I said it would only come out on Monday but I couldn't resist so here's today's chapter.
Prologue: The Price of Arrogance
Summer in Summerhall was an explosion of color and sound. Under the pristine blue sky, banners with the three-headed dragon danced in the wind, while the metallic clang of armor and the cheers of the crowd filled the air. It was the year 183 of the Imperial Reign, and a great tournament was being held to celebrate the completion of the new wings and fortifications of Summerhall, making it a palace worthy of the imperial lineage.
From the royal box, Galadriel observed everything with her slitted purple eyes, a heritage from her father. She wore light silk robes, but her posture was rigid as steel. It was then that she heard a voice she loathed, a syrupy drawl that cut through the revelry.
"Cousin Galadriel. What a vision to brighten an already glorious day."
She turned with calculated fluidity, a diplomatic and empty smile hovering on her lips. There he was. Aegon the Fourth. To Galadriel, he was, without a shadow of a doubt, the most unworthy Targaryen she had ever had the displeasure of knowing. Her gaze swept the box, landing on the various women accompanying him – his mistresses – and the bastard sons clustered around him like covetous shadows. Then, she felt Aegon's lecherous gaze roaming over her body, and a wave of cold disgust ran up her spine.
"The tournament is magnificent, don't you think?" he said, with broad, pretentious gestures. "A celebration worthy of this architectural marvel."
"Without a doubt," she replied, her voice a cutting whisper of courtesy. "Summerhall is to be congratulated."
It was then that Aegon's gaze fixed on her waist, where the blade Truefyre rested. The sword was a gift from Uriel to Aegon the Third for his work as interim regent of Summerhall. A symbol of honor and duty, now coveted by unworthy hands.
"A fine heirloom," Aegon commented, a slanted smile on his lips. "I brought it to gift to my true son, when he wins the joust today."
Before Galadriel could respond, a young man approached the box. Daemon, one of Aegon's many bastards, now thirteen years old and already exuding a dangerous confidence. He was arrogant, his eyes laden with a presumption that deeply irritated Galadriel. He thought himself their equal, a pure-blooded Targaryen, when he was merely the fruit of shameful escapades.
"My cousin Galadriel," said Daemon, with an exaggerated bow. "I come humbly to ask for your favor in the upcoming joust."
Galadriel maintained her plastic smile. She could see the spark of triumphant expectation in his eyes.
"I would love to,dear Daemon," her voice was sweet as poison. "Unfortunately, I have already promised my favor to young Daeron."
The reaction was instantaneous. A grimace of anger and offense twisted Daemon's face. His eyes met hers, and in them was a glint of pure fury. It was then that something shifted in the air.
Suddenly, an invisible pressure fell upon the box. An oppressive weight, as if the entire history of their lineage, the absolute power of her father the Emperor, and Galadriel's own strength had materialized on the shoulders of all present. Smiles froze, conversations died. Galadriel's smile remained, but her eyes turned cold as the ice of the True North. She didn't say a word. She didn't need to. The message was transmitted with crystal clarity: Know your place.
When the pressure dissipated, Daemon, pale and confused, quickly turned to his mother, who was nearby, to ask for her favor. Galadriel then turned to Aegon, who was looking at her with a mixture of fear and contained indignation.
"Control your bastard's temper, cousin," she said, her voice now a whisper laden with threat. "Or he will feel the dragon's fire."
The interim lord, pale, stammered that he would. But Galadriel could see the indignation burning in his eyes. She knew, in that moment, that she needed to speak with her brother, Uriel. He was neglecting his duties, immersed in his research, and needed to remember he was the Lord of Summerhall. He needed to be more careful about who governed his lands in his absence.
The joust final was between Aegon's two sons: the legitimate Daeron, and the bastard, Daemon. Daemon's arrogance was sustained by his skill, but Galadriel decided to teach him a lesson. As the knights prepared to charge, she channeled her magic subtly, almost imperceptibly. A slight arcane nudge, a minimal correction in trajectory. It wasn't crude cheating, but an adjustment of destiny.
Daeron's lance struck Daemon's shield with precisely lethal force. The impact was so violent the bastard was thrown from his saddle, hitting the ground with a dull thud. The arena fell silent for a moment before erupting in applause. Daemon lay stunned on the ground, unable to believe he had lost in the first pass.
Galadriel rose quickly, ensuring Prince Daeron was crowned the winner before Daemon could recover and demand the right to continue. The legitimate prince, radiant, approached her and crowned her the Queen of Love and Beauty, to thunderous applause. Galadriel, with a single icy glare, prevented Daemon from protesting. To his credit, the bastard was smart enough not to openly challenge the Emperor's daughter.
Her attention then returned to Aegon, whose face was a portrait of barely contained fury. In that moment, she vividly remembered when her father, Emperor Aenar, had summoned him to King's Landing for spreading rumors about Naerys's son's legitimacy, accusing her of adultery. She remembered the pure fear on Aegon's face on that occasion.
"And so, Aegon?" asked Galadriel, her voice cutting like a blade.
He stared at her,confused. "What?"
"What are you waiting for?"she insisted, with sweet malice. "Did you not say you would give your sword to your true son if he won the joust?"
He froze. He saw Daena, one of his mistresses, open her mouth to speak. Before a sound emerged, Galadriel silenced her with a look.
"Hold your tongue,"she ordered, without even looking at the woman.
Aegon, defeated and humiliated before the entire court, had no choice. With an expression of bitter resentment, he took the valuable Truefyre and presented it to his legitimate son, Daeron. The gesture was mechanical, an act of supreme reluctance.
Without another word, Aegon gave a hasty excuse and left the box, his mistresses following him like a flock. Galadriel watched his departure, a cold satisfaction in her chest.
Now, it was time to pull her younger brother's ear. It was time to remind Uriel of his place, his duty, and the danger of letting snakes govern his garden. She turned and strode firmly towards the laboratories of Summerhall. The festivities could continue, but matters of family and state could not wait.
Part 1: The Weight of the Imperial Crown
The Small Council chamber was bathed in the morning light streaming through the high stained-glass windows. Aenar Targaryen sat at the head of the ebony table, his slitted purple eyes scanning the faces of his counselors. His gaze rested a moment longer on Viserys Targaryen, his Hand. The Emperor's prediction had come true – the young nephew had proven to be a born administrator, as competent as he was wise. As a reward for his service and to preserve such talent, Aenar had granted him the same gift he had given Vaegon: eternal youth. Viserys retained the appearance of a man in his prime, a brilliant mind now housed in a body that would not age.
The Master of Coin, Lord Tyrell, rose. "Your Imperial Grace, the new grains obtained from the Sun People and the Serpents of Ulthos have exceeded all expectations. The 'corn', in particular, has shown incalculable value. It not only enriches the people's diet but has proven to be an exceptional fodder for livestock, boosting operations at the factories in Summerhall and increasing productivity throughout the Reach."
Next was the Master of Laws, a stern-faced Arryn. "The retaliatory measures against Pentos for their constant laws harming our merchants have been fully enforced in the Stepstones. The Pentoshi traders are already feeling the impact in their coffers, Your Grace."
The Master of Ships, Lord Velaryon, concluded with a technical report. "The new ship designs, developed based on research from the Arcanum, are performing exactly as projected. The imperial fleet is stronger than ever."
The Hand, Viserys, then addressed the Emperor. "And regarding Pentos's response, Your Grace?"
Aenar leaned forward slightly, his hands clasped on the table. His voice was calm but laden with unquestionable authority. "We have already sent our response. A letter reminding the Magisters of Pentos that if their memory is short, they should visit the ruins where Myr once stood. There they will find a vivid reminder of the fate that awaits those who dare challenge the sovereignty of Westeros." His eyes scanned the table. "And they should not expect a second warning."
After the meeting concluded, Aenar made a subtle gesture to Viserys, holding him back for a private conversation as the other counselors withdrew.
"Viserys," Aenar began, his voice lower but no less intense. "The actions of your son, Aegon, have not gone unnoticed. The way he scorns his wife, Naerys, and publicly shames the Targaryen name with his bastards and mistresses... if this continues, I will be forced to intervene. He is tarnishing the blood of the dragon."
Viserys's expression was one of profound pain and resignation. "I understand, Your Grace. Do what is necessary. I... I deeply regret forcing him to marry Naerys. I see now that I destroyed any chance of happiness for either of them and poisoned the heart of my own son." The grief in the man's voice was palpable; the relationship between father and son was irreparably broken.
After dismissing his Hand with a nod, Aenar headed to his private chambers, where his wife, Gael, awaited him. Upon entering, he found her amidst a meeting with several other highborn ladies. They all widened their eyes at his sudden entrance, trying to disguise their surprise and quickly taking their leave with hurried curtsies.
When the room emptied, Aenar looked at Gael, an expression of bewilderment on his face. "I don't understand how all those women, intelligent and astute, were convinced by Alicent's... theories and joined this cult or sect of hers." He shook his head. "And the worst part is that it's spreading to other ladies of the realm."
He remembered the various noblewomen who, through these influences, had been led to his bed. It wasn't that it was very difficult to convince a woman to sleep with the Emperor, but the curious aspect was that they all seemed to genuinely believe it was a kind of sacred duty, a practice without any malice or sin. The situation was, deep down, quite amusing.
He let Gael lead him by the hand to the great bed. Lying down, he turned to her. "So, tell me. Did you change that idiotic name?"
She smiled, an amused glint in her eyes. "Yes. We now call ourselves the Ladies of the Dragon."
Aenar smiled, realizing she had told him about the cult not by accident, but because she truly wanted his opinion before becoming more deeply involved. And, looking at her, he saw that she didn't find the idea as idiotic as she tried to appear. There was a genuine interest there, a spark of curiosity and perhaps even faith.
He smiled, pulling her closer. As night fell over the Red Keep, Aenar thought that, amidst all the responsibilities of ruling an empire, a little innocent madness like that was what made life truly entertaining.
Interlude: The Price of Neglect
The chamber in Summerhall was wrapped in a heavy silence, broken only by the crackling of flames in the fireplace. Uriel Targaryen remained seated on the edge of the bed, his shoulders bearing the double weight of reprimands—one from Galadriel, delivered in person with cutting precision, and the other from his father, the Emperor, conveyed through parchment. Aenar's message had been a clean cut: "Do I need to come to Summerhall to resolve this?" Each word echoed like a sentence.
Lorena watched him from the silks, her bare feet tracing a provocative path along his leg. A wave of disbelief swept through Uriel. He had possessed her all morning with exhaustive meticulousness, until exhaustion had overtaken her. And now, mere hours later, she was already stirring again. His logical strategy—saturating her to buy peace—had failed spectacularly, producing the exact opposite effect.
"Daddy gave you a scolding?" her voice was a melody of provocation. "Sulking in your corner, my husband?"
Uriel ignored the tone. The taunts were irrelevant in the face of his failure. "They are right," he replied, his voice flat as glass. "I neglected my duties. An absent lord is an empty throne." He paused, his fingers tightening slightly. "You have more knowledge of the court. How should I proceed?"
For the first time in his memory, Lorena did not respond with arrogance. The silence that followed was more eloquent than any words. When Uriel turned, he saw something in her eyes he had never witnessed before: shame.
And then he understood. Something was deeply wrong.
A primal fury, so foreign to his calculating nature, erupted in his chest. For the first time in his life, the temperature in the room rose palpably. The air grew heavy and hot, the flames in the fireplace dancing higher.
"What did he do to you?" his voice was a hiss laden with danger.
Under the intensity of his gaze, Lorena stammered: "He... after the banquet... tried to force his will on me." Her fingers interlaced nervously. "Said a husband who lives among flasks could never satisfy a woman like me." She stared at Uriel, her eyes brimming. "I pushed him away, said I wouldn't bow to that man... He only tried, I swear!"
Uriel pulled her against his chest in a protective gesture. As her breathing calmed against his neck, he finally understood the extent of his failure. In his intellectual isolation, he had failed as both lord and husband. He understood why she had kept the secret—in a world where even empresses carried invisible scars, some truths were better hidden.
He rose, the flames reflecting in his eyes. "Guard!"
Aemon Targaryen entered the chamber, his armor glinting in the firelight.
"Bring Aegon to the throne room," Uriel's voice sounded like tempered steel. "Use whatever force is necessary."
The Knight of the Dragon hesitated for a moment, surprised by the fury he had never seen in the prince, but bowed his head in acquiescence.
As he donned his lordly robes, Uriel felt the weight of power returning to his shoulders. The time had come to purge his court and reclaim the control he had so negligently abandoned. The scholar had given way to the sovereign.
Part 2: The Judgment of Fire
An unusual tension gripped the Small Council chamber. Aenar Targaryen entered with his wife Gael at his right and his heir, Galadriel, at his left. Every council member was already present, their stern faces turned towards the Emperor. The air smelled of wax and anticipation.
Taking his seat upon the great ebony throne that dominated the room, Aenar gave a brief nod to the Grand Maester. "You may read."
The elderly man broke the black wax seal with trembling fingers. His eyes scanned the contents swiftly before casting a significant look at Viserys, the Hand of the King. Then, raising his voice, he read the message from Summerhall:
"To His Imperial Grace, Aenar Targaryen, First of His Name. I write to inform you that I am journeying to King's Landing so that Your Grace may judge our kinsman, Aegon, for crimes committed against the Imperial Crown, chiefly the attempted violation of a Prince's wife. Recognizing my inability to remain impartial in this matter, I bring this case before the wise Emperor for judgment. I bring with me the accused, his mistresses, and his bastard sons, so that Imperial justice may be served."
A heavy silence fell upon the room. All eyes turned furtively towards Viserys, whose face had lost all color. The old prince rose unsteadily, his hands trembling slightly.
"Your Grace," his voice was a hoarse whisper, "with the Emperor's leave, I wish to resign my post as Hand. This dishonor my blood has brought upon House Targaryen—"
Aenar cut him off with a gesture. "Viserys. Your son's actions do not erase the merits you have earned. I did not grant you immortality on a whim. You remain my Hand."
The session was concluded swiftly, and preparations began for the arrival of Uriel and his prisoners.
Two days later, the procession from Summerhall entered the Great Hall of the Red Keep. Uriel marched at the forefront, his face a mask of cold determination. Behind him, Aegon was dragged by guards—his clothes were disheveled, his hair unkempt, his face marked by a mixture of arrogance and fear. Forced to his knees before the Iron Throne, he kept his head bowed, knowing any word would be futile.
Aegon's numerous mistresses and bastard sons were lined up behind him, all visibly in a state of shock, though the children were in better condition than their father.
Uriel stepped forward and formally presented his grievance, his voice clear and precise, echoing through the silent hall. When he finished, the ensuing silence was so profound one could hear the crackling of the torches.
Aenar observed the kneeling man for a long moment before speaking, his voice calm yet sharp as Valyrian steel.
"Do you know what separates men from beasts, Aegon?"
Silence was his only answer.
"Beasts act on instinct, without reason. In this, you have shown yourself their equal—unable to control your most base desires." The Emperor paused, his slitted purple eyes burning with intensity. "Your numerous bastards and mistresses never went unnoticed, but I overlooked them to maintain peace within our House. However, your lack of control has led you to commit the unforgivable."
Aegon lifted his head to protest, but Aenar had already decided.
"As we are still kin," the Emperor continued, "I will not grant you a painful death."
Before Aegon could articulate a single word, Aenar snapped his fingers.
Instantly, Aegon's body burst into flames. White, pure fire enveloped his form, consuming him so rapidly he had no time even to scream. Within seconds, where a man had once knelt, there remained only a pile of warm ashes scattered across the marble floor.
Screams of horror erupted from his mistresses and children. Aenar then turned to them, his voice impassive.
"You are free. You and your children committed no crimes." His gaze settled on Daemon, whose face showed barely contained fury, and on Daemon's mother, whose expression was one of terror and hatred.
The Emperor did not care. If they sought to start their own version of the Blackfyre Rebellions after all this time, so be it. People were beginning to forget who he was and the power he wielded. Let the fools gather—it would serve as a necessary reminder to all of Westeros.
Part 3: The Whisper of the False Dragon
What was once a morbid thought in the darkest corners of Aenar's mind had, years after Aegon's execution, materialized into an almost comical reality. The bastard, Daemon, now adopting the name Daemon Truefyre, had acted.
The news reached Dragonstone through the frightened whispers of the dragonkeepers. He had infiltrated the lair, a fool driven by arrogance bordering on insanity. His target had been Caraxes, the dragon once ridden by Prince Daemon, which now rested without a rider. Perhaps the young bastard, in his pathetic naivety, believed that carrying the name of a rebel prince and a stolen sword would grant him some right, that the Targaryen blood, however diluted and bastardized, would sing a song the dragon would recognize.
He was wrong. Caraxes, the Blood Wyrm, was not a beast to be won over by titles or blades. The creature almost killed him. The keepers reported that the dragon let out a roar that cracked the sky, a sound of pure contempt, before spewing a jet of flame that charred the rock where Daemon had stood seconds before. The smell of burnt flesh and terror filled the air. Miraculously, the bastard managed to flee, slipping away to the port and disappearing across the sea to Essos, taking with him nothing but his burns and his failure.
To make matters worse, his bastard brother, Bittersteel, had stolen the Truefyre sword – the same one the Emperor had gifted to Daeron – and fled to Essos to join him. There, the defeated bastard officially founded House Truefyre, a house of exiles and dreamers, and began raising an army in conjunction with the Free City of Pentos, which had always viewed the Targaryen Empire with covetous eyes.
In the Small Council meeting, when the news was formally presented, a tense silence hung over the table. All eyes were fixed on the Emperor, awaiting a bolt of fury, an order for immediate retaliation, the promise of fire and blood.
Aenar, however, did something no one expected: he laughed.
It was a deep, genuine laugh that echoed in the stone room. He laughed until a single tear streamed from the corner of his slitted purple eye.
"It's so... comical," he finally said, wiping his face. "After all these years, after all we've built... they still underestimate what we are." His gaze swept over the serious faces of his counselors. "What is the view Westeros has of me, of us, for these fools to believe they stand a chance? And the worst part... lords of Westeros are supporting them in secret. They believe in this nonsense." He shook his head, a smile still on his lips. "It's a stupidity that borders on the poetic."
The Hand of the King, Viserys, seemed particularly distressed. "Your Grace, we must act. Crush this rebellion in its cradle. Send the dragons..."
"Send the dragons?" Aenar interrupted, his voice still tinged with amusement. "No, my good Hand. This rebellion... this farce... is good for us."
The statement landed like a bombshell in the hall. Even Gael and Galadriel, seated beside him, cast him curious looks.
"It is an opportunity," the Emperor continued, his voice dropping to a more serious, yet still dangerously calm tone. "People are becoming complacent. Peace breeds laxity. Some lords, in their comfortable castles, are beginning to forget the price of the power that upholds this Empire. They whisper, question, think they understand strength." He raised his hand and clenched his fist. "This Truefyre rebellion is the perfect stage to remind everyone, once and for all, of the true chasm that exists between House Targaryen and anyone who dares challenge the dragon. It is a spectacle to show the lords of the empire the power that rules their lives."
A collective shiver ran through the Small Council chamber. It was not a shiver of fear of Daemon Truefyre or Pentos, but a deep, primordial tremor at the calm, calculated perspective of their Emperor. He did not see the rebellion as a threat, but as a play, a rehearsal for a demonstration of absolute power.
Aenar stood, his imposing figure casting a long shadow over the table.
"Let them gather. Let them dream of their armies and their stolen swords. Let the treacherous lords show their true colors, emerging from the shadows." His eyes gleamed with a cold inner light. "When the right moment comes, it will not be a war we wage. It will be a lesson. And the lesson will be written in dragonfire, so that no one ever forgets it."
He turned and looked out the window, towards the Narrow Sea, towards Essos and the foolish dreams of a bastard.
"The world is about to remember why we fear the darkness, but the dragons are the fire that consumes it."
Epilogue: The Reminder of Fire
POV: Daemon Truefyre — Year 196 AC
The great war tent, pitched in the arid Dornish Marches, swayed in the strong wind heralding the storm. Daemon Truefyre, self-proclaimed rightful heir to the Iron Throne, looked around with deep satisfaction. Finally, after years of exile, of groveling to the Magisters of Pentos and secret pacts, his moment had come.
His army was a dream made reality. Sixty thousand mercenaries hardened by battles in all the Free Cities, ten thousand Unsullied with their gleaming spears and iron discipline, and, the crown of his alliance, thirty thousand men from Westeros, lords who had sworn allegiance to his cause in secret, believing the era of Aenar, the Dragon Emperor, was hanging by a thread.
The sorcerers of the House of the Undying, hired for a fortune, had ensured his massive forces moved like ghosts, invisible to the eyes of the vile witch, the Emperor's Master of Whisperers. The surprise attack would be overwhelming. The empire would be caught off guard.
Inside the tent, the mood was one of triumphant anticipation. His loyal yet bitter half-brother Aegor and his sons argued over which castle to attack first. The sound of distant thunder echoed, promising torrential rain. Daemon's mind, however, wandered to his sweet, unattainable Daenerys, for whom he held an obsessive desire. "When I am Emperor," he thought, "that Dornish bastard who possesses her will be less than ash. She will be mine." His gaze then fell upon his own wife, a woman from Pentos, and a lecherous, empty thought crossed his mind: perhaps the approaching rain would provide him some momentary relief with her.
It was then that his eldest son, at his side, broke the reverie. "Father... it's strange."
"What is strange?" asked Daemon, irritated by the interruption.
"The thunder... it's at a constant interval."
The observation hung in the air. The discussion ceased. Everyone in the tent stopped to listen. And then, Daemon realized it too. It wasn't the chaotic rhythm of a storm, but a constant, growing beat, as if the sky itself had a gigantic heart. An icy premonition ran down his spine.
He sprang to his feet, and his generals followed him outside the tent. The camp, a hive of men and weapons, was beginning to stir with a murmur of unease. In the sky, a large flock of "birds" was approaching rapidly, their dark silhouette against the laden clouds.
One of the blue-lipped sorcerers from the House of the Undying stumbled and fell to the ground before him, his face a portrait of pure terror. He stammered incomprehensible words, his eyes wide and fixed on the sky. Daemon grabbed him by the collar, lifting him.
"What is it? Speak, man!"
The sorcerer, trembling uncontrollably, pointed a shaking finger at the "birds" that were now becoming terribly familiar. His voice was a hiss of despair.
"Dragons."
The word echoed through the camp like a virus. First, a whisper. Then, a shout. And then, panic exploded.
It was too late.
The clouds parted, and the Truefyre army witnessed the final nightmare descending upon them. In the center, astride the colossal Zekrom, was the Emperor Aenar himself. To his right, the ancient and terrifying presence of Balerion the Black Dread, whose mere shadow darkened the earth. To his left, Empress Gael rode Reshiram, a vision of grace and mortal power.
And they were not alone.
The entire Targaryen family had come for the harvest.
Galadriel, the heir, on Silverwing . Daeron, the legitimate, on Caraxes the Blood Wyrm. Brynden, on Sheepstealer, hovering over Aegor's position. Uriel, the Lord of Summerhall, riding the huge Vermithor the Bronze Fury. Rhaenyra, on Syrax. Shiera, on Vhagar. Maegelle, on Dreamfyre. And Elaena, on Meleys the Red Queen.
It was a spectacle of absolute power, a calculated demonstration to remind the world of the unbridgeable chasm between the Targaryens and anyone who dared challenge them. Daemon Truefyre, the arrogant bastard, realized at that moment, with terrifying clarity, that his rebellion, his armies, his alliances... it was all a joke. A foolish farce that never had the remotest chance of success.
He looked up at the sky, his ambition dissolving into pure fear. The last thing Daemon Truefyre saw was the primordial black flames of Balerion engulfing the world, turning his dream of glory into an inferno.
That day, Aenar, the Dragon Emperor, did not wage a war. He taught a lesson. And the lesson was written in Valyrian fire, consuming Daemon Truefyre, his army, and all the castles of the foolish lords who supported him. The message was clear and unmistakable.
---
As the ashes of the rebel army still cooled in the Marches, the news reached Pentos. The Magisters were assembled, their council divided between those who had supported Truefyre's "idiocy" and those who had always condemned it. The discussion was heated and full of accusations, but it was interrupted by a distant, familiar sound, a sound that brought an ancestral chill to the bones of any Pentoshi.
It was the beat of wings. Not of one, but of many.
They rushed to the large window of their meeting hall, and their hearts froze. The fleet of dragons was approaching the city, led by Prince Gabriel. He had already passed through Qohor, reducing the House of the Undying to smoldering rubble, and now he was bringing imperial justice to the true architects of the treachery.
By his side flew the riders of Tessarion, Moghul (descendant of Helaena and Aegon, who inherited the seat and adopted the Targaryen name of Oldtown), and Seasmoke, ridden by a descendant of his dear friend Joffrey.
Gabriel, from his saddle, could see the Magisters clustered behind the window. Without hesitation or mercy, he pointed his sword at the city that dared to plot against his father and the entire Empire.
"Dracarys!"
His order was echoed by his companions, and soon a storm of fire, very different from the one Daemon had expected, fell upon Pentos. It was the final reminder, the punctuation mark on the sentence. The dragon's fire would rain upon the enemies of the Empire, and the world would never forget the price of disloyalty.
Okay, what did you think of the chapter? Before you ask, I didn't name the dragon knights who accompanied Gabriel to Pentos because they won't be important to the plot. The dynamics of the family and the new dragon knights will be addressed in the next chapter. So, until then.