their small bodies and glowing amber eyes seeming to absorb the weak daylight. Their presence caused whispers of amazement among the Northern men, who knew the legends, and genuine gasps of disbelief among the Southern lords, who considered them fairy-tale creatures.
And, completing the surreal scene, were the Giants. Three of them, huge and shaggy, with eyes that glowed like deep stones under their prominent brows. Their mere presence made the ground seem to tremble, and even the dragons in the background—Zekrom, Vermax, and Tessarion—watched with silent, predatory interest. All were there to swear fealty to their new king and to witness the division of these frozen lands.
One by one, they came forward.
The Thenn chieftain knelt, not on the ice, but upon his bearskin cloak. He drew his bronze axe and laid it at Aenar's feet. "By the bronze we shape and the mountains we call home," his voice was rough as granite, "I speak for all the Free Folk. Our axes for your cause, our people for your kingdom. From the Fist to the Frostfangs, we acknowledge but one King."
Next, Leaf moved forward. She did not kneel, but bowed her head, a profound gesture of respect among her people. Her voice was a whisper that, nonetheless, reached everyone, like the rustling of leaves in a forest. "By the Weirwoods that guard our memories and the stones that sing the world's history," she said, her amber eyes fixed on Aenar's dragon-like ones, "the Singers of the Earth acknowledge the Dragon. Our wisdom for your service, our secrets for your protection. The forest is yours."
Finally, the largest of the Giants approached, its steps making the ground tremble. It did not kneel—its frame prevented such a gesture—but bent its massive body in a deep bow that was more powerful than any genuflection. A sound came from its throat, a deep, guttural growl that Leaf silently translated for Aenar. "By the winter winds and the strength of these arms," the translation came as an echo in everyone's minds, "the Frost Giants swear. Our strength for your host, our fury for your foes. The ice will remember the name Targaryen."
Then, Ser Criston Cole stepped forward, his white armor shining against the snow. His voice echoed across the Fist, clear and imposing.
"You all stand in the presence of Aenar Targaryen, the First of His Name! King of the Nine Kingdoms! King of the First Men, the Andals, the Rhoynar, the Giants, and the Singers of the Earth! The Dragon! The Healer! Knight of the Plague and Knight of Death! Protector of the Realm!"
The list of titles rolled like thunder, each one echoing the power and terror of the man they defined.
Aenar looked at the assembly before him. The Giants, bowed in primordial submission. The Children of the Forest, their ancient eyes witnessing the birth of a new age. The lords and people of his army, their faces a mixture of pride and fear. His nephews, Aegon and Jace, standing with respect. Alicent, a step behind, her face a veil of calculated devotion. And the dragons in the background, the beasts whose fire had forged this empire.
As he saw them all kneeling or bowing before him, a single thought, cold and clear as Valyrian steel, crossed his mind: Now, I will forge the greatest dynasty this world has ever seen. And it will all begin here, at the top of the world.
The True North was conquered. The Ninth Kingdom was born. And Aenar Targaryen was only just beginning.
Epilogue: The Price of Submission
The guards stationed at the heavy doors of the Sunspear throne room remained impassive, their expressions carved into masks of neutrality, as the unmistakable sounds leaking from the hall echoed through the silent corridor. Muffled moans, the wet rhythm of flesh against flesh, and the deep, whispering voice of the King of the Nine Kingdoms wove a symphony of humiliation that all were forced to witness, if only by ear.
Inside, Aliandra Martell tried to catch her breath, her body suspended in an absurdly vulnerable position. The King called it a Full Nelson, a term she did not understand and whose origin she ignored, knowing only that it was profoundly degrading. He held her with inhuman strength, her limbs immobilized, her face turned toward the empty throne of her ancestors. Sweat streamed down her body, and his scent, intense and animalistic, saturated the air. Worse still was his magic, a strange heat that coursed through her muscles, preventing her from succumbing to exhaustion, forcing her to endure every second of this pleasurable agony.
But what enraged her most, more than the position, more than the smell, more than the magical fatigue, was her daughter. Seated on a low stool near the base of the throne, the young woman watched her. And in her eyes, Aliandra did not see horror, nor compassion, nor even shame. She saw a green glint of pure envy and a brazen desire to be in her place. My own daughter, Aliandra thought with a wave of disgust. My own flesh and blood, a fool, an idiot.
She felt him adjust behind her, guiding again that shaft she could only mentally describe as monstrous, into her already sensitive and overstimulated cleft. And then, he began to move once more, and the sound of his thighs hitting her skin filled the room again.
"My father... my damned father..." she snarled through clenched teeth, a moan escaping against her will as a wave of pleasure coursed through her. It was a refrain that had repeated in her mind for over a decade, a curse aimed at the man who had made a deal with the Devil and handed her over to him.
The King whispered in her ear, his voice a low, satisfied growl. "The myth... about Dornish women... is true." Each word was a puff of hot breath against her skin, an affirmation of his dominion as he continued to pound into her, to possess her in the very seat of her power.
Aliandra's body betrayed her repeatedly, reaching peaks of ecstasy that left her shaky and empty, each one accompanied by a fresh internal outburst of rage directed at her father and the ghosts of the failed Triarchy.
Finally, with a final grunt that seemed to come from the depths of his soul, he finished. He released her, and she collapsed onto the Sunspear Throne like a broken toy, her limbs weak and trembling. The King didn't even look at her. He turned, his own body still gleaming with sweat, and strode toward her daughter.
The young woman froze, her eyes wide, as he took her long silver braid and used it to wipe his member, still damp from the seed he had planted in her mother.
"There will be a tournament in King's Landing," he said to the girl, his voice now casual, as if commenting on the weather. "To celebrate the Ninth Kingdom and my new people. You will attend."
Without another word, he turned, gathered his clothes, and walked out of the hall, leaving behind a heavy silence and the smell of sex and power. His visit to Sunspear had a single purpose: to humiliate her. And he had accomplished it with mastery.
Aliandra, still panting on the throne, watched her daughter. The young woman wasn't looking at her eyes. Her gaze was fixed, brazenly, on Aliandra's exposed cleft, and on the King's seed – three loads, three curses – now trickling from her. There was a hunger in that look, a sick desire, as if she wanted to kneel and lick that essence as if it were the finest delicacy in the world.
As the immediate rage finally cooled to a constant ember, Aliandra let her head fall back against the warm metal of the throne. She thought of the damned man's infamous luck. How the wealth of the Nine Kingdoms only grew, how nothing ever seemed to be lacking for him. And now, as if that weren't enough, he had found in that frozen wasteland the Children of the Forest, creatures of legend, and the Giants. She herself would have to see that with her own eyes, in the capital of the Nine Kingdoms, under the triumphant gaze of the man who had just used and discarded her in her own hall. The world was bending to the Dragon, and she, a Princess of Dorne, was just another trophy in his collection.
Hey guys, what did you think of the new chapter? Here we see that the MC has finished founding his kingdom entirely. The noble kingdoms now have a very large territorial area, so much so that I'm tempted to turn it into an empire. It's really very large. I believe this is the penultimate chapter of this era. In the next one, the young people will already be adults. We'll probably be around the time of Daeron or Baelor. I want tips for wives for the MC's children. Both, remembering that they will be immortalized and will have to match each of them. Regarding the harem, who else will enter? I only have hands for Shiera Seastar. Until the game events, the thrones will obviously have other women for him to sleep with, like Aliandra, but only she will really enter. So that's it, until next time. And as always, if you encounter any errors, let me know and I'll fix them soon. Any suggestions or criticisms are accepted. Arrivederci