Prologue: The Price of Unity
The icy wind that swept through the lands beyond the original Wall was no longer a barrier, but a road. Five years had passed since the True North – the frozen wastes beyond the Wall – had been bent to the power of King Aenar Targaryen. The conquest was not just of land, but of order. After endless debates in the Small Council, the map of the region had been redrawn.
Galadriel Targaryen reviewed the scrolls in her father the King's stead. The division was clear, imposed by the force of logic and dragonfire. The True North was split into four quadrants. The southern lands, more temperate and close to the Wall, were granted to the Free Folk. The Thenns, with their ancient hierarchy, were named House Thenn, ruling the western portion. The Raven's Skin, with their almost shamanic connection to the land, became House Raven, controlling the east.
But the true change lay farther north. The deep, frozen forests of the northeast were sanctified for the Children of the Forest, while the windy plains of the northwest were given to the Giants. Her father's stroke of genius – or madness – did not stop there. Through arcane research conducted personally by the King, fertility rituals were developed and offered to both species. In just two years, results began to show: their numbers, once on the brink of extinction, were showing a slow but steady growth. And to crown this new age, the construction of a second Wall had begun, far to the north, using the ancestral wisdom of the Children, the brute strength of the Giants, and the revolutionary arcane script of King's Landing's Arcanum. Its purpose: to separate the lands of the Eternal Winter from the new domain of Westeros.
With the duties of the Small Council concluded, a more personal – and potentially more dangerous – task awaited Galadriel. Her father had summoned the entire family to Dragonstone.
She did not go to the courtyard, but to the dragon pit, a colossal cavern carved into the bowels of the Red Keep. The air was thick, hot, and smelled of sulfur and raw meat. There, in their private caves, rested Silversheen, her faithful companion, and Alaska, the dragon of her brother Gabriel.
Gabriel's creature was a spectacle unto itself. With scales black as jet, it contrasted brutally with a face the color of pale bone. But it was its horns that stole one's attention: branched and imposing, like those of a stag. A fleeting smile touched Galadriel's lips. She had once joked with her father that, with such adornments, Gabriel ought to marry Cassandra Baratheon, the youngest daughter of the Lord of Storm's End, uniting the house's symbolism with his own.
The sound of footsteps and a carefree laugh echoed at the entrance of the pit. Gabriel entered, not with a band of troublemakers, but alone, his presence filling the damp space. His smile was easy, but his eyes, the color of amethyst, reflected the same apprehension she felt.
"Seems the Architect of the Realm has finally remembered he has children other than you, sister," he greeted, pulling her into a quick embrace. He smelled of wind and road dust, not ink and parchment like Uriel.
"Or perhaps he wants you to remember you are a Targaryen," Galadriel retorted. "Where is your band of adventurers?"
"Left them at a tavern. Some of them still think dragons are mythical beasts and shiver at the sound of a distant growl." He patted Alaska's neck, and the dragon emitted a low, pleased rumble. "And Uriel? Has he arrived?"
"He is on his way from the Citadel, I imagine. And he is not happy at all. The summons interrupted his precious studies."
Without further ado, the two siblings mounted. Galadriel on Silversheen, Gabriel on Alaska. The island awaited them. As they took flight from the pit's entrance, soaring over the walls of King's Landing and heading into Blackwater Bay, the unease took hold of Galadriel once more. They would likely be the last to arrive.
And then, the memory of that dangerous idea returned to her. Aenar's plan to end the Nine Kingdoms.
Her blood seemed to freeze in her veins. This family gathering would be about that. She whispered into the wind, a secular and unanswered prayer:
"May the Gods, old and new, protect us from ourselves."
Part 1: The Dragon Emperor
The dawn light filtered through stormy clouds, bathing the royal chambers in Dragonstone when Aenar awoke. His slitted purple eyes opened slowly, already completely alert. He rose from the bed where his wife Gael still slept, entangled in black silks, and walked to the arched window overlooking the Narrow Sea.
Waves crashed against the black cliffs below, a spectacle of primordial force that had always calmed him. Aenar placed his hands on the cold stone of the window ledge, his long, pale fingers contrasting with the darkness of the basalt. He felt the weight of the centuries in this fortress, the echo of all the Targaryens who had planned their destinies here.
A gentle movement in the bed made him turn. Gael stirred, the covers slipping as she sat up. Her own slitted purple eyes met his, and for a moment, Aenar saw in them the same power that burned in his own veins.
"Have they arrived?" she asked, her voice still husky with sleep.
"Daemon's ships were sighted at dawn,"Aenar replied, his gaze returning to the sea. "He brings Lysara, Laena, and the children. Baelon and Alyssane will come with them from Lys."
Gael rose, her slender figure moving gracefully across the room. "Uriel arrived from the Citadel last night. He does not seem... enthusiastic."
"He will understand,"Aenar said simply. "When he sees what we are building."
Breakfast in the Great Hall was a spectacle of family unity that defied history. Aenar watched from his place at the head of the table as his children, grandchildren, and relatives mingled in animated conversation. Rhaenyra laughed at something Laenor said, her children mixing easily with those of Alicent and Aemma. The latter, in her black widow's garments, watched with a tender smile as her children laughed with their cousins.
It was a scene that in any other reality would be impossible - Green and Black Targaryens sharing a meal as family, not as political factions. Aenar knew that in another world, in this very year, they would all be nursing the open wounds from the Dance of the Dragons. Here, however, the sound was of laughter, not lamentation.
After the meal, he proceeded alone to the Chamber of the Painted Table. The circular room was silent, the great wooden map resting in darkness. Aenar stood at its head, his hands clasped behind his back as he waited.
The heavy door opened first for Gael, followed by their children—their slitted purple eyes a living repetition of his own. They greeted him with respectful nods and sat around him. Next, Rhaenyra entered with her brood and Laenor, followed by Alicent and Aemma with their children. A gathering of former rivals now united under his rule.
Rhaenys, his Hand of the King, entered next, her bearing still imposing despite her age. Finally, the door opened for Daemon, flanked by Lysara and Laena, with Baelon and Alyssane behind them. The circle was complete—three generations of Targaryens gathered in the room where Aegon the Conqueror had once planned his campaign.
When the last seat was occupied, silence fell upon the room. Aenar leaned forward and placed his palm upon the Painted Table. Immediately, low, magical flames sprang to life, illuminating rivers, mountains, and coasts from Dorne to the lands Beyond the Wall, to the cities of Lys and Pentos in the east.
"Aegon's Conquest," Aenar began, his deep voice echoing in the stone chamber, "was but the first step on a journey that would span centuries." He raised Aegon's Dagger, the Valyrian steel blade that carried the fate of their people. "My father told me of the true purpose behind the Conquest. It was not merely for glory or power, but for the survival of all we know."
He paused, his slitted eyes scanning every face around the table.
"For generations,our line continued his work. First, the Stepstones fell under our banner. Then, Dorne submitted through fire and force. Lys and the Disputed Lands bowed to our will. And then..." His voice dropped to a laden whisper. "We conquered the lands beyond the Wall. We united this entire continent under a single rule. The Nine Kingdoms were born."
Aenar walked around the table, the flames reflecting in his eyes.
"But our dominion is no longer that of a mere kingdom.We rule a complete continent. Humans, Giants, Children of the Forest... all races and species under a single scepter. This is the legacy Aegon began. This is the destiny we fulfill."
He stopped behind his chair, his hands gripping the carved wooden back.
"The Nine Kingdoms,"he declared, his voice cutting through the air like the blade he held, "have come to an end."
The silence in the room was so heavy one could hear the crackling of the flames on the table.
"Today,"Aenar continued, his voice growing in power and conviction, "we begin something greater than kingdoms. Something eternal. Today, an Empire is born."
The word hung in the room like a dragon hovering over its prey.
"The Targaryen Empire."
For a moment that seemed an eternity, nobody moved. Then, Daemon rose. A wide, fierce smile cut across his face as he drew Dark Sister. The blade gleamed in the firelight as he raised it high.
"Long live the Dragon Emperor!" his voice echoed off the stone walls.
As if a spell had been broken, the rest of the family rose as one. Rhaenyra first, then her children, followed by Alicent and her descendants, until all were standing—kings, princesses, warriors, and ladies, all bowing before Aenar.
"Long live the Dragon Emperor!" their voices united in a chorus that promised to shake the world.
Aenar remained standing, his slitted purple eyes scanning the gathered family. In that moment, the kingdoms were gone. The Dance had been averted. And the true dynasty of House Targaryen—the Imperial Dynasty—began its march through history.
Interlude: The New Name of Power
The news did not arrive as an announcement, but as a decree from the heavens. Messengers clad in black and red crossed Westeros like shadows of imperial power, carrying scrolls that did not ask for opinions, but established a new truth. The language was clear, sharp as Valyrian steel: Aenar Targaryen was no longer just King. He was Emperor.
In Winterfell, Cregan Stark received the parchment with steady hands. His eyes, cold as the ice of the North, scanned the words. "Empire," he declared to his lords. "A new title for the same power. But the North knows when to bow." His voice was grave, respectful. "Our loyalty was sworn to the dragon, and so it shall remain. Whether he is called King or Emperor, our word is unchangeable."
At Casterly Rock, Jason Lannister studied the message with calculating eyes. A cunning smile appeared on his lips. "Empire," he whispered, while a gold coin danced between his fingers. "An empire needs gold, and the Lion knows how to supply it. Our loyalty is guaranteed, for where there is an empire, there are opportunities for those who know how to serve... and profit."
In Highgarden, Lyonel Tyrell read the proclamation with pragmatism. "Names don't feed the people," he observed, "but a unified empire means peace, and peace means prosperity for the Reach." His acceptance was cautious but firm. The Tyrells' loyalty had always been to the Throne, and an imperial throne was even more worthy of service.
At Storm's End, Borros Baratheon received the news with respect forged on the battlefield. "My father fought alongside dragons!" he declared, his voice echoing through the hall. "If Aegon was worthy of loyalty as King, Aenar is worthy as Emperor. The Stag bows to true power."
In the Vale, Jeyne Arryn considered the words with her characteristic discretion. "Mountains and valleys remain, regardless of titles," she pondered. "Our loyalty has always been to the wearer of the Crown, and an imperial crown is no exception. The Vale maintains its traditions but honors its oaths."
At Riverrun, Kermit Tully saw the proclamation as a blessing. "A unified empire means an end to disputes in the Riverlands," he reflected with relief. "Peace and trade will flourish. The Trident knows where the waters of power flow."
In Sunspear, the Princess of Dorne studied the parchment with calculated resignation. "From King to Emperor," she murmured. "The substance of power remains. Dorne is no longer a kingdom, but an imperial territory. We will survive, as always, through adaptation."
On the Iron Islands, Dalton Greyjoy faced the message with hungry eyes. "An empire needs a navy," he considered, gazing at the open seas. "The Kraken can sail under any banner, as long as there is glory to be won. We will serve... for a price."
The summons to Harrenhal was not an invitation, but an imperial order. When the lords arrived at the cursed castle, there was no tension in the air, but a reverent silence. The charred walls of Harrenhal served as a mute reminder of what happens to those who challenge Targaryen power.
In the great hall, Aenar did not sit on an ornate throne, but on a seat of basalt, austere and imposing like the very rock on which Dragonstone was built. His presence was not that of a man asking for loyalty, but of a sovereign receiving what was his by divine right.
When the word "Empire" echoed off the black walls of Harrenhal, there were no whispers of disagreement, only the solemn silence of men who understood they were witnessing the birth of a new era. The reverence they showed came not from obligation, but from genuine recognition of the uncontested power that Aenar represented.
The lords of Westeros bowed not out of fear, but out of respect for the power that had unified the continent, that had brought lasting peace, that had even incorporated the magical creatures of the North under its banner. They bowed not to a title, but to the uncontestable reality: the dragon no longer ruled as a king among lords, but as an emperor over a unified continent.
Part 2: The Horizon is Our Kingdom
The roar of the sea against the hull of the Sea Dragon was a song of freedom to Prince Gabriel Targaryen. At fifteen, he was considered a man grown under imperial law, and this maiden voyage represented everything he loved: the smell of salt, the wind in his face, and the endless map of possibilities. His brother Uriel, now Lord of Sunrest, had outdone himself with this marvel—a ship so colossal it could house a small army and, most importantly, had a widened deck for his dragon, Alaska, to land and rest during long crossings.
In his captain's cabin, furnished with rare woods and bronze details, Gabriel dressed in his practical travel clothes—soft leather and durable cotton, devoid of the unbearable extravagances of court. His eyes fell on the bed, where Cassandra still slept, entangled in linen sheets. A quiet smile escaped him.
His sister Galadriel had arranged the marriage, and he, truthfully, didn't much care whom he married, as long as it left him in peace for his adventures. To his luck, Cassandra was more than he could have asked for. Besides her undeniable beauty that made men turn their heads in every port, she possessed a spirit as free as his. She was not a lady bound by court etiquette, but a companion who understood his desire to see what lay beyond the horizon.
His mind flew to Uriel's unfortunate bride, Lady Lorena Lannister. "The poor girl probably has to drag my brother out of his laboratories and libraries just to have dinner," he thought, laughing quietly. But at least Uriel wasn't completely inept at everything. Gabriel remembered the time he had managed to take his older brother to a brothel in Lys. The look of satisfaction on his companion's face the next morning wasn't just from sleeping with a prince. There was a genuine gleam of pleasure there. "Must be something inherited from Father," Gabriel reflected with a wider smile. "After all, he managed to win over all those women."
Leaving the cabin, he climbed to the main deck. The morning air was cold and invigorating. His second-in-command, a veteran of many journeys named Ser Edric, greeted him with a nod.
"Your Highness, we are approaching the coast of Sothoryos. The landing point is in sight."
Gabriel took the helm, feeling the solid wood under his hands. He was not an armchair captain; he liked to feel the ship, to be a part of it. He looked at the map drawn on a durable parchment and made a slight adjustment to the course, guiding the Sea Dragon into the designated bay.
"And the fleet, Ser Edric? All well?"
"All ships are following in formation, Your Highness. No problems to report."
The landing operation was a spectacle of military efficiency. Gabriel oversaw everything from his post, watching his troops—the so-called "Crown's Adventurers"—descend first in smaller boats. They established a secure perimeter on the exotic beach, with its dense vegetation and strange sounds echoing from the jungle. When the signal was given, the rest of the force disembarked. His gaze was captured by the Giants of the Imperial Army, commanded by Lucerys. Seeing those colossal creatures, wearing custom-made armor and wielding axes the size of small trees, marching out of the ship was a sight that never failed to impress. It was the strong arm of the Empire, the ever-sharpened sword under the direct command of his father, the Emperor.
Turning, he approached Gota, the leader of the Children of the Forest who had joined this mission. She was small and fragile, but her ancient green eyes held millennia of wisdom.
"The air here is heavy with old stories, Prince-Ice-That-Comes-From-the-Sea," she whispered, using the name she had given him.
"And we are here to write a new one, Little-Guardian," Gabriel replied respectfully.
As the other ships in the fleet began to arrive—carrying not soldiers, but settlers, artisans, farmers, and entire families coming to build the new imperial city-state in Sothoryos—Gabriel felt a pang of pride. They were not here just to plunder and conquer, as in the old days. They were here to build, to integrate, to expand not only the territory but the very civilization of the Empire.
After ensuring everyone was accommodated and giving final instructions to the captain of the army who would garrison the new colony and its interim governor, Gabriel returned to the Sea Dragon. The next stop was Yi Ti, and then, Ulthos. Excitement grew within him. Ulthos! The land of the peoples with whom his idol, Corys (may the Gods have him), had made first contact. The opportunity to walk where his hero had walked, to see what he had seen...
On the deck, about to give the order to set sail, his gaze fell on a simple bracelet he wore on his wrist. It was made of a smooth, liquid-green stone, a gift from the leader of that same people of Ulthos to his father years ago. The Emperor had given it to him as a token of trust and a connection to those distant lands.
But it was more than a memento. His fingers brushed against a second, more personal piece: a finely crafted silver band he always wore on his other wrist. This one was Uriel's creation. Recognizing the wild, untamed nature of the magic that flowed through their blood—a heritage from their formidable father—Uriel had used his arcane knowledge to forge focus objects for his siblings. This bracelet was one of them. For Gabriel, whose spirit was as restless as the seas he sailed, it was a tether. It didn't suppress the storm of power within him, but rather gave it a channel, a direction. It was his brother's way of protecting him, a silent, elegant tool that helped him control the torrent of Valyrian magic that could otherwise be as unpredictable as a young dragon.
As the ship turned, leaving Sothoryos behind and heading east, Gabriel looked toward the endless horizon. New lands, new adventures, new peoples. He could hardly wait. He just hoped that Joffrey, his cousin, wasn't causing too much trouble governing the Stepstones in his stead. But that was a problem for another day. Today, the sea was calling, and the Imperial Adventure Prince of the Targaryen Empire was ready to answer.
Part 3: The Mind That Shapes the World
The afternoon sun was beginning to wane, casting long shadows through the chambers of the Lord of Summerhall. In the bedroom, the moist sounds of joined bodies and Lady Lorena Lannister's satisfied moans echoed against the stone walls. Uriel Targaryen moved over his wife with methodical precision, his hips meeting hers in a constant, controlled rhythm, not a frantic one.
His mind, however, was far from the carnal pleasure. While his hands moved over the woman's body, his fingers whispered traces of subtle magic over her erogenous zones, activating them with the efficiency of a master who knows his craft. He applied exact pressure to her G-spot, repeatedly, observing the physical reactions with an almost clinical gaze. The pleasure he felt was a secondary benefit, a pleasant refreshment for the mind, but his main focus was ensuring that she reached a complete and satisfying climax.
Not because he was a dedicated or loving husband, but for pure logistical strategy. A potent and exhausting orgasm meant Lorena would be satisfied, drowsy, and, most importantly, would leave him alone for a considerable time. If only he had known, before the marriage arranged by his father, that he was being wed to a high-functioning nymphomaniac, he would have filed a written, well-founded objection. The loss of productive time was significant.
After a concentrated effort, he felt her body stiffen and then convulse violently, a hoarse scream escaping her throat. Perfect. He allowed himself to finish inside her, a final act to solidify the fatigue that would overwhelm her. Without delay, he withdrew, cleaning himself with a quick wave of his hand – a small application of magic that left his skin immaculate, sparing him the nuisance of water and towels.
He dressed in his practical work clothes – simple cotton tunics, without the heavy embroidery she so loved – and took a last look at the bed. Lorena was lying down, exhausted, her legs still slightly apart. Her panting breath slowed to a heavy rhythm, a vacant, satisfied smile plastered on her face as unconsciousness took her. "At least she is aesthetically pleasing," Uriel thought, the only consolation he found in their union. It was a positive attribute, but low on his list of criteria for an ideal partnership.
Minutes later, he was in his sanctuary: the laboratory. The air here smelled of rare chemicals, exotic herbs, and the subtle ozone of channeled magic. His assistants, all handpicked for their intelligence and discretion, nodded silently when he entered, acknowledging his presence before returning to their own experiments.
Uriel went straight to his main bench, where scrolls detailing the magical physiology of the Children of the Forest were unrolled next to vials containing samples of earth blessed by their rituals. His father's, the Emperor's, order was clear: improve the fertility ritual for the Children and the Giants.
The Giants had been a complex problem, finally solved. Their physiology was monumental but straightforward. An adjustment in the concentrations of certain minerals in the mating rituals, combined with an arcane tuning to stimulate gamete production, had shown an 18.3% increase in the conception rate in the last cycle. A success.
But the Children of the Forest... they were a fascinating puzzle. Their magic was woven into their very being, as fundamental as blood was to men. Their fertility was not just biological; it was an echo of the world's magical balance. He sighed, his purple eyes examining a diagram of their ethereal energy patterns. "It would be so much simpler if I could dissect one. Just one. To understand the interaction between the corporeal and the mystical on a visceral level," he thought, not with cruelty, but with the coldness of a scientist facing a methodological obstacle. He knew his father would never allow it. The penalty for such an act would be severe, no doubt. "No matter," he concluded. "The greatest enemy of scientific genius is time. And that..." He looked at the centuries of research ahead of him, a perspective that for a Targaryen was almost tangible. "...is something I have in abundance."
The knock on the laboratory door was a calculated intrusion. Only one person had permission to interrupt him in his private quarters.
"Enter," Uriel said, without looking up from his scroll.
Aegon the Young entered. The son of Rhaenyra, a few years older than Uriel, but with a mind the prince-scientist considered efficient, if not brilliant. Uriel had placed him as Interim Lord of Summerhall for a simple reason: he was competent and handled the boredom of administration so Uriel could focus on what truly mattered.
"Cousin," Aegon greeted, getting straight to the point. He held out a report. "The merchants from the Stoneway are demanding lower tolls for lumber coming from the Rainwood. And the glassblowers' guild here at Summerhall requisitions more sand from the caves near the Greenblood."
Uriel took the report, his eyes scanning the numbers and key points in seconds.
"Grant the merchants a reduction of seven percent,not the ten they ask for, conditional on their use of the Imperial Post for their ledgers, increasing our control over regional commerce. As for the glassblowers, remind them that imperial decree 47-C gives the Crown preference in the allocation of local resources for architectural projects. Offer them a price fifteen percent below their ask. They will counter at ten. Accept it."
Aegon noted with a nod. "As you wish."
He left,and peace returned to the laboratory. Uriel liked the boy. He was direct, organized, and did his job well.
Alone again, his fingers unconsciously touched the silver bracelet on his wrist – a replica of the one he had given to Gabriel. A focus, an anchor. A personal project to help his siblings channel the torrent of magic they had inherited from their father. Then, his mind flew to Gabriel. Where would his younger brother be now? He must have left Sothoryos by now, heading for Yi Ti and then Ulthos.
A rare glimpse of anticipation crossed his impassive face. The lands beyond Ulthos were a blank book, full of exotic materials, unknown magical principles, and perhaps even new laws of physics. He looked forward to the new things, the data that Gabriel would bring back from his adventures. And, of course, he hoped that these things could be used to improve, expand, and solidify the prosperity of the Targaryen Empire. Everything, in the end, boiled down to that.
Epilogue: The Weight of the Golden Twilight
The fading evening light bathed the Emperor's chambers, tinting everything in gold and purple. Aenar Targaryen stood naked before the great arched window overlooking Blackwater Bay. His arms encircled Gael, equally unclothed, her back pressed against his chest, her head resting on his shoulder. Together, they observed King's Landing.
The city was no longer the same as it was thirty-one years ago. Under his command, the filthy alleys and crowded hovels had given way to wide avenues, tree-lined parks, and a sewer system that had made the once-fetid air breathable. The population, it was true, had diminished considerably. A mass migration, orchestrated by him, had sent thousands to the new city-state in Sothoryos, a daring project that alleviated pressure on the capital and expanded the Empire's domains into previously unexplored lands. The result was a more spacious, cleaner, and functional city. A capital worthy of an Empire.
His eyes, the same slitted purple eyes that had conquered a continent, rested with satisfaction on the large bed behind them. He had extended it with magic hours before, a useful trick to accommodate his companions. There they were, the pillars of his life, unconscious from pleasure and exhaustion after an afternoon of intimacy.
Rhaenyra and Aemma were entwined, a picture of concord that in another life would be unthinkable. Near them, Alicent rested, and the three women's intimate hollows were filled with the Emperor's seed, a mark of possession and union. A little further away, Maegelle and Kinvara, the last to awaken, conversed in low voices about reforms to church doctrines, their tireless minds already resuming matters of state even in this private sanctuary.
His keen gaze, sharpened by decades of magical dominance, then detected Alys Rivers. She slept with a serene smile on her face. But Aenar saw more. He perceived the rapid, involuntary movement beneath her closed eyelids. Even in her sleep, her mind traveled, seeing through the eyes of crows on the city's battlements or cats hunting in the shadows of the alleys. She was never completely asleep.
Finally, his eyes found his daughter, seated at an ebony table near the bed, absorbed in responding to some scrolls. She maintained order, even at the epicenter of his family's controlled chaos.
"I am proud," Aenar whispered, his chin resting on Gael's hair. "Thirty-one years. Look at what we have built. An Empire. A lasting peace. Cities reborn. Ancient species flourishing again."
Gael leaned her head back, her own eyes reflecting the same serene pride. "I am too, my love. And our parents, on the other side, are surely watching." The mention of their deceased parents was made with the naturalness of one who knew the secrets of life and death.
He pressed his lips to her forehead, a gesture of rare tenderness. "I agree. But this...", he made a broad gesture, encompassing the city, the kingdom, the bed, "is not the pinnacle, my dear. It is only the beginning. The foundation upon which our dynasty will walk for millennia."
A cunning smile appeared on Gael's lips. She extended her hand, and the ruby necklace she wore – one of Uriel's many magical creations – glowed softly. Immediately, a decanter of dark red wine and two crystal glasses of the finest make flew from a distant tray, hovering in the air before landing gently in her open palm.
She poured the wine with a silent ceremony and handed a glass to Aenar.
"A toast,then," she said, raising her own glass, her eyes sparkling. "To our Eternal Dynasty."
Aenar smiled, a rare and genuine curve of his lips. "To our eternity," he replied, his tone slightly playful, but his eyes serious.
He took a sip, the rich flavor of the wine exploding on his palate. Then, he looked back out the window, his arm holding Gael a little tighter. The last band of sun disappeared on the horizon, painting the bay's waters in black and crimson. Night was falling over King's Landing, over Westeros, over the Targaryen Empire. But for Aenar, the Dragon, it was merely an interlude before the next dawn. The game of thrones was over. Now, the game of eternity was beginning.
Well, that was the chapter that concludes the House of the Dragon part. Next chapter, I plan a pretty big time jump, actually, to what would be in the original story, the period of the reign of the Unworthy. For the wives of the protagonist's children, I chose OCs, and yes, they will be immortal alongside them. Tomorrow there probably won't be a chapter. I want to review the post-dance and pre-Blackfyre Rebellion parts so I don't miss anything or know what should be changed. So, I'm also accepting suggestions for the research developed in the arcane center for Uriel's feats. Just remember that things that don't clash with the story, nothing like a lightsaber or anything like that. His research is more focused on magic, but it can be anything too because he studies everything. So, that's it, until Monday. Arrivederci