ASOIAF: Alyxander the Great X

“I expected to do this when you were old and decrepit,” Alyxander said with a crooked smile as he helped his sister walk along the rocky shores of Dragonstone.

Rhaenys chuckled weakly. “Fuck you,” she said, leaning against him with more weight than she wanted to admit.

Their feet pressed into the wet sand as the sea rolled in, gray and restless. The waves frothed at the shore like the foam of a rabid beast, and gulls cried overhead, circling above the cliffs. Alyxander kept one arm firmly around his sister’s waist, steadying her with each uneven step. Her legs still trembled beneath her. Every movement was a small battle—one she was barely winning.

After a while, Rhaenys exhaled sharply and tugged at his arm. “Let’s stop… just for a bit. It’s… it’s getting more difficult.”

He nodded without a word and helped her over to a large, smooth rock that jutted out from the shoreline. She leaned against it, hands gripping its salt-slick surface, her breathing shallow.

“The maester says you’ll be back to your old self in a few moons,” Alyxander offered, trying to sound reassuring. “You just need to keep yourself moving. Stay active.”

She said nothing at first. Her gaze was fixed on the sea, her violet eyes watching the endless churn of waves as though she might find answers in them.

“I feel…” she started, then hesitated. “I feel lost, Alyx. Like a part of me is gone.”

“Meleys,” he said quietly.

Rhaenys closed her eyes, the wind tugging gently at her black hair. “I hate it, Alyx. I feel… worthless now that she’s gone…” Her voice cracked. “I don’t know who I am anymore.”

Alyxander looked away, jaw tight.

“I wish I could tell you I understand,” he said, voice low.

Rhaenys nodded slowly, silent.

“Still,” he continued, “if I had lost you too—after Myria, after Gael, after Father, after Grandfather, Grandmother… I don’t know what I would’ve done. I don’t think I could’ve borne it.”

The wind picked up, salt and sea spray stinging their skin, but neither of them moved. For a while, the only sounds were the crash of the waves and the cries of the gulls.

Then a voice shattered the stillness.

“Papa!”

Alyxander turned at once, a flicker of a smile breaking across his face. Bounding down the beach was Jocelyn, hair flying wild behind her as her little legs carried her as fast as they could. Behind her came Rhaenyra, walking hand in hand with little Alyx, their pace slower but just as sure.

Jocelyn hurled herself into her father’s arms, laughing. “Papa, Papa! You promised me a ride on Balerion!”

Alyxander laughed, scooping her up with ease, her energy a balm against the heaviness in his chest.

He gently brushed the wind-tossed hair from Jocelyn’s face, his fingers trailing along her cheek with a tenderness only a father could give. Her dark curls clung to her forehead, caught by the salt-kissed breeze rolling in from the sea. For a moment, he said nothing—just studied her face, memorizing it again.

“So much like your mother,” he murmured under his breath.

His eyes lifted—and met Rhaenyra’s across the stretch of sand.

He had heard what happened the moment he returned to Dragonstone: how the Braavosi fleet had crept in through the morning fog like wraiths, how Alyx—his son—had flown to face them on Vermithor without warning; how Olympia and Rhaenyra had followed after him on Dreamfyre and Syrax.

He had heard how the Harbinger had been with them, the same weapon that had slain Meleys.

And he had heard how Rhaenyra had drawn its fire onto herself to save his son—how she had nearly died. That story had flown faster than ravens, spreading across the Seven Kingdoms like wildfire. They called her a hero now—the Realm’s delight, the Realm’s protector—praised in every hall and holdfast.

His gaze lingered on her as she stood beside little Alyx. Her silver-gold hair was tied back by a simple braid, and the wind tugged at her cloak.

“Rhaenyra,” he greeted, his voice quiet but warm.

“Your Grace,” she returned with a smile, dipping her head ever so slightly.

He turned his attention to the boy standing beside her—his son. Little Alyx stood with his arms crossed, his expression caught somewhere between guilt and frustration. He shifted on his feet as though unsure if he wanted to flee or stand his ground.

“And you,” Alyxander said, his voice turning sharper but not unkind, “I thought I’d punished you.”

Before the boy could open his mouth to protest, Rhaenyra cut in, stepping forward with a teasing smirk.

“It was cruel punishment,” she said, folding her arms, “to confine him to the castle for a moon. He’s a dragonrider, not a cloistered septon.”

“Mean Papa!” Jocelyn chimed in, her voice high and sweet. “You’re mean, Papa!”

Alyxander raised an eyebrow and looked at his son. “Was it, son?”

Little Alyx looked up at his father, a flicker of uncertainty in his violet eyes. “I… I just wanted to help.”

“You nearly got yourself, your sister, and Rhaenyra killed,” Alyxander said, his voice firm. The boy’s shoulders stiffened. “But…”

Alyxander’s gaze softened. “I understand why you did it. You wanted to protect your home. Your family. You wanted revenge… I would have done the same at your age.”

He reached out, placing a hand gently on his son’s shoulder.

“Consider yourself freed from your punishment.”

Little Alyx’s eyes lit up. A shy smile broke through his uncertain mask, and he muttered, “Thank you.”

Jocelyn, delighted, let out a cheer and wiggled free from Alyxander’s arms, grabbing her brother’s hand.

“Come on!” she shouted. “Let’s go to the rocks!”

She tugged him toward the shoreline, their laughter trailing behind them.

“I should go with them,” Rhaenyra said softly, turning to nod at Rhaenys, who stood nearby, watching in silence.

Then, with a glance back at Alyxander, Rhaenyra turned and followed after the children.

Alyxander watched her go—Rhaenyra trailed after the children, her steps sure across the dark sand. Jocelyn clung to her hand; little Alyx darted ahead toward the rocks. The wind carried their laughter, light and carefree, and for a fleeting moment, Alyxander felt both warmth and something colder… something hollow.

He shook his head slowly, exhaling.

“My daughter—you know what she wants,” came Rhaenys’s voice, dry as driftwood and just as familiar.

Alyxander turned toward his sister. She leaned against the smooth stone, arms folded.

“Yes,” Alyxander replied simply.

Rhaenys tilted her head. “And what are you going to do about it?”

Alyxander let out a soft laugh, shaking his head again. “This is not a conversation I ever imagined we’d be having.”

“And yet,” Rhaenys said, lips quirking into a tired smirk, “here we are.”

He didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he looked out at the churning sea, waves breaking against the rocks in a slow, steady rhythm. The wind had a bite to it, sharp with the taste of winter.

“I expected to grow old with Myria,” he said at last, his voice low. “Before that, it was Gael. Sometimes I wonder if I’m cursed—losing wives every other decade.”

Rhaenys didn’t respond, not at first. She let the silence linger, respectful.

“Our victory in the war is all but certain,” Alyxander continued, shifting the weight of his words from grief to duty. “A year of fighting, and we’ve pushed the League back. Volantis is under siege. Norvos and Qohor are shells of their former selves. And Braavos will…” He paused, his jaw tightening.

He glanced sidelong at his sister. “The lords of the Seven Kingdoms already whisper that I’ve surpassed the Conqueror. Soon they’ll be lining up their daughters in the capital, hoping I take notice. They have their own ambitions in mind.”

Rhaenys gave a dry, pointed chuckle. “And yet, my daughter practically offers herself to you.”

Alyxander sighed. “Yes, Rhaenys. I’ve noticed.”

He turned his gaze back toward Rhaenyra, who now stood with Jocelyn ankle-deep in the surf, the girl pointing excitedly at something in the foam. Rhaenyra smiled down at her.

“But I’m not sure,” he added, his voice quieter.

Rhaenys tilted her head slightly. “We are Targaryens, brother. If it’s me that’s making you hesitate—”

“No,” he interrupted quickly. “No, it’s not that.” He paused, exhaling again. “It’s Myria. It’s only been a year, Rhaenys. A year. And all I hear—from every lord, every councilor—is that I must marry again. As though grief has a schedule. As though love can be replaced.”

He clenched his fists. “What do they know….”

Rhaenys let the anger settle before speaking.

“This may not be what I wanted for her,” she admitted, her voice softening. “But it is what she wants. She loves you, Alyx. She always has. I’ve seen it, even when she tried to hide it.”

She stepped closer, resting a hand lightly on his arm. “And this… it would strengthen our house. Our family. And I want her happy. That’s all I’ve ever wanted.”

Alyxander looked down at her hand, then back toward the beach.

“She’s not asking for a wedding tomorrow,” Rhaenys said firmly. “But she deserves to know if her feelings are returned.”

Alyxander didn’t answer right away.

Rhaenys arched a brow. “And fuck the lords. You’re the King. If you wish to marry Rhaenyra, then say so. Announce it when you’re ready. Do it when you’re comfortable. She’ll wait.”

The wind howled gently around them.

Alyxander was about to respond—his lips parting, thoughts still tangled—when a shadow swept over the beach.

The roar of wings cut through the wind, sharp and sudden. Alyxander and Rhaenys turned their heads just as Caraxes descended from the northern sky, the red wyrm twisting in a slow, serpentine arc before landing heavily on the black sand some distance away. His long neck craned, nostrils flaring, tongue flicking as his talons dug into the ground.

From the dragon’s back dismounted a one-armed Daemon Targaryen.

He looked furious.

His silver hair was tousled by the wind, his crimson cloak snapped behind him like a banner of war. His sword still hung at his side, though his left arm was now nothing more than a wrapped stump. He walked toward them with purpose, boots crunching against wet sand.

Alyxander watched him approach, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. “Ah, One-Arm,” he called out, loud enough to carry over the sea breeze. “You look like you’ve swallowed a lemon.”

Daemon did not return the humor. His jaw was tight, his eyes burning. “I just spoke to my father,” he growled. “What the fuck were you thinking with those peace terms?”

Alyxander’s smirk faded. He narrowed his eyes slightly. “What’s wrong with it?”

“What’s wrong with it?” Daemon repeated, incredulous. “What’s wrong with it?!”

His voice rose with fury. “You’re offering them mercy! You’re offering them terms after what they did?! After Myria? After Meleys? After everything?”

“Peace,” Rhaenys interjected, her voice firm despite the effort it took her to rise from the rock she had been leaning against.

Daemon’s eyes flicked to Rhaenys, then back to Alyxander.

“They are good terms,” Alyxander said, standing his ground. “This just spares us months more of bloodshed.”

“We should be burning Volantis to the ground!” Daemon snapped. “Making sure their children grow up afraid to even speak our names—”

“I am the king,” Alyxander cut him off, his voice cold. “It is not your decision to make.”

Daemon’s nostrils flared. “Oh,” he said, with acid in his tone. “That’s how it is, then.”

“You want vengeance,” Alyxander said, stepping forward. “You want to see them break. Burn the League to ash. Turn the skies red and the seas black.” He leaned in slightly, voice low. “So do I. Don’t think for a moment I’ve forgotten what they did.”

Daemon didn’t speak. His mouth was a hard line. His silence was answer enough.

Alyxander looked past him, toward the sea, then back to his sister and cousin.

“We end this war tomorrow,” he said. “Tell Viserys and your father. Midnight. We leave.”

Rhaenys straightened fully now, her hand still resting lightly on the rock. “Do you mean to…?”

“Yes,” Alyxander answered before she could finish. His voice was calm, but beneath it was the weight of a storm. “I hope you don’t mind lending your armor to Rhaenyra.”

Rhaenys blinked, surprised.

Alyxander’s gaze turned to Daemon. “I assume Queen Rhaenys’s armor is still in Dragonstone’s vaults.”

Daemon gave a tight nod.

“Good,” Alyxander said. “Olympia can wear it.”

======

Balerion let out a thunderous roar, the sound tearing through the clouds like a god’s battle cry.

They soared high above the world, where the air was thin and the stars still clung to the retreating night. Below them, a blanket of clouds stretched endless and silver, but above—above, the sky had begun to bleed gold. The first rays of dawn caught the edges of Balerion’s wings, painting his obsidian scales in a sheen of fire and shadow. It was as though the ancient dragon had been forged anew in the very fires of sunrise.

Alyxander glanced to his side.

Syrax flew just a short distance away, Rhaenyra astride her golden form, clad in her mother’s armor. It gleamed faintly, a blend of red and gold, catching the light with every tilt of her body. Beside her, Olympia rode Dreamfyre—her silver-blue scales gleaming like starlight against the rising sun. The young princess’s posture was straight, her face unreadable behind her helm, but her presence was steady—undaunted.

Behind them came the rest.

Vhagar, the ancient she-dragon, flew steady as stone, wings stretched wide. Upon her back, Baelon Targaryen—the old dragon—sat firm. This, he had declared, would be his last flight into battle. If death awaited him, he would meet it in fire.

Flanking him were Viserys on Silverwing and Daemon on the red terror, Caraxes. The sky trembled with every beat of their combined wings.

Six dragons. Six Targaryens.

Alyxander turned his eyes forward, toward the horizon. Below, the fog-covered sea began to give way to dark waters and distant land. Somewhere beyond the mist lay Braavos—the city of canals, the city of banks, a city of trade, of shadows, and betrayal. Soon, it would be something else entirely.

He urged Balerion lower. The air thickened as they descended, the salt spray of the sea rising to meet them. Fog curled around them, swallowing light and sound.

Each dragonrider had a purpose.

The Harbinger.

It would be the first to fall.

They had discovered its resting place within the city—hidden beneath the Sealord’s Palace. It had to be destroyed quickly, before it could awaken. If they failed, even Balerion might not survive.

But they would not fail.

Alyxander’s grip on Balerion’s reins tightened.

He had heard the reports before they left. Most of Braavos’s citizens had already fled into the marshes, fleeing south toward the borders of ancient Andalos. There would be loss of life—but far less than expected. He had given them time. Mercy, some might call it.

As they broke through the final veil of mist, he saw it.

The Titan.

Even in the pale morning, it stood tall—an enormous silhouette wreathed in fog, its arms raised to the sky, its stone gaze forever watching over the lagoon. The pride of Braavos. The city’s eternal guardian.

“Might as well make a grand entrance,” Alyxander muttered under his breath.

He leaned forward in his saddle, whispering into the wind.

“Sōvī, Balerion,” he commanded. “Fly, my friend.”

The Black Dread answered with a roar that split the morning silence, and the fog seemed to retreat in fear. His wings beat once—twice—and then they surged forward, faster than any creature their size had a right to fly.

The Titan loomed large now, its massive head barely visible above the clouds. Alyxander did not slow.

With a thunderous cry, he urged Balerion upward—then down.

The great dragon struck the Titan with the fury of a falling star.

Stone cracked.

The upper torso of the monument shattered under Balerion’s immense weight. Cracks webbed across its arms and chest, and with a groaning moan that echoed across the bay, the Titan of Braavos broke apart—its head crashing into the sea, its body twisting and falling with it.

Balerion rose again, wings outstretched, hovering above the destruction. Below, the impact sent massive waves rolling outward, slamming into Braavos’s docks, flooding canals, and smashing smaller ships into driftwood.

Alyxander circled once, then guided Balerion down—down to where the Titan had once stood.

The ancient dragon landed with an earth-shaking thud upon the ruined base, his claws grinding into shattered stone. He let out a roar unlike any Alyxander had heard from him in years—a roar of judgment.

And across the sky, the others answered.

Syrax, Dreamfyre, Caraxes, Silverwing, and Vhagar descended. Their cries pierced the heavens, their fire already licking at the sky as they veered off toward their targets.

The fog burned away.

Dawn had come.

And with it—the last of the dragonlords.

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Balerion’s massive wings blotted out the rising sun as they flew toward the Sealord’s Palace. Beside him, Caraxes twisted through the sky like a coiling red whip, Daemon hunched low in his saddle, his one remaining hand clenched tight on the reins. Behind them came Vhagar—ancient, monstrous—her wings slicing through the air with thunderous grace, her rider and Alyxander’s uncle, Baelon, gripping tight with the resolve of a man facing his final battle.

To the north, Viserys led Silverwing toward the Arsenal, the massive shipyards of Braavos, where dozens of warships still lay docked. Silverwing’s pale fire rained down upon the vessels, turning sailcloth and rigging to ash. In the east, Syrax and Dreamfyre circled the docks and the city’s outer quarters, where the smaller “lesser harbingers” had been hidden by the alchemists beneath false temples and warehouses.

Alyxander was flying to the seat of the city’s power—the Sealord’s Palace. Built atop a high, sea-facing cliff, it stood as a sprawling marble complex of towers and courtyards, once a beacon of Braavosi wealth and pride.

And there, on the terrace before it, he saw their true target:

The Harbinger.

It was larger than the one used at sea—the one described to him by Rhaenyra and his children—and larger than the one in Pentos that had slain Meleys.

His spies had not been wrong. Its monstrous, scorpion-like frame had been fused with alchemical components, wrapped in copper sigils and strange black piping that pulsed faintly with a reddish glow. Around it, a ritual was underway—hooded figures in crimson robes chanting in unison, their hands slick with blood.

At their head stood a woman.

Alyxander’s eyes narrowed.

Her dark robes billowed in the wind, her hood down, her pale face twisted in pure hatred as she stared up—not at him—but at Balerion.

The alchemist. The witch responsible.

Suddenly, to Alyxander’s surprise, Vhagar slammed onto the terrace from above with a thunderous crash, her great claws crushing part of the Harbinger beneath her massive bulk. Stone shattered, beams snapped, and a chorus of screams erupted from below as men and women were hurled into the air by the force of the impact.

Alyxander barked a laugh, guiding Balerion lower. “You’re mad, old man!” he shouted to Baelon across the wind, grinning. “Mad!”

Caraxes circled overhead, his long snout open wide as Daemon prepared to strike. But it was Vhagar who stole the moment—again.

The great she-dragon reared back and let out a low, guttural growl. Her jaws snapped open, and in one horrifying motion, she descended upon the remaining men and women. The chanting ceased as bodies were flung like dolls. Some were crushed beneath claw and tail; others she devoured alive—screams silenced between her iron teeth as she feasted on the ritualists.

Alyxander hovered just above, Balerion’s wings sending shockwaves of wind downward. Some of the ritual participants tried to flee—others were blown off the platform entirely, tumbling to the rocks below.

Still, the woman stood. She stared at him, refusing to yield, even as ash and fire swirled around her.

Alyxander narrowed his eyes.

“Dracarys,” he said, cold and absolute.

Balerion’s chest expanded with a deep rumble. A heartbeat later, a torrent of black fire erupted from his maw, pouring over the woman and the twisted weapon she protected, devouring both. The heat melted iron and stone, seared flesh from bone, and turned ritual circles to ash.

Vhagar took to the sky with a beat of her wings, rising as the inferno overtook the palace terrace. Caraxes swooped lower, adding his own fire to the ruin for good measure.

Alyxander watched from above, the roaring wind slashing through his silver-gold hair, his face set like carved stone.

“For Meleys,” he muttered.

Satisfied, Alyxander turned Balerion’s wings toward the heart of Braavos, toward the very institution that had orchestrated the death of his beloved:

The House of Black and White.

As Balerion swept through the smoky morning sky, the wind screamed past Alyxander’s ears, and he could hear the city’s sounds rising below.

Screams.

High-pitched. Terrified. The wailing of thousands of voices crying out as the shadow of the Black Dread passed over the city. His wings blotted out the rising sun, casting the streets of Braavos into premature dusk. Wherever his shadow fell, the Braavosi fled—men, women, children—scrambling through the narrow alleys, their faces upturned in horror.

To the east, he could see Dreamfyre, Syrax, and Caraxes twisting through the sky, their riders raining fire upon the city’s harbors and strongholds. Olympia and Rhaenyra had already reduced two of the hidden Harbingers to molten wreckage, their flames sweeping over wharves and granaries alike. Caraxes had joined them, Daemon wielding his fury like a sword, carving a trail of red ruin through the richer quarters of the city.

Braavos was burning.

Alyxander neared the Isle of the Gods, his eyes narrowing as a dark, square-shaped complex emerged through the thinning fog. The House of Black and White stood alone, its stone face bare, almost humble, its twin doors—one black, one white—looming tall and silent.

No guards. No defenses.

As if death itself welcomed what was coming.

Alyxander sneered.

“Take us down,” he whispered.

With a single mighty beat of his wings, Balerion descended like a meteor. The stone buildings surrounding the House of Black and White cracked and crumbled beneath the Black Dread’s weight as he landed, claws crushing nearby shrines and old merchant halls. A cloud of shattered brick and dust erupted outward, sending those still foolish enough to remain nearby fleeing in terror.

The ground shook.

The great twin doors of the House of Black and White remained intact for a single breath longer.

Then—

“Burn it,” Alyxander snarled.

“Dracarys!” he screamed.

Balerion’s jaws opened wide, revealing a hellish furnace that roared to life with black flame.

What followed was fire the color of churning obsidian. It poured from the dragon’s mouth like a river of molten shadow, crashing against the House of Black and White. Stone hissed and steamed. The doors burst inward. Roof tiles melted. Statues of the Many-Faced God crumbled and wept blackened tears.

The sanctuary of death itself—the place where men traded names for silence—was now engulfed in fire so dark it seemed to swallow light. The walls glowed, cracked, then collapsed inward with a sound like thunder.

It was as if Harrenhal had burned anew beneath Aegon’s fury—stone that was never meant to melt, melting. The House of Black and White vanished into flame and smoke, devoured by a wrath born of love and loss.

And Alyxander watched it burn.

He said nothing. He only watched.

Below, citizens screamed and scattered, fleeing in every direction. Flames raced along bridges and quays, consuming everything. Towers collapsed. Bells melted in their belfries. Wealthy lords who had bought safety with silver found their mansions aflame. Red Temple fanatics tried to rally the people, only to be torn apart by panicked mobs or crushed beneath falling debris.

The city—proud, ancient Braavos—was breaking. No, it had broken.

This was justice. This was vengeance.

The war would end here.

If not today, then soon. For what could Qohor, Norvos, or even besieged Volantis offer in the face of this?

They would burn too, if need be.

But Braavos… Braavos would never rise again.

Alyxander reached down and ran his gloved hand along Balerion’s warm scales, the heat of the fire pulsing beneath them.

“Well done, old friend,” he murmured.

The sun was gone now.

Only smoke and ash remained.

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Daemon POV

Daemon Targaryen stood at the docks, watching ships creep past the shattered remains of the Titan of Braavos. Its broken form jutted from the sea like the bones of a fallen god—half-sunken, ruined. The gaping void where its chest had once been now formed a natural pass into the devastated lagoon beyond.

It had been three months since what they were calling the Ashing of Braavos.

Three months since fire and blood had rained from the sky.

Daemon looked around at the newly repaired docks lined with ships—all of them flying the dragon banner. Braavos no longer existed, by decree of his king. It had been reduced to a husk, destroyed both officially and in spirit.

The docks teemed with movement: Westerosi soldiers in red cloaks, Essosi merchants already staking claims, and newly sworn inhabitants of the city formerly known as Braavos.

Daemon turned as the three remaining leaders of the League disembarked, flanked by his men: Triarch Veros of Volantis, his crimson robes heavy with gold thread; High Priestess Ylora Vyn of Norvos, silent beneath her veiled hood, black ink staining her fingers and mouth; and finally, Patriarch Orvyn Damaros of Qohor—a pale, sweating man who could barely meet Daemon’s eyes.

They walked in silence, save for the sound of their footsteps over cracked stone.

Pentos had already been dealt with: every noble killed, their heads sent to Dragonstone as a gift for Rhaenys. The blood debt was paid in full.

But these three… they still had cities behind them. Forces. Wealth.

Daemon led them through the crumbling city, past scorched plazas and shattered statues, until the great ruin of the Iron Bank loomed into view.

Once one of the greatest financial powers in the world, it now stood fractured and open to the sky. Its marble façade was cracked, columns scorched and blackened, and its grand dome had collapsed.

It had been beautiful once, Daemon thought with a pang of grim amusement. Now, it looked like the mouth of the seven hells.

Inside, the echoes of their steps grew louder.

The trio of foreign leaders gasped as they entered the shattered great hall.

Before them stretched a long corridor of Silver Shields, their armor polished to a mirror sheen, standing at rigid attention in two flawless lines. Between them, a pathway of broken marble led to the throne—if one could call it that.

It was no iron monstrosity like the one in the Red Keep. It was built from the wreckage of the Iron Bank itself: twisted stone, shattered pillars, broken statues, and pieces of the domed roof had been heaped into a jagged mountain of rubble.

Seated atop it, draped in black and crimson, sat Alyxander Targaryen—King of the Seven Kingdoms, the Dragonlord of the West.

To his right stood Rhaenyra, clad in polished red-and-gold armor. To his left, Olympia in dark blue, her expression hard, unreadable.

At Alyxander’s feet stood little Alyx, the Crown Prince, dressed in black scaled leather, his silver hair braided in the style of old Valyria.

Baelon the Bold—Alyxander’s father and Hand of the King—and Viserys, his brother, waited below the throne.

As the foreign leaders approached, Daemon stepped behind them and raised a single gauntleted hand.

“Kneel.”

Triarch Veros bowed his head first, lips tight. High Priestess Ylora lowered herself wordlessly. But Patriarch Orvyn hesitated, trembling.

Daemon wasted no time.

With a heavy hand, he pressed down on Orvyn’s shoulder, forcing him to his knees beside the others.

He then strode to his father’s side, joining Baelon as Alyxander’s gaze bore down upon the kneeling remnants of the League.

“Welcome,” Alyxander said simply, his voice cutting through the ruined stillness like a blade. “You may raise your heads and gaze upon me.”

The three leaders obeyed, lifting their eyes slowly to meet the dragon seated above them. They looked upon their conqueror—expression unreadable, draped in crimson and black, crowned in Valyrian steel.

“I assume you are here,” Alyxander continued, “to finally put an end to this conflict… and that you have surrendered to all the demands I have made.”

Daemon stood to the right of his father and watched carefully. He saw the tightening of jaws, the flaring of nostrils, rage simmering beneath their masks of civility. But none dared speak.

Alyxander glanced to the side. “Uncle,” he said, “will you remind these fine lords of the terms?”

Baelon Targaryen stepped forward.

“By decree of His Grace, King Alyxander Targaryen:

First — the lands of Braavos, Lorath, Pentos, and Andalos are to be annexed into the Targaryen Crown. They shall henceforth be ruled directly by governors appointed by His Grace.

Second — the Rhoyne and its basin shall be designated as a protectorate of the Crown. The river will remain open for trade, but its people shall fall under Targaryen protection and oversight.

Third — the Valyrian Marches shall be expanded to encompass the entirety of the Orange Coast.

Fourth — the ore-rich hills of Norvos and the coastal forests of Qohor, along with the northern Essosi coastline, shall be claimed under the Crown’s dominion. Their resources shall be shared with the Seven Kingdoms and taxed accordingly.”

Daemon noticed Triarch Veros’s hand twitch slightly. The blood drained from Patriarch Orvyn’s face. Even High Priestess Ylora’s fingers curled tighter around her prayer beads.

Baelon continued.

“Fifth — thirty years are granted to your cities to begin the dismantling of the institution of slavery. After this time, the practice will be outlawed. Compliance shall be enforced.”

Daemon smirked, recalling how the Volantene nobility had erupted in fury when he read that aloud in their grand palace two moons ago—some had even drawn steel.

Baelon’s voice lowered, echoing against the charred stone:

“And lastly—while you will retain nominal independence, your cities must now recognize Alyxander Targaryen as Imperator hen Valyria and Protector of the Valyrian People.”

The silence that followed was suffocating.

Overhead, the sound of wings cut through the air. The dragons began to descend, their cries resounding across the ruined skyline. Balerion’s shadow darkened the scorched marble. Syrax and Dreamfyre wheeled high above. Vhagar circled slowly, old but still terrifying. Caraxes snarled as he passed overhead, flame leaking from his jaws.

The three leaders flinched as one.

“So,” Alyxander said, his voice softer now—almost mockingly gentle. “Do you accept?”

A long pause followed.

Then the Triarch of Volantis bowed his head deeply, his voice low and heavy with reluctant reverence.

“Ēdruta, ñuha Imperator.”
(“We accept, my Emperor.”)

The words sent a chill through the hall.

Ylora bowed next. “Avy jorrāelan, ñuha Imperator.”

Orvyn hesitated—just for a moment—then followed. “Hen Valyria, iā syt ābrar, ñuha Imperator…”

Alyxander did not smile. He merely leaned forward, hands resting on the stone arms of his throne—carved from the ruin of the Iron Bank—and looked down at the kneeling men and woman.

“Then rise,” he commanded. “And remember what you swore here today.”

Daemon smirked.

He knew they would cause trouble again; Alyxander had explained it when Daemon pushed for their destruction.

This was only the end of the second war.

He could smell the next one on the horizon already.