ASOIAF: Alyxander the Great IX

The torches flickered in the great hall, casting wild shadows across the marble columns as laughter and music filled the air. The scent of wine, sweat, and perfumed oils clung to the night. Alexander, draped in a loose chiton embroidered with golden laurels, leaned back against a pile of silk cushions. His cup, filled to the brim with undiluted wine, trembled slightly in his unsteady grip.

Another feast. Another night of excess.

Around him, his generals indulged in food, drink, and the pleasures of Babylon’s finest courtesans. Ptolemy laughed heartily as he whispered something into the ear of a young Persian girl draped in sheer silk. Antigonus and Perdiccas argued in slurred voices over some tactical maneuver, both too drunk to make sense of their own words. Seleucus, the young commander who had impressed Alexander in the last battle, stood near Antigonus, keeping a close eye on everything. They were all there—only Hephaestion’s absence lingered like a ghost, a reminder of what had been lost.

Another cup.

More laughter.

His mind was heavy, but his heart felt light. He had conquered Persia. He had stood at the edge of the world.

And yet… it was not enough. Never enough.

He was so close.

If only his men had not mutinied. If only they had followed him to the ends of the earth. India would have fallen. Arabia. Carthage. The distant lands beyond the Pillars of Heracles. The world should have been his.

Just as the oracle of Siwa had prophesied, he would have been the ruler of the world.

The music played on, but Alexander felt something wrong within him—an unsettling burn in his gut. His limbs ached as though they carried the weight of mountains. He reached for his wine again, but his fingers trembled too much to hold it.

His vision blurred. The sounds of revelry drifted into the distance.

His body grew heavier. His breath shallower.

Suddenly, the room changed. He found himself alone in his bed, too weak to move or speak.

No. Not yet. He was just getting started.

He clutched his chest, fingers digging into his own skin as if trying to hold his soul inside his failing body. He felt hands upon him, heard voices shouting his name—his generals, his soldiers, the people who had followed him into the unknown.

No.

This was not how it was supposed to end.

His lips parted, whispering a desperate prayer to Zeus, to the gods who had favored him, to the gods of Persia, Babylon, and even the distant lands of the Indus.

Give me another chance. Another chance to fulfill my destiny. Another chance to take what was meant to be mine. Another chance…

The room around him darkened. The voices faded to whispers.

Everything went silent.

====

Alyxander woke up, his breath slow and steady as he stared at the ceiling of his tent, his mind still clouded by the lingering haze of the dream.

Memories that were not his—yet entirely his own—flickered through his thoughts: the last days of a life long past, a life in which he had stood at the edge of the known world, seeking to push beyond it. His heart began to pound hard against his ribs, a deep, almost primal sense of unease settling in his chest. Was this a sign? A warning from the gods? He exhaled sharply, closing his eyes for a brief moment, willing the thoughts to silence.

“No, no… I’m being too paranoid,” he muttered to himself, shaking his head.

Pushing himself upright, he swung his legs over the side of his bed and reached for the basin of water set nearby. The coolness against his skin grounded him, the sensation pulling him further from the echoes of the past. He splashed the water over his face once, twice, then let out a deep sigh before rubbing his eyes, trying to rid himself of the remnants of sleep.

Standing, he walked to the large table dominating the center of his tent, covered in maps detailing the eastern coast of Essos. His hands traced the parchment absentmindedly as his thoughts wandered back—back to a different time, a different world.

He wondered, not for the first time, about what had happened after his death—after the death of Alexander of Macedon. Had Roxana survived? Had his son taken the throne after him? Had his empire stood for a thousand years, as the oracle at Siwa had foretold?

A bitter chuckle escaped his lips. He knew the truth, deep in his soul. Roxana, his son… they wouldn’t have survived. He had been surrounded by vipers in that life, men who would not have hesitated to cut down his own blood—their prince—to seize power. All his work, all his father’s work, could have been undone by them.

He clenched his jaw and shook his head, forcing himself to focus on the present.

That was another life. This is my life now.

And this life… this life was better.

He had a family that truly loved him, a kingdom that was his to shape. And then, of course, there were the dragons.

A slow smile crept onto his lips at that thought. Dragons. Here, with a dragon under his will, he was a god, in the way he had once only believed himself to be.

What kind of god would let his love be murdered? a small voice asked in his mind.

His thoughts fell on Myriah.

Everything had been perfect.

Until it wasn’t.

He should have been more careful. He should have struck the Free Cities down before they had a chance to strike him. He had let them fester, let them plot and grow stronger. In his negligence, he had paid the price.

His gaze fell upon Braavos on the map, and his fingers tightened into a fist. He wanted it destroyed, even as his advisors whispered of restraint—of the consequences that would come with its destruction.

But he did not care.

Damn the consequences.

With a sharp exhale, he reached for the dagger at his belt and drove it down into the parchment, the blade piercing Braavos with a satisfying crunch of wood beneath.

He was going to destroy it.

A slow, creeping rage spread through his veins, his pulse pounding in his ears. Grief had driven him to madness once before, in a life long past. He had lost himself when his greatest friend—his other half—had perished. It had led to his downfall. To his death.

But he had learned from that.

He had learned to check his emotions in this new life when his grandmother—the woman who had raised him—died. He had swallowed his pain when his father, Aemon, passed—a father far better than Philip had ever been. He had remained steady when his first love, Gael, was taken from him.

But Myriah’s death had broken him.

He could not check his emotions. He could not hold back his grief. And so he let vengeance consume him.

Innocent lives? He no longer cared.

The Free Cities had made an enemy of the dragon. Now, they would burn.

The heavy flap of his tent rustled open, dragging him from his thoughts.

Daemon strode in, his presence filling the space with his usual arrogance. “Awake this early?” he said with amusement. “After the night of drinking we had?” He scoffed, smirking. “Oh, wait—I forget that you don’t drink like real men do.”

Alyxander turned to his cousin, allowing himself the briefest hint of a smile. “Moderation is good, Daemon. Especially now that we’re aging.”

Daemon snorted as he made his way to the table, reaching for a goblet and pouring himself a drink. “You sound like we’re at death’s doorstep,” he mused, shaking his head. He filled another goblet, this time diluting the wine, and handed it to Alyxander.

Alyxander accepted it, rolling the cup between his fingers.

“If you’re here,” he said, taking a long sip, “I suppose our spies have sent word from Volantis.”

Daemon nodded, his eyes falling to the map, the dagger still lodged in Braavos. “Ah,” he chuckled. “You’re still thinking about burning that wretched city to the ground, aren’t you?”

Alyxander didn’t hesitate. “Always.”

Daemon took a slow sip of his wine, eyeing his cousin over the rim of the goblet. “Well, before you get the chance to turn Braavos to ash, we have another problem,” he said. “The League has scrounged up another army—apparently, eighty thousand strong.”

Alyxander’s grip on his goblet tightened. His golden eyes flicked to Daemon. “Where the fuck did that come from?”

Daemon sighed, setting his goblet down on the table. He reached for a wooden marker, placing it near Volantis on the map. “Our spies report it’s mostly slaves, freed men, survivors from the last army, soldiers from their tributary cities, and Dothraki.” He tapped the piece twice for emphasis. “Lots of Dothraki.”

Alyxander exhaled through his nose, rubbing his temple. “Desperate.”

“Of course they are,” Daemon said, stretching his legs out as he leaned back. “We’ve been wreaking havoc along the Orange Coast—freeing slaves, killing as many nobles and freemen as we can get our hands on. The League’s grip is slipping, and they know it. This is their last chance to stop us.”

Alyxander frowned, his eyes narrowing. Something about this felt… off. “I feel like there’s more,” he murmured.

Daemon’s smirk faded. He sat up and nodded. “There is.” He tossed a rolled parchment onto the table. “This sudden resurgence is due to someone—a champion of the Red God.”

Alyxander raised an eyebrow, unfolding the parchment. “A champion…of the Red God?”

Daemon leaned forward. “A man has revealed himself in Volantis,” he said, his voice laced with dry amusement. “The Red Temple believes him to be the chosen one of their god.”

Alyxander scoffed, tossing the parchment aside. “Let me guess—they call him Azor Ahai, just like Grandfather was obsessed with… like how Viserys is now.”

Daemon grinned. “They do.”

Alyxander shook his head. “This has religious politics written all over it.”

Daemon nodded. “Yes, I think so. The Red Temple sees this as an opportunity to make their faith dominant in the city. The old blood of Volantis is clamoring over this champion like he’s their savior.”

“Looks like we need to arrange a meeting for this champion with his god.”

Daemon’s grin widened. He stood, adjusting his sword belt. “You just need to say the word, my king.”

Alyxander’s gaze hardened. “It’s time we march. Leave thirty thousand here. Tell them to continue along the coast.” He stabbed a finger at the map. “We go where this army is.”

Daemon studied the map, then smirked. “They’re in Therys.”

Alyxander’s eyes gleamed with cold determination. “Therys it is.”

=====

They marched for four days, moving swiftly and relentlessly toward their objective. Before reaching Therys, they found the League’s new army waiting for them on the Plains of Narmell—a vast, open expanse of dry grass and scattered rocky outcroppings, perfect for cavalry maneuvers.

Alyxander sat atop his trusted Bucephalus, the massive black destrier standing steady beneath him. To his side, Daemon leaned slightly in his saddle, his eyes fixed on the enemy in the distance.

Before them, banners fluttered in the wind, bearing the sigils of Volantis, Qohor, and Norvos. Thousands of Dothraki riders, wild and unrestrained, gathered on the flanks, their horses restless. The center of the enemy army was a chaotic mix—slave levies, freed men, conscripts, and zealots, all whipped into a religious frenzy. And at their head, the so-called Champion of R’hllor, Azor Ahai, wielding his flaming sword.

“Dothraki, unarmored slaves,Zealots  and a man with a flaming sword. That is what we’re facing,” said Alyxander.

Daemon snorted. “Our scouts say they’re whipped up into a religious fervor. Even the slaves.”

Alyxander’s brow furrowed. “Even the slaves?”

Daemon nodded. “Apparently. The Red Priests have filled their heads with tales of destiny. They believe they fight for their god’s will.”

Alyxander remained silent, his fingers idly running along the reins of Bucephalus. Slavery was a concept he had lived with all his life—both in this one and the one before it. In Macedon, Hellas the Barbarians of the west and Egypt, it had been as natural as the sun rising in the east.

Yet Westeros abhorred it. His ancestors, the dragonlords of Valyria, had practiced it, and the Free Cities continued it still, but not Westeros.

He had no personal hatred for the institution—he was indifferent, neither championing it nor seeking to revive it. But if freeing slaves gained him favor, he would do it.

“After this, we lay siege to Volantis, then?” Daemon asked, breaking his thoughts.

Alyxander shook his head. “No. We need dragons for that.”

Daemon smirked. “I can’t wait for Caraxes to burn that wretched city to the ground. Let those false Valyrians know who the true dragonlords are.”

Alyxander chuckled, then turned his gaze back toward the battlefield. “Funny, isn’t it? That we’re about to fight here, of all places?”

Daemon raised an eyebrow. “Why?”

Alyxander glanced at him and smiled. “It was here, four thousand years ago, that the Freehold defeated the Kingdom of Sarcia. It was the first time Valyria expanded beyond the peninsula. They founded Volantis soon after.”

Daemon yawned loudly, stretching exaggeratedly in his saddle. “Are you trying to bore me to sleep? Because I’d be grateful for some rest before the battle.”

“No love for the past,” he muttered. In his previous life, Aristotle had instilled in him a love of history, drilling the lessons of past glory into his young mind. He sometimes wondered how his old tutor would have viewed this second life—the existence of other worlds.

He turned his horse toward the camp. “Come. We must convene a war council. I plan to end this tomorrow.”

====

“So, did Rhaenyra send any letters?” Daemon asked as they rode back.

Alyxander glanced at him, already knowing where this was going.

Daemon, ever persistent, continued before he could answer. “Did she give any updates on the dragons? Or was it a... special kind of letter? Only for you?” His tone was suggestive, the grin widening.

“Stop it, Daemon.”

Daemon laughed. “What? She’s a good choice for marriage. I mean, you have to marry soon anyway.”

“No. I am done.” Alyxander’s voice was firm.

Daemon raised an eyebrow. “I think you and I both know that’s not possible. You need to get married. We need a queen.”

Alyxander didn’t respond immediately.

Daemon pushed further. “And what better choice than Rhaenyra?”

Alyxander remained silent.

He and Rhaenyra had grown closer during his stay in Dragonstone. She had made her advances clear, and though he had subtly rebuffed them, he had assumed it was a passing fancy—something that would fade with time.

Alyxander shook his head and muttered, “Let’s just get this over with.”

They dismounted as they reached the command tent. Inside, commanders and lords stood waiting, maps and parchments scattered across a large wooden table. All present bowed.

Alyxander walked straight to the table, placing his gauntleted hands over the crude but serviceable map of the terrain. He began placing carved pieces—representing their forces and the enemy’s army—onto the surface.

“The League’s new army stands before us—their last gasp before they break completely,” Alyxander declared.

The lords murmured in agreement, eyes shifting toward the map.

“The terrain favors cavalry,” he continued, tapping his fingers against the board where the open plains of Narmell stretched wide.

Commander Rosby, a cautious man, spoke up. “They have twenty-five thousand Dothraki, my prince, and more than before.”

Daemon scoffed. “They will break under our cataphracts. Five thousand more have arrived; we have ten thousand now.”

Alyxander nodded, his gaze scanning the faces of his assembled commanders. “It is as Daemon says—our cataphracts will be the key to victory.”

He moved the carved pieces on the map, his mind already playing out the battle step by step.

“We will begin with a slow advance,” Alyxander explained, shifting a silver shield-shaped piece representing his elite infantry forward. “The Silver Shields will maintain a steady march. This will create pressure on their forces.

“Their troops are undisciplined—slaves, levies, and survivors from the last battle. They lack confidence, and a slow advance will unnerve them.”

Alyxander pushed another piece forward, this one a small horse-shaped token, representing the League’s Dothraki and mounted auxiliaries.

“The Dothraki will not sit idly. They’ll rush forward the moment they see an opening. Their arrogance and savagery will make them reckless.”

Daemon grinned, knowing what was coming next.

Alyxander continued, “Our cavalry—both the cataphracts and the knights—will feign a retreat. This will lure the Dothraki farther out, drawing them into our trap.”

He shifted the pieces once more.

“The Silver Shields will hold steady. They will not waver. When the Dothraki inevitably crash against them, they will break upon our spear.”

Daemon chuckled darkly. “And then we return and crush them.”

Alyxander nodded. “Yes. Once the Dothraki are dealt with, the rest will be easy for our well-trained army.”

Daemon cracked his knuckles. “And what of their so-called Champion of R’hllor?”

Alyxander’s expression darkened. “We will personally hunt him down.”

He placed two dragon-engraved pieces onto the board, representing himself and Daemon leading the Dragon Knights.

“This ‘Azor Ahai’ is the only thing giving their army hope. He’s their symbol. If we kill him, we shatter their will entirely.”

Alyxander looked around at the gathered lords. “Now go. It’s time we end this.”

He gave the final orders, and the commanders departed to carry them out.

=====

The sun hung high in the sky over the Plains of Narmell as Alyxander and Daemon sat astride their horses, watching the League’s army advance in the distance.

Alyxander turned to Daemon, his expression unreadable. Beside them, the Dragon Knights stood in silent readiness, each man clad in blackened steel, visors down, their lances glistening like fangs. Behind them, 10,000 cataphracts shifted in their saddles, their heavy armor gleaming under the sun.

Across the field, the League’s 80,000 men spread wide—a disorganized, desperate horde. At the vanguard were 25,000 Dothraki riders, their braid-bound hair whipping in the wind, their arched bows ready, their horses stamping impatiently. Behind them stretched an unsteady mass of conscripted levies and freed slaves, bolstered by survivors of the last battle. War elephants, weakened and barely disciplined, loomed behind the lines, with handlers desperately trying to control them.

The Silver Shields began their slow, disciplined march forward—a wall of spears, a wall of silver—unyielding. The ground trembled beneath their measured advance, while the rest of the army held position in silence, waiting.

Then, as predicted, the Dothraki lost patience.

A war horn sounded from their ranks, and with a thunderous roar, the 25,000 horsemen surged forward—an unstoppable tide of speed and fury. The earth shook as they thundered across the field, bows raised, curved blades gleaming in the sunlight.

Alyxander watched them come, calm and still as a statue.

Daemon smirked beside him. “Just as we planned.”

He signaled for the planned feigned retreat, wheeling his mount and galloping back. The Dothraki roared in triumph, believing the Westerosi horsemen to be fleeing in fear. Their charge intensified, surging forward with reckless abandon.

That was their mistake.

The moment the Dothraki drew near, the Silver Shields halted and formed an unbreakable wall of steel. Pikes lowered, bracing for impact.

The first wave of Dothraki slammed into the spears. Horses screamed. Men howled. Blood splattered across silver shields as their charge was broken in an instant. Some tried to wheel away—only to be met by volleys of arrows from Westerosi archers behind the phalanx.

Those who slipped through gaps in the pike line found themselves in chaotic melee combat against heavily armored knights and disciplined foot soldiers.

The second wave of Dothraki hesitated, seeing their forward riders fall in droves, but it was too late to retreat.

Alyxander and Daemon had led the cataphracts around the flanks.

From both sides, 10,000 heavily armored horsemen crashed into the Dothraki’s exposed ranks. Lances impaled riders, hooves trampled over fallen men, and swords cleaved through unarmored flesh.

The Dothraki panicked. Their famed mobility was useless—they were boxed in, slaughtered like cattle.

Within minutes, their once-mighty charge crumbled into a chaotic, blood-soaked retreat.

Alyxander looked toward the rest of the League’s army. Survivors from the Volantene legions, Qohorik Guardians, Norvoshi temple warriors, mercenaries, and tens of thousands of terrified slave levies surged forward in a disorganized, frenzied assault—all led by the so-called Azor Ahai.

War horns blared. The ground trembled beneath the weight of tens of thousands of feet marching, running, stumbling forward.

Alyxander, still atop Bucephalus, narrowed his eyes.

“Cataphracts, with me!”

With the Dothraki routed, he turned his heavy cavalry to meet the incoming charge. The armored horsemen, their lances gleaming, surged forward once again.

The clash was thunderous.

The League’s front ranks shattered on impact. Lances pierced weak armor and flesh, sending bodies flying. Mercenaries and slave levies collapsed under the sheer force of Alyxander’s cataphracts.

Alyxander searched for the champion whose flaming sword the reports had mentioned.

It was Daemon who spotted him: a titanic figure in the chaos—a man clad in blood-red armor, taller than any around him, wielding a sword that burned with unnatural fire. The Champion of R’hllor.

Alyxander watched him cut down knights as though they were children, his blade leaving trails of fire in the air. Around him, fanatic warriors of the Red Temple surged forward, screaming praises to their god.

Daemon did not hesitate.

“WITH ME!” he roared, spurring Caraxes’ Shadow—his warhorse—forward.

Alyxander saw him break away.

“Daemon, NO!”

Daemon did not listen. He was already riding toward the so-called Azor Ahai.

Alyxander gritted his teeth, but he could not abandon his position.

“HOLD THE LINE! SILVER SHIELDS, ADVANCE!” he bellowed.

The Silver Shields pushed forward, their pikes forming an unbreakable wall. Despite their numbers, the enemy began to break upon those gleaming spears like waves against stone.

Still, Alyxander’s attention kept drifting to Daemon.

His cousin had reached the Champion. Daemon was off his horse now, sword crashing against the flaming blade of the so-called Azor Ahai. The two men clashed repeatedly—Daemon moving with practiced, deadly speed, while the Red Champion swung his flaming sword in wide, powerful arcs. Alyxander saw Daemon strike fast—once, twice, three times—but each time, the Champion countered with inhuman strength.

Then it happened.

A mighty swing from Azor Ahai struck Daemon’s sword at an angle, sending it spinning from his grip.
Before Daemon could react, the Champion brought his sword down—straight onto Daemon’s arm. Alyxander froze in his saddle as he saw Daemon’s gauntlet burst apart, the bones of his hand shattered, white fragments jutting out through broken flesh.

“FUCK!”

Daemon staggered back, clutching his mangled arm, his face twisting in pain.

Azor Ahai raised his flaming sword for the killing blow.

“NO!” Alyxander bellowed, spurring Bucephalus forward.

“DRAGON KNIGHTS, WITH ME!”

The Dragon Knights thundered forward, cutting through anything in their way. The Champion turned to face them, his flaming sword reflecting in his helmet’s visor. As Alyxander charged, one of the temple guards on horseback collided with Bucephalus, sending him tumbling from the saddle—but he quickly rolled back onto his feet, only to see the Champion charging straight at him.

Blackfyre met the flaming sword, the force of the clash rattling Alyxander’s bones. Despite his skill, he could feel the tremendous strength behind every strike. The Champion’s sword crashed down like a hammer from the heavens, forcing Alyxander to block and roll away before he could counter.

The heat of the blade was unbearable—even as he parried, he felt the flames licking at his skin.

The Champion swung low—Alyxander leapt back just in time. He countered with a swift thrust aimed at the Champion’s exposed flank, but the man moved with surprising speed, turning the blow aside with the flat of his flaming sword before bringing it down in a vicious overhead strike.

“DIE, MONGREL!” the Champion bellowed in Low Valyrian.

Alyxander barely got Blackfyre up in time. The impact rattled his arms, his bones screaming in protest. The Champion surged forward, pressing his advantage, his sword a blur of flame and steel. Alyxander ducked one swing and sidestepped another, but the third caught him across the ribs—not a direct cut, yet the force behind it sent him sprawling onto his back.

Pain flared through his side as he gasped for breath.

Before he could react, a heavy boot slammed down onto his chest, pinning him to the ground.
 Alyxander screamed as he felt his ribs crack under the pressure.

The Champion loomed above him, raising the blazing sword high for the killing blow.

Then—

“FOR THE KING!”

One of Alyxander’s Dragon Knights hurled himself at the Champion, sword flashing. The Champion turned just in time, meeting the attack head-on.

Alyxander gasped for air, rolling onto his side and clutching his aching ribs. His vision swam, but he saw it—

The Champion cut his knight down with a single flaming arc, slicing through steel and flesh like butter.

But that moment of distraction was all Alyxander needed.

Ignoring the pain, he surged to his feet, Blackfyre glinting in the firelight.

The Champion turned back to him—too late.

Alyxander drove Blackfyre straight into the man’s face. The Valyrian steel blade pierced through his visor, cutting through bone and flesh. The flaming sword flickered. The Champion staggered back.

Alyxander wrenched Blackfyre free, spraying dark blood onto the battlefield. The Champion let out a final, choked gurgle—then collapsed. The flames on his sword died, and the light in his eyes faded.

Alyxander looked around, his mind in a daze. He was surrounded by his Dragon Knights. Daemon lay a few feet away, still moving—still alive. Then he heard it—a sound that shook the heavens themselves.

A roar.

Not just any roar—a deep, earth-shattering bellow that sent tremors through the battlefield.

Alyxander turned, his breath catching in his throat.

A shadow loomed over the horizon, blotting out the sun.

Balerion descended from the sky, his massive wings casting darkness over the battlefield. His golden eyes burned like twin suns, his jaws parted, revealing a furnace of fire waiting to be unleashed.

The League’s army broke. Panic surged through their ranks. Weapons were tossed aside. Men trampled one another, desperate to flee the wrath of the Black Dread.

Alyxander walked over to Daemon, who lay there smirking through the pain.

“Make sure I don’t die,” Daemon said, his voice strained but edged with dark amusement. “I want to be there when we burn all these fuckers.”

====

Alyxander didn’t hesitate. “Will he live?”

The maester gave a slow nod. “Yes, Your Grace. But—”

Alyxander didn’t wait to hear the rest. He pushed past him and stepped inside.

The tent was dimly lit, the scent of herbs and blood thick in the air. Daemon lay on a cot, propped up against a pile of furs, his face pale but his eyes alert. His left arm—gone. A fresh bandage wrapped around the stump, still red with seeping blood.

Daemon grunted when he saw Alyxander approach. “I hate this.”

Alyxander stared at him, his expression unreadable. Then, in a low voice, he said, “You were reckless.”

Daemon didn’t respond. He only glared at the empty space where his arm used to be.

Alyxander stepped closer, his voice quieter now. “I’m glad you didn’t die.” He hesitated before adding, “I’ve lost enough this year.”

Daemon scoffed, rolling his eyes. “Don’t get sentimental. You know I hate that.” He shifted slightly, wincing from the pain, then his lips curled into a familiar smirk. “Balerion is back.”

Alyxander allowed himself a small smile. “Yes, he is.”

Daemon chuckled, but pain laced his laughter. “You know what that means.”

Alyxander nodded. “Yes. We go to Dragonstone as soon as you’re well.”

Daemon immediately swung his legs over the cot, trying to push himself up. “I’m well.”

Alyxander placed a firm hand on his shoulder, pushing him back down. “By the end of the week.”

Daemon gritted his teeth. “Fuck you.”

A moment of silence stretched between them before Daemon sighed and leaned back. “You’re going to rename Alyxandria after me. You can name another one after yourself.”

Alyxander laughed, recalling the countless “Alexandrias” he had built in his previous life. Perhaps he could do that here as well.

“I could just keep it and name as many cities as I want after me.”

Daemon huffed. “Well, if I’m going to rule the Valyrian Marches from that place, I’m calling it Daemonholt, not Alyxandria.”

Alyxander arched a brow, then grinned. “Fine. Only because you fought so bravely.” He paused for a beat. “And lost.”

Daemon glared at him. “Fuck you.”

Daemon’s expression then softened and turned into one of glee. “I can’t wait to go to Braavos.”

Alyxander matched Daemon’s expression. “ I’m going to sink that malakas city into the sea.”

.

.

This is the first Alyxander POV that covers what he was doing while the events of the last chapter were happening. The next chapter will be a continuation of the ending of the eighth chapter, which concluded with the Sealord seeing dragons arriving in Braavos.