Alyxander the Great: Mosiac Revenge

This was something I decided to write and draw after seeing the Alexander the Great mosaic.
One of them I drew myself and the another one i made to look like a mosiac using AI

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Alyxander looked up at the mosaics glinting in the light of the Lyceum’s new wing, where stone and glass came together to immortalize history. The air smelled of lime dust and warm stone; artisans moved like silent shadows on the scaffolding above, adjusting tiny chips of obsidian, ruby glass, and gold-leafed tiles.

This wing of the Lyceum had been his idea—a place where the legacy of House Targaryen would be remembered forever. One mosaic showed Aegon the Conqueror astride Balerion, flanked by Visenya and Rhaenys on their own dragons, flames leaping across Blackwater Bay as the Seven Kingdoms submitted to their rule.

“Wow, Papa,” Maelor said, eyes wide as he stared up at the brilliant scene.

“Yes,” Alyxander replied with a small smile. “It is quite beautiful, isn’t it, Maelor?”

“This one’s better,” Baelor announced, pointing toward the darker mosaic showing Maegor the Cruel, framed in iron and fire beside a thinner, paler Aenys. The artists had made Maegor towering, shadowed in blood and fury—intentionally ominous.

Alyxander raised a brow. “Maegor was not a good king, Baelor. Not a good man, either.”

“But he looks fierce. Like a real dragon,” Baelor argued, crossing his arms.

“Aegon was better,” Maelor jumped in, puffing out his chest. “He united the kingdoms.”

“Well, Maegor could have done it too,” Baelor shot back.

“Would not!”

“Would too!”

Alyxander watched his sons squabble and briefly questioned the wisdom of including Maegor at all.

He heard footsteps behind him and turned to see Daemon walking toward them.

“Ah, my Hand returns,” Alyxander said with a wide grin.

Daemon Targaryen smirked as he stepped into the hall, cloak swirling behind him. “Glad you haven’t burned the kingdoms down in my absence,” he said, opening his arms.

The two embraced like brothers reunited.

“My nephews,” Daemon said after, nodding toward the boys, who instantly stopped arguing and rushed to him with shouts of “Uncle Daemon!”

He knelt to greet them both, ruffling their hair with his golden prosthetic hand.

Alyxander chuckled. “So… how’s my son?”

Daemon’s expression tightened, one corner of his mouth twitching with annoyance. “He’s fine—the dragon in him has not been snuffed out by the Martells,” he said curtly, then added with less grace, “Alyssa is staying with him for a few months.”

Alyxander’s eyes widened in mock shock. “You? Daemon Targaryen? Let your daughter stay in the very place you once called—”

“Yes,” Daemon cut him off. “Let’s not talk about it.”

Alyxander laughed, clapping his Hand on the back. “Seven help me, I thought I was the one some lords claim has gone soft.”

“I haven’t gone soft,” Daemon muttered.

“Well, I’m glad Alyx will have some company,” Alyxander said with a faint chuckle as they walked farther down the corridor.

Daemon grunted. “She’ll only stay until his next visit,” he muttered, as if trying to convince himself.

“So,” Alyxander said, shifting to the matter at hand, “did Maron agree to help with the Drōmakar?”

“He—” Daemon stopped mid-sentence, his brow furrowing as his eyes caught something over Alyxander’s shoulder. His expression shifted from annoyance to utter disbelief.

Alyxander, astride Bucephalus with Blackfyre raised to strike, was rendered in sweeping, dramatic color—his hair haloed in gold-and-silver tile. Before him stood a towering figure clad in crimson armor: the Champion of R’hllor, his burning sword lifted overhead. On the ground, sword in hand and bloodied, Daemon defended himself against the fire-wielding zealot.

The mosaic showed Alyxander galloping to his cousin’s aid, blade poised to strike, eyes blazing with determination.

“What in the Seven Hells is this?” Daemon said again, louder now, startling the workers.

Alyxander approached slowly, hands behind his back, wearing a smirk of exaggerated innocence. “Cousin, what’s wrong?”

Daemon turned to him, his voice low but thick with venom. “You know exactly what’s wrong… cousin.”

“This did happen,” Alyxander said, still amused. “The Battle of Narmell—you were knocked down, and that madman nearly burned you alive. I saved you.”

“Yes, you saved me,” Daemon snapped. “But why this? Of all the battles, all the moments—you chose this one to immortalize?”

Alyxander shrugged, stepping closer to admire the craftsmanship. “I rather like the light on the flames. They captured the drama beautifully. You don’t like the way your nose came out?”

Daemon glared. “You think this is funny?”

Alyxander folded his arms and tilted his head, admiring the nearly finished mosaic with an air of mock reverence. “Funny? No,” he said smoothly. “But I thought it was important to capture a very significant moment in history.”

He turned slightly, addressing the master crafter, an aged Myrish artisan with gray hands and keen eyes. “You see, Gaemon here is from Myr. Ask him. This story is well known throughout the Valyrian Marches—even the Seven Kingdoms know it by heart now.”

The old craftsman gave a small, proud nod. “Indeed, Your Grace. The tale of the Champion of R’hllor and the Emperor’s charge is known from the Wall to the Jade Gates.”

Daemon closed his eyes and drew a deep breath through his nose. “Yes,” he muttered. “I know.”

He opened his eyes again, glaring at the mounted-hero version of Alyxander. “But why this, Alyx? Please. Change it.”

Alyxander just smiled, hands still behind his back. “Do you remember when we were four-and-ten—well, you were five-and-ten—that day in Bracken lands?”

Daemon’s brow furrowed. “All this for that? That was decades ago. We were children.”

Alyxander’s grin widened. “Exactly. And you remember what you did, don’t you?”

Daemon groaned. “Are you still—”

“I told you,” Alyxander said, pointing at the mosaic, “I told you I’d get you back for that. And this”—he swept a hand toward the glowing depiction of himself riding in to save the day—“this is it.”

Daemon’s mouth dropped open for a moment before he finally exploded. “Fuck you,” he growled, low and venomous. “I mean it. Really. Fuck. You.”

Alyxander burst into laughter and strode off, flanked by Maelor and Baelor, who were giggling along, having caught just enough to find it hilarious.

“I’m going to destroy it,” Daemon shouted, marching after them. “I swear to all the gods, if you finish this, I will burn it down.”

Alyxander called over his shoulder, “Ser Benjen! Inform the Lord Commander that the Hand of the King is officially banned from the Lyceum.”

Benjen Stark, who was following Alyxander, raised a brow. “Aye, Your Grace.”

“That won’t stop me!” Daemon roared. “You hear me? I’ll fly Caraxes into this damned place and melt the walls if I have to!”

Alyxander only laughed harder, disappearing with his sons around the corner.

Left behind, Daemon stood fuming, eyes boring into the tilework as if he could will it to crack and crumble.

He turned slowly toward the old Myrish mosaic master, who blinked nervously under the weight of his glare.

“Fix my face. I wasn’t scared,” Daemon said.

The old man coughed delicately. “Of course, my lord. I will make the adjustments.”

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The Battle mentioned in this chapter is from Alyxander IX