ASOIAF: Alyxander the Great VIII

Excerpt from Footsteps of Alyxander the Great
Chapter X: The Battle of Alyxandria**

The Battle of Alyxandria**—sometimes called the Battle of the Red Fields—stands as one of the greatest clashes in history, a triumph of tactics, discipline, and sheer military genius. In what seemed an insurmountable challenge, King Alyxander Targaryen led an army of 50,000 men against the 100,000-strong force of the League of Free Cities. Outnumbered two to one, and facing an enemy composed of the finest Volantene legions, the hardened Guardians of Qohor, Norvoshi zealots, mercenaries, and Dothraki outriders, Alyxander defied all expectations. He emerged victorious in what many scholars now consider his greatest Victory.

This battle was not merely a test of arms—it was a test of wit, deception, and flawless execution. To this day, it is studied by military minds across the world, a testament to Alyxander’s brilliance—one reason he is still revered as the God of War in many parts of Essos.

For three days before the battle, Alyxander maintained an identical formation each morning, facing the League’s host without engaging. His men lined up in what appeared to be the most conventional arrangement: his strongest forces in the center, his weaker levies on the flanks, and his cavalry positioned as expected.

His foe, Triarch Daevon Laenor, interpreted this as a sign of hesitancy or a lack of strategic vision. The League’s formation mirrored Alyxander’s, assuming that when battle finally commenced, their superior numbers and hardened center would crush the Westerosi line.

However, Alyxander had no intention of fighting them in a conventional manner. Each day, as both sides stood in formation, he studied the enemy's movements, testing their patience and observing how they reacted. He noted how his foes grew complacent, believing that when the battle came, it would be fought in a predictable, straightforward manner.

Then, on the fourth day, before dawn, Alyxander made his move.

While the League’s army and commanders rested, Alyxander led his elite cavalry—the Cataphatos—in a sudden raid on the enemy’s camp. The attack was swift and brutal: fires were set, tents burned, and men were killed. It was not meant to annihilate the enemy but to rouse them in panic and force them into battle hastily. The League’s men were woken from sleep, forced to don armor quickly, and many had no time to eat or drink before marching to war.

This seemingly small detail would prove crucial. The League's troops entered the battlefield hungry, exhausted, and already shaken from the morning’s chaos.

When the League’s forces finally formed their battle lines, they saw Alyxander’s army in the same position as before—or so they thought. What they did not realize was that, during the pre-dawn hours, Alyxander had completely reversed his formation.

Instead of placing his best men in the center, he stationed his weakest levies there. His Silver Shields—the professional army forged under his rule—were moved to the flanks, alongside his most experienced knights and elite Cataphracts. Alyxander himself led his Dragon Knights, the finest knights in the realm, on the left flank.

When the battle began, the center of Alyxander’s army advanced cautiously, feigning hesitation—deliberately baiting the League’s center to push forward aggressively.

As the League’s powerful center surged ahead, Alyxander’s flanks advanced with speed and precision.

On the right flank, Daemon Targaryen commanded half of the Silver Shields and a contingent of seasoned knights, driving into the League’s weaker left, made up mostly of mercenaries and auxiliaries. The mercenaries, sensing disaster, began to break.

On the left flank, Alyxander led the Dragon Knights, Silver Shields, and Cataphracts in a devastating charge, shattering the League’s right. The Dothraki riders and Mantaryan cavalry were overwhelmed, their mounts collapsing under volleys of spears and lances.

With both flanks collapsing, the League’s center suddenly found itself exposed, leaderless, and surrounded. Their best troops—who had charged forward expecting to break the Westerosi center—were now encircled.

As Alyxander’s flanks curved inward, they trapped the League’s center from both sides.

With the Westerosi levies closing in from the front, there was no escape. The League’s once-mighty host fell into complete chaos. Some tried to fight their way out, only to be impaled on the pikes of the Silver Shields. Others threw down their weapons and attempted to flee, but Alyxander’s cavalry cut them down from behind. The Volantene war elephants, confused and terrified, ran amok, trampling their own soldiers in the desperate retreat.

By the battle’s end, 90,000 men lay dead upon the field. The League’s army had been utterly annihilated.

Alyxander’s own casualties were no more than 10,000—a staggering victory.

It is said that Westerosi soldiers’ hands grew sore from the sheer number of enemies they killed. Some even abandoned their weapons, unable to lift them any longer after hours of relentless slaughter.

As the League’s formation collapsed, Alyxander personally engaged Triarch Daevon Laenor in single combat, cutting him down from horseback. The sight of their leader’s severed head rolling across the battlefield hastened the League’s total destruction.

It is also said that Archon Daemon Targaryen saved the future emperor from a League spearman during the chaos of the final moments.

With their leaders dead, their armies shattered, and their cities exposed, the Free Cities stood defenseless before Alyxander’s wrath. The war, however, was far from over.

With the Valyrian Marches secured, Alyxander wasted no time. He led his victorious army eastward, crossing into Volantene territory.

The campaign that followed would become known as the Scouring of the Orange Coast—a brutal, unrelenting march through Volantene lands, where Alyxander’s forces left fire, blood, and ruin in their wake.

As Alyxander himself proclaimed, “By the end of this war, only the true sons and daughters of Old Valyria will remain.” Those words would soon prove prophetic, for once the Targaryen dragons recovered, the conflict would become an utter disaster for the League.

**The city, after the war, was renamed Daemonholt. It was only known as Alyxandria for a short period. However, this renaming allowed the name Alyxandria to later be used for the now-famous city that bears it today.

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Rhaenyra Targaryen was frustrated.

It had been eight months since the war began—eight months since the attack on the capital. Most of their dragons had recovered from the poisoning attempt, yet they could not be used in the war. The League had a weapon—a weapon that had already killed one of their dragons. The very fact that it had happened made her seethe with anger.

Almost losing her mother had only fanned that fury into an inferno. She wanted to take Syrax and burn all of Essos to the ground herself.

Meleys.

She had been so beautiful, her crimson scales like living flame, her wings vast enough to blot out the sun. Now she was gone.

Rhaenyra’s heart ached at the thought of never seeing her again. But beyond that grief was something far darker—rage. What made it worse was what the League had done with Meleys after they slew her. Her head had been paraded through the streets of Pentos.

Rhaenyra clenched her fists, her nails digging into her palms. She hated them: the Pentosi, the Volantenes, the Norvosi, the Qohorik—all of them. She wanted to see them suffer. She wanted to hear them scream. She wondered what they would have done to her mother if she had been caught as well.

But the gods had been merciful. Her mother had been saved—barely. Still, she could not yet walk. The maesters had promised that she would recover in time, but for now, she remained bound to the bed. Rhaenyra had never seen her mother so weak, and it unsettled her in ways she did not want to admit.

She stopped at the doorway of the chamber, taking a breath before stepping inside.

A small blur of movement rushed toward her.

Jocelyn.

The little girl crashed into her legs, nearly toppling over, but Rhaenyra caught her, lifting her up with ease.

“Jocelyn, my little dragon,” she murmured, holding her close.

Her little cousin—‘her daughter’ if all went as planned—was a hellion.

“Fly!” Jocelyn demanded with a bright giggle, pointing to the open sky beyond the window.

Rhaenyra smiled, brushing the girl's dark curls from her face. “Perhaps later, my sweet.”

She turned her gaze toward the bed, where Olympia sat beside Rhaenys. They were deep in conversation, but both looked up as she approached.

“Mother. Lia.”

Rhaenyra greeted them warmly as she stepped further into the chamber. Her cousin, Olympia, was seated beside their mother, her hands folded neatly in her lap, listening intently. Rhaenyra had always called her Lia—a habit from childhood. They were five years apart, but they had grown up more as sisters than cousins, each other’s best friends.

Yet lately, something had changed. Olympia had been distant ever since arriving at Dragonstone.

“Rhaenyra,” Olympia greeted.

Not “Rhae.”

Not “Nyra.”

Rhaenyra frowned slightly but said nothing.

Rhaenys shifted slightly in the bed, her face weary. “Has your father sent word?”

Rhaenyra nodded. “Yes, Mother. Father and Grandfather will be here soon. Grandfather is very worried about Vhagar.” The old dragon was growing weak. It would break her grandfather’s heart if anything happened to her.

Olympia, still watching her carefully, spoke next. “Perhaps the gods will bless Vhagar as they did Balerion when my father was born.”

Rhaenys chuckled, her gaze softening with memory. “Oh, I remember that day. I was but a child…”

She began to recount the tale—how the mighty Black Dread, long past his prime, had miraculously regained his strength upon Alyxander’s birth. Some had called it an omen, others a blessing. But to those who had seen it happen, there was no doubt—

The Prince was touched by the gods. The Blessed Prince, they called him.

Rhaenyra smiled faintly, listening. Alyxander had been destined for greatness from the moment he drew breath, and she had loved him for as long as she could remember.

It was only in the last few years she realized this love—this confusing feeling. She remembered being jealous of Myria, the first and only woman she had ever felt those feelings toward. She had hated her, too young to understand why.

Over time, she had learned to tolerate her, even to like her, but that feeling—that ugly, burning thing—had never truly left. And when she heard the tragic news of Myria’s death…

A part of her had rejoiced. It had been shameful, a thought so terrible she buried it deep, never to be spoken aloud. Yet even now, in the depths of her mind, she could not deny it.

She lifted her gaze and found Olympia watching her. Their eyes locked. Olympia’s expression hardened, her violet eyes narrowing slightly before she turned away, focusing on Rhaenys’s story once more.

Jocelyn stomped her foot, interrupting her mother’s story. “I want a dragon too!” she declared, pouting.

Olympia smirked, glancing down at her little cousin. “Then you’ll have to marry Laenor if you want your own.”

The reaction was immediate. Jocelyn’s expression soured into a deep scowl, her nose scrunching in disgust.

“No!” she shouted, shaking her head fiercely. “I hate Laenor!”

Rhaenyra chuckled, placing a gentle hand on Jocelyn’s shoulder. “Well, little princess, it isn’t as simple as that anymore,” she said. “Your father has made new laws—not all Targaryens can have dragons now.”

Jocelyn gasped, turning to Olympia with a look of pure outrage. “That’s not fair!”

Olympia only laughed, ruffling Jocelyn’s dark curls. “Life isn’t fair, my sweet. Just ask Rhaenyra.”

Rhaenyra narrowed her eyes at Olympia, but the younger girl simply smiled before turning back to Rhaenys.

Rhaenyra, her mother, and Olympia talked for some time, the tension in the chamber slowly easing as the conversation drifted to lighter matters. After a while, Olympia straightened in her seat and said, “I wish to go find Al.”

Rhaenys nodded. “The boy needs you, Olympia. He just lost his mother.”

“We are all here for him, Mother,” Rhaenyra interjected.

“Well, I am here for him…his sister,” Olympia interrupted, her tone sharp.

Rhaenyra fell silent, caught off guard by the unexpected bite in her cousin’s words.

Olympia stood and smoothed the folds of her dress, her expression unreadable. Rhaenyra watched as she turned gracefully and left the chamber, Jocelyn scampering after her.

As soon as the door closed, Rhaenys sighed. “You’re wondering why she’s acting like this.”

Rhaenyra turned back to her mother, her brow furrowed. “Yes. I don’t understand.”

Rhaenys smiled knowingly, leaning back against her pillows. “Olympia is not an idiot. She’s old enough to understand things around her—things like her cousin lusting after her father.”

Rhaenyra’s breath caught in her throat. “No.” She shook her head. “She can’t know about that. Unless…you told her?”

Rhaenys chuckled. “I haven’t said a thing.”

Rhaenyra stood abruptly and strode toward the window, pressing her hands against the cool stone. Outside, the sky was beginning to clear, dark clouds parting to reveal patches of pale blue.

“Talk to her,” Rhaenys said gently.

Rhaenyra exhaled. “That is exactly what I’m going to do.”

She turned sharply, her mind already made up. Without another word, she left the chamber, her steps swift as she moved through Dragonstone’s winding halls.

Stopping one of the passing servants, she asked, “Where is Princess Olympia?”

The servant bowed quickly. “Princess Olympia left with Ser Tully. They rode for the Dragonmont. Prince Alyx was with her as well.”

Rhaenyra said nothing, only nodding as she strode away, calling for her own guards.

Minutes later, she was on horseback, riding through Dragonstone’s rugged terrain with her escort trailing behind her. The wind was sharp, carrying the scent of the sea and the distant rumble of waves crashing against the cliffs. The path toward the Dragonmont was well-worn, the earth hardened from years of dragons taking flight.

As she approached the great mount, her gaze lifted to the sky.

A shadow passed overhead—Syrax. Her dragon let out a sharp cry, circling before descending toward the mountain’s higher ridges.

Further ahead, Dreamfyre stood near the rocky outcrop, her pale blue scales glinting in the sunlight. And beside her, even from a distance, Rhaenyra could see the hulking form of Vermithor—the Bronze Fury, the old king’s former dragon, now ridden by the crown prince.

Rhaenyra stopped as Syrax landed beside her, the wind from her wings sending dust and loose stones scattering across the ground. The golden dragon let out a soft, pleased rumble as her rider approached, lowering her massive head so Rhaenyra could run her fingers along the smooth, warm scales of her snout.

“Syt rēbagon, ñuha gevie issa (So fast, my beauty),” she whispered in High Valyrian, her voice filled with quiet reverence.

Syrax’s golden eyes blinked at her.

“Ērinnon jemagon ērinnon, se īlon jorrāelza tolī iā syt Meleys (Soon we will fly, soon we will take our revenge for Meleys),” Rhaenyra continued, her hand moving to scratch beneath one of Syrax’s ridges.

The dragon let out a sharp exhale, a small gust of hot air washing over her rider.

“Sȳz riña (Good girl),” Rhaenyra murmured.

As she pulled back, her gaze swept across the base of the Dragonmont. She spotted Dreamfyre, Olympia’s dragon, her pale blue form coiling in anticipation, preparing to take flight.

Then she heard a familiar voice—strong, filled with mirth.

“Nyra! Nyra! Let’s race!”

She turned sharply, seeing Alyx astride Vermithor, the great Bronze Fury shifting his weight, his golden eyes gleaming with challenge. Olympia was already climbing onto Dreamfyre, adjusting her seat as the dragon prepared to take off.

A smirk pulled at Rhaenyra’s lips. A race, was it?

“Sōvī, ñuha gevie—kostilus ūndegon zirȳ (Fly, my beauty—show them who is the queen of the skies)!” she called, swinging herself atop Syrax’s saddle.

Syrax let out a sharp cry, her wings unfurling wide, yellow and powerful against the morning light. With a powerful leap, she pushed off the ground, talons kicking up dirt and rock as her wings snapped open, catching the wind.

She rose swiftly, her body sleek as she cut through the sky, her rider guiding her toward Vermithor and Dreamfyre, already soaring ahead. The wind howled past her ears, the salt of the sea clinging to her skin as Syrax climbed higher, chasing after Vermithor and Dreamfyre.

Rhaenyra leaned forward in the saddle, gripping tight as she called out, her voice lost in the rushing air. “Līve syt nyke, Syrax! Nyke! (Faster for me, Syrax! Faster)!” she urged, her heart hammering in her chest.

The yellow dragon roared, as if reveling in the challenge, her wings beating with renewed strength. The force of her ascent sent a gust of turbulence behind her, shaking the very air. She closed the gap between her and Olympia, inching ahead of Dreamfyre with each powerful stroke.

The cliffs of Dragonstone loomed beneath them—jagged fangs of black rock rising from the turbulent waves below. Vermithor and Alyx were further ahead, the boy laughing wildly, the first true joy Rhaenyra had seen on his face in months. Olympia, however, was determined—she leaned low over Dreamfyre’s back and suddenly angled downward in a risky dive, cutting ahead of Rhaenyra.

Rhaenyra’s eyes widened. “Olympia! Careful!” she shouted over the wind, watching as Dreamfyre twisted through the air.

Olympia was daring—too daring.

Rhaenyra gritted her teeth, guiding Syrax in a safer curve yet still keeping pace. She would not be outmatched, but neither would she throw caution to the wind. The race wasn’t worth broken bones—or worse.

Ahead, Alyx suddenly veered right, guiding Vermithor toward a great stone arch—a natural formation known as Gaemon’s Arch, carved by the winds and waves over centuries. The massive dragon plunged forward, wings folding just enough to slip through the narrow opening before snapping them wide again on the other side.

“Ha! Did you see that?” Alyx called back, his voice full of excitement.

Rhaenyra grinned. “Māzigon, Syrax! (Follow, Syrax!)” she called, urging her dragon onward.

Syrax answered with a sharp cry, pulling into a steep, daring dive toward the arch. The rock loomed ahead, growing larger and larger—Rhaenyra could feel her pulse quicken. At the very last moment, she leaned in close, guiding Syrax through the tight passage. The dark stone blurred around them—then suddenly, they were through, bursting into open sky.

Alyx’s eyes were wide with delight. “You did it!” he cheered.

Rhaenyra only laughed in return, exhilarated by the rush of wind, by the pure thrill of flight.

The race was forgotten. The three of them, once caught in the heat of competition, now simply soared together. Vermithor, Syrax, and Dreamfyre wheeled through the sky, twisting, climbing, and dipping in lazy spirals over the cliffs and the sea. For the first time in months, Alyx was laughing, his sorrow momentarily lifted.

Rhaenyra’s heart swelled at the sight. They flew together for a long while, basking in the freedom of the skies, before finally turning back toward the Dragonmont.

As they descended, the great dragons kicked up clouds of dust and loose stone, their talons scraping against the ground as they landed. The warmth of their bodies radiated outward, heat rolling off their scales in waves.

Rhaenyra dismounted, brushing her hand along Syrax’s yellow hide. She turned, watching as Olympia leapt down from Dreamfyre and Alyx slid from Vermithor’s back.

Alyx came running over, his cheeks flushed with excitement as he practically leapt into Rhaenyra’s embrace. She held him tightly, smoothing back his silver-gold curls as she murmured, “That was dangerous flying, young man.”

Alyx pulled back, grinning. “You did it too! And it was Father who taught me how. He always says that real dragonriders need to know their dragons inside and out.” He laughed, his bright purple eyes shining with joy. “Balerion was too big to fit under the arch, though.”

“Too fat,” Rhaenyra joked, much to Alyx’s delight.

She then noticed Olympia approaching, her expression carefully neutral.

Alyx turned to her, his laughter fading, replaced by something more serious. “We should go to Father, Nyra,” he said urgently. “Our dragons are well now. We should be helping him. We should destroy the League.”

Rhaenyra sighed, brushing his hair back as she knelt to meet his gaze. “You know what happened to Meleys, Alyx.”

His jaw clenched, but his eyes burned with defiance. “We can be more careful. Maybe if we all worked together, we could destroy this weapon.”

“No, Alyx.” Olympia’s voice was sharp, her arms crossed. “Stop with this talk of war. You are but a child.”

Alyx’s fists balled at his sides. “I am not a child, Lia. Mother’s murderers are out there, and I’m just sitting here.” His voice cracked slightly, but he swallowed the emotion down.

“Father is avenging Mother as we speak,” Olympia said firmly. “And you are not going to war, Alyx. It’s not your place.”

Alyx’s eyes flashed with anger. “You’re a coward.”

Olympia’s expression darkened immediately. “And you’re a spoiled brat!” she snapped. “All you do is sulk and mope about how you want revenge! What do you think Mother would say if she saw you acting like this?”

Alyx’s face twisted, his lips parting as if he wanted to say something—then his expression hardened.

“Well, she’s dead now, isn’t she?”

The words hung in the air, and the instant they left his mouth, regret flickered across his face—but it was too late.

Olympia slapped him.

The sharp crack echoed through the air, and Alyx stumbled back, his face flushed with shock and fury. His lips trembled, but he refused to speak. He turned and ran instead.

“Alyx!” Rhaenyra called after him, stepping forward, but he was already gone.

She turned back to Olympia, her eyes blazing. “What the fuck did you do that for?”

Olympia’s expression was rigid, unreadable. “I don’t have time to talk to the likes of you.” She turned sharply, ready to walk away.

But Rhaenyra grabbed her wrist, her grip tight and unyielding.

“No, Lia.” Her voice was low, commanding. “We need to talk.”

“There is nothing to talk about,” Olympia said coldly, trying to yank her wrist free.

Rhaenyra held firm. “Why are you being like this?” she demanded, frustration coloring her tone. “What have I done to make you hate me?”

For a moment, Olympia was silent. Her eyes, so much like Alyx’s, burned with unspoken emotions. Then, finally, she scoffed. “What have you done?” she repeated bitterly.

She pulled her wrist free at last, stepping back. “I know what you want, Rhae. I’m not an idiot.”

Rhaenyra’s heart pounded, something uneasy coiling in her stomach. “Olympia, what are you talking about?”

Olympia laughed, but there was no humor in it—only hollow pain. “No one wants to learn that their best friend wants to fuck their father…”

Rhaenyra’s eyes widened in horror. “It’s not—”

“Not what?” Olympia cut her off, her voice sharp as a blade. “Am I wrong? Was it not you who told me years ago that you liked my father? That you were jealous of Myria?”

Rhaenyra’s breath caught in her throat. A memory surged forward—she and Olympia in her chambers, giggling over stolen wine, whispering secrets. Her own careless words now coming back to haunt her.

Olympia’s eyes narrowed. “I thought it was just a passing fancy,” she said, her voice trembling slightly. “But it only took a few months after Myria died for you to start scheming. I watched as you tried to worm your way into my father’s heart.”

Rhaenyra felt her nails dig into her palms.

Olympia stepped closer, lowering her voice. “And now, I see how you are with Alyx and Jocelyn. A little too sweet. A little too caring.”

Rhaenyra’s lips parted, but she couldn’t find her voice. Does she think I fake my affections for them?

Olympia’s gaze was piercing, laced with betrayal. “Tell me, Rhaenyra. Are they just pieces in your game?”

Her voice rose. “You’re taking advantage of my father’s grief! Gods, Rhaenyra, have you no shame?”

She glared at Rhaenyra and spat, “Have you shared his bed yet? Am I to expect your marriage as soon as he gets back?”

Rhaenyra’s eyes widened in shock, her breath catching. “Stop. Stop! Please, stop,” she pleaded, her voice trembling. But Olympia pressed on, relentless.

“You cannot deny this, Rhaenyra.”

A heavy silence stretched between them.

Enough of this, Rhaenyra thought. Who is she to judge me?

“Yes,” she snapped, lifting her chin defiantly. “I love your father. Yes, I want to be his queen. And no, Lia—nothing will stop me from getting what I want.”

Olympia staggered back slightly, as if struck.

Rhaenyra’s eyes burned with frustration and hurt. “And you have the gall to say I’m faking my love for Jocelyn and Alyx?”

Olympia’s lips parted, but no words came. Shame flickered across her face.

Rhaenyra took a step closer. “I will pursue my heart, and you cannot stop me.”

Olympia’s fists clenched. “I am his daughter. I will tell him.”

Rhaenyra tilted her head, smirking. “Tell him what? That I love him? What have I done to earn his scorn?”

She let the question hang for a moment before leaning in. “But you, dearest Lia…have you done something to earn his?”

Olympia’s breath hitched.

Rhaenyra’s smirk deepened. “Shall I tell him your little secret? About your private meetings with Ser Osric’s squire?”

Olympia’s eyes widened in horror. “What? No! There is nothing—”

Rhaenyra raised a brow. “Is there?”

Olympia’s face flushed with panic.

“We can continue our old relationship, Lia,” Rhaenyra said smoothly. “Nothing has to change.”

Olympia’s jaw clenched. “Nothing? Other than you fucking my father?”

Rhaenyra smiled faintly. “Yes, that. But nothing else.”

Olympia said nothing. Then, with a sharp intake of breath, she turned on her heel and walked away.

Rhaenyra watched her go, exhaling slowly before lifting her head to the sky. Above, Syrax soared high, her golden scales gleaming in the morning sun as she wheeled lazily through the air, drifting closer to where Balerion lay resting.

Rhaenyra’s lips curled into a smirk. Even the gods had blessed her and Alyxander’s union.

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Rhaenyra walked through the stone corridors of Dragonstone, her steps slow and deliberate, carrying herself with the grace of a queen. The long, flowing sleeves of her deep crimson gown trailed behind her, embroidered with golden thread in the shape of dragons. The dress had once belonged to her great-grandmother, and she had chosen to wear it today as a statement—to let those who noticed know what she wanted and what she would become.

The doors to the chamber that held the Painted Table were open, torches casting flickering light upon the ancient carved map of Westeros. Her father and grandfather stood beside it, deep in discussion, their faces weary from travel but brightening the moment they saw her.

“My sweet Rhae,” Viserys said warmly, stepping forward to kiss her cheeks.

Baelon Targaryen followed, embracing her. He placed a firm kiss on her forehead before pulling back to admire her. “You dress like a queen.” His voice held approval, and his violet eyes gleamed with pride.

Rhaenyra smiled, pleased by his words. But before she could respond, movement outside the chamber caught her eye—a shadow shifting beyond the threshold, a presence lingering just out of sight. She frowned slightly but thought nothing of it.

She turned back to the two men before her, her smile fading as she caught the tension in their faces. “Why all the rush outside?” she asked, her gaze flicking to the Painted Table, where miniature carved ships had been hastily moved into formation.

Viserys sighed. “The Braavosi armada is coming. They outmaneuvered us.” His expression darkened. “Corlys, the royal fleet, and most of our navy are in the south, ferrying more men to the Marches for the siege of Volantis.”

Baelon’s voice was grim as he picked up the explanation. “The Braavosi have sent a large fleet—a full invasion force. They’re heading straight for Blackwater Bay. We believe they’re after King’s Landing.”

Rhaenyra’s heart quickened. The Free Cities dared to launch an invasion of Westeros.

“How many ships?” she asked.

“Too many,” Baelon answered. “Braavosi ships along with some from Pentos and Lorath as well. The capital will prepare its defenses, but if the fleet reaches Blackwater unchecked…” He shook his head. “We must prepare for the worst.”

Rhaenyra’s eyes flickered to the Painted Table. “Then we must stop them here.”

Baelon exhaled sharply. “That is not our concern, Rhae.” He gestured to Viserys. “You, your mother, and the others should leave. Take a ship to King’s Landing before the Braavosi reach the island.”

Rhaenyra balked. “Leave? Abandon Dragonstone? The very place where our dragons rest—where our ancestors ruled? Do you want them to poison our dragons again?”

Viserys frowned. “Rhaenys cannot be moved. The maesters say it’s too dangerous.”

Baelon’s face remained stern. “We must try. This is no mere raid, Rhaenyra. It is too dangerous for all of you to stay here. I’m not saying we abandon Dragonstone—only that we get the women and children to safety….”

“No.” Rhaenyra’s voice was firm, unyielding. She stepped forward, placing her hands on the edge of the table. “I will not flee. I will help defend Dragonstone.”

Baelon exhaled sharply, turning to Viserys. “Go. See if there is any way to move Rhaenys. Try to get her to safety before it’s too late.” His tone left no room for argument.

Despite his obvious reluctance, Viserys nodded. He cast a glance at Rhaenyra before leaving the chamber, his hurried footsteps echoing down the stone halls.

Now alone, Rhaenyra turned to her grandfather. Baelon stood tall, his presence as commanding as ever despite his age, but there was something about his posture—his shoulders a fraction more hunched, his face a bit more worn—that made her pause.

Baelon smiled as he met her gaze. “It has been some time since we’ve truly spoken, little Rhae.”

Rhaenyra softened, tilting her head playfully. “Well, you are the Hand of the King, Grandpapa. And the realm keeps you busy.”

Baelon let out a low chuckle. “That it does. But I’m planning on resigning after this war. It’s too taxing on me.” He exhaled, rubbing his beard. “I’ve given everything I can to to A;yxander. I think it’s time I rest.”

Rhaenyra frowned slightly. She had never heard her grandfather speak like this. He had always seemed like an unshakable force, a man who carried the weight of the realm on his shoulders without faltering. “Are you sure? The king needs you.”

Baelon’s expression softened at the mention of the king. “Alyxander…he reminds me too much of myself—more than I care to admit.” He sighed. “I only hope he handles his grief better than I did.”

Rhaenyra stilled, a chill running down her spine. “What do you mean?”

Baelon met her gaze, his eyes dark with memory. “After your grandmother, died, I was lost. We all were. But one night, I returned to my chambers, only to find Viserra waiting for me.”

Rhaenyra gasped. “She tried to seduce you?”

Baelon chuckled, but there was no humor in it. “She begged me to marry her. Said it would solve all our problems. That she loved me.”

Rhaenyra was still processing what he had just told her. She had heard stories of Viserra’s wild ways, but this… “What did you do?” she asked quietly.

Baelon sighed. “I sent her away, of course. Told her it was madness. But she was young and willful. She was furious.” His jaw tightened. “Our father was planning to wed her to a Manderly of all people. She loathed the idea. I suppose she thought if she could bind herself to me, she could avoid that fate.”

Rhaenyra was still reeling from her grandfather’s words. “A Manderly?” she repeated, almost in disbelief.

Baelon shook his head at the memory. “It was Alyxander—barely six years old at the time—who asked our father, in that childlike curiosity, why Viserra couldn’t marry a Stark instead.” He paused, lips curving into a slight smile. “As fate would have it, Lord Benjen Stark had just lost his wife that same year. So, I made sure Viserra married the Stark instead.”

Rhaenyra smirked faintly. “Well, she seems happy now.”

Baelon shrugged. “Yes, she’s better off in the North. Benjen is a good man.” His expression turned more serious. “You could learn from this, Rhae.”

Rhaenyra folded her arms, feigning innocence. “I don’t know what this has to do with me.”

Baelon gave her a pointed look, one that made her feel like a child caught in mischief. “My dear Rhae, your mother could read you like a book, and so can I. I’m only glad you didn’t follow Viserra’s path and, well…you know.” He raised an eyebrow knowingly.

Rhaenyra gasped in mock scandal. “Grandpapa!” she chided, though shamefully, the truth burned within her. She had indeed considered a similar course—more than once.

Baelon’s voice softened. “What I’m saying, Rhaenyra, is—”

Before he could finish, the doors to the chamber burst open. A breathless young man rushed in—Ser Osric’s squire, wide-eyed and frantic.

“My prince—my prince!” the boy stammered.

Baelon’s eyes darkened as he turned to him. “Speak, boy. What is it?”

The squire took a sharp breath, panic lacing his words. “Prince Alyxander…he’s taken his dragon! He’s going to burn the Braavosi fleet—he’s gone!”

Baelon’s face twisted in fury. “What?!” His voice boomed through the chamber.

Rhaenyra felt as though the ground had fallen away beneath her. “No!” she screamed, already turning on her heel. She ran, her flowing gown tangling around her feet. She stumbled but did not stop—instead, she grabbed at the fabric and tore the lower half away, freeing herself as she bolted down the hall.

Her mind was a storm of panic. If they have that weapon…if they hurt him… The worst-case scenarios played over and over in her head as she ran. She needed to get to him—now.

=====

Rhaenyra rode hard toward the Dragonmont, her heart hammering in her chest. The wind whipped against her face, but she hardly noticed—her mind was consumed by a single thought: Alyx.

Behind her, she heard the thunder of hooves. She risked a glance over her shoulder and saw Olympia, her father, her grandfather, and a host of guards following fast behind. Their voices carried over the howling wind, but she did not slow. She could not. Not when Alyx was in danger.

When she reached the Dragonmont, she spotted Ser Osric standing near the entrance, his face pale, his posture stiff with shame. His hand rested uneasily on the hilt of his sword, though he had already failed in his duty.

Rhaenyra barely waited for her horse to stop before leaping off and storming toward him.

“When did he leave?” she demanded.

Ser Osric swallowed hard, bowing his head. “It has been…half an hour, my princess.”

Half an hour. Gods. He could already be there. She clenched her fists, forcing herself to remain calm.

The others arrived a heartbeat later, their horses kicking up dust as they dismounted. Baelon’s face was dark with fury.

“We must go after him,” Rhaenyra said before anyone else could speak.

Baelon turned toward the massive beast resting nearby. “I will wake Vhagar.”

“Silverwing as well,” Viserys added.

Before Rhaenyra could respond, Olympia spoke, her voice firm. “No, Uncle Viserys, Grandfather Baelon. Vhagar is not well enough, and neither is Silverwing. But Dreamfyre and Syrax are.”

Rhaenyra didn’t wait for her to finish. She was already moving.

Baelon called out behind her, “Rhaenyra! No! It is too dangerous!”

Viserys added, “Listen to reason, Rhae!”

But neither she nor Olympia heeded them.

Rhaenyra reached Syrax, running her hands along the yellow scales as she quickly mounted. The dragon huffed, already sensing her urgency.

“Sōves,” Rhaenyra commanded in High Valyrian, her voice firm. “Sōves, Syrax! (Fly, Syrax!)”

The dragon let out a piercing shriek and leapt into the air. Olympia followed just behind her, guiding Dreamfyre skyward.

Below, she could still hear her father and grandfather yelling, but their voices were soon swallowed by the wind.

“Faster,” she urged Syrax, leaning forward. “Nyke jorrāelagon ao, Syrax (I need you to fly, Syrax).”

The dragon roared in response, beating her wings harder, climbing higher and flying faster in the direction Alyx had gone.

For fifteen minutes, Rhaenyra and Olympia flew side by side, their eyes scanning the horizon for any sign of Alyxander. Rhaenyra’s heart pounded in her chest.

Alyx, where are you?

Then, through the wind, she called out to Olympia, “The vanguard of the fleet should be nearby! Alyx must have seen them by now—perhaps he’s already engaged them!”

Olympia, her silver hair whipping around her face, turned slightly and shouted back, “What about the weapon?”

Rhaenyra gritted her teeth. “We’ll deal with it when the time comes!”

They urged their dragons onward, pushing them to fly faster. The sky darkened once again as storm clouds began to gather. Ahead, through a break in the clouds, a thick column of smoke rose into the sky.

Rhaenyra’s breath caught. Through the parting clouds, she saw it—the vanguard of the Braavosi fleet was aflame. And above the inferno, a massive bronze-scaled dragon rained fire upon the wooden ships.

Vermithor.

Alyx.

Olympia screamed, “Alyx!” She pushed Dreamfyre forward, her dragon’s wings slicing the air as she flew ahead of Rhaenyra.

Rhaenyra followed, but something about the arrangement of the ships bothered her—the vessels were spaced apart unnaturally, as though they were…delaying him.

Her stomach twisted. A trap.

Then she saw it and her blood ran cold.

Beyond the burning wrecks, beyond Vermithor’s fury—an endless tide of ships stretched across the horizon.

Thousands.

The Braavosi armada.

“Fuck,” she cursed under her breath, unable to stop herself. She had never seen so many ships.

Ahead, Olympia had reached Alyx, shouting at him, “We have to go!” She circled Dreamfyre around Vermithor.

Alyx sat firm in his saddle, defiant. “No! We’re winning!”

Rhaenyra flew in closer, Syrax screeching as she flapped her yellow wings. “Do you see that?” she roared, pointing toward the armada.

Alyx turned, finally noticing the rest of the fleet. His eyes widened, then narrowed in anger.

“We have to go!” Olympia repeated desperately.

But instead of retreating, Alyx spurred Vermithor forward, flying straight toward the armada.

“You fool!” Olympia cried, chasing after him, Dreamfyre shrieking in alarm.

Rhaenyra cursed under her breath and followed, her heart pounding like a war drum in her chest.

====

The winds roared as Syrax, Dreamfyre, and Vermithor descended upon the Braavosi fleet. As Rhaenyra flew closer, she spotted it—a ship unlike any she had ever seen.

A monstrous construct of wood and iron, it looked as though four warships had been lashed together into a single massive floating platform. Towering above the surrounding vessels, its dark hull was reinforced with thick iron plating, and from its deck, rivers of crimson poured into the sea.

Her stomach churned.

Blood.

So much blood.

Then she saw them. Bodies. Hundreds of them, their throats slit, their lifeless forms thrown into the waters below—men, women—some still in chains. Sacrifices. Her mother’s words echoed in her mind:

“They killed them, Rhaenyra… hundreds of them… and their blood brought the weapon to life.”

And then she saw it.

At the heart of the ship, standing tall upon an iron-reinforced platform, was the very thing that had killed Meleys—a massive scorpion, larger than any she had ever seen, its wickedly sharp bolt gleaming in the firelight.

Rhaenyra’s blood ran cold.

She barely had time to process the horror before Alyx acted. Vermithor roared and unleashed his fury upon the fleet, his fire spreading across the wooden ships like a storm of death. Flames erupted, devouring sailcloth and splintering masts. The shrieks of dying men filled the air as the heat consumed them, their bodies writhing in agony before vanishing into the inferno. The stench was suffocating—burning flesh, melting tar, smoldering wood.

But Rhaenyra did not feel victorious. Something was wrong.

She screamed over the chaos, “Alyx, fly off! Now!”

But Alyx didn’t hear her. Vermithor turned, angling for another pass, his wings beating thunderously above the burning fleet.

Then Olympia’s voice pierced through the fire and wind. “Alyx, The weapon!”

Alyx hesitated, following Olympia’s gaze toward the massive ship—the blood-drenched deck, the towering scorpion. And then—

A sound.

A low, unnatural hum.

The waters surrounding the ship darkened, twisting unnaturally, moving against the tide.

The waters…like they were alive, just as her mother had told her.

No. No, no, no!

Rhaenyra acted on instinct. She dove.

Syrax plunged toward Vermithor, her yellow wings slicing through the air as Rhaenyra reached out, desperate to reach Alyx before it was too late.

The moment she dove, she knew she was going to die.

She heard it—a deep, unnatural hum cutting through the air, the sound of something touched by dark sorcery. She arrived near Vermithor just in time for the bolt to redirect and target her. In a final, desperate move, she pushed Syrax to climb, drawing the bolt away from Alyx.

She had saved him.

Tears blurred her vision, but through them, she saw Olympia flying toward Alyx, screaming for him to turn back. They would live.

A shuddering breath left Rhaenyra’s lips as she urged Syrax higher and higher. The cold air bit at her skin, tearing at her dress and whipping her hair around her face as Syrax climbed. She flew past the dark clouds, the sun now visible, a breathtaking sight against the gloom. She did not look back. She knew it was still behind her.

It followed. It always followed.

A choked sob escaped her as she felt it drawing closer. The end was near.

“I am sorry, Syrax,” she whispered.

The dragon roared mournfully.

This is it. She braced herself, determined not to scream, not to close her eyes. She would die with her eyes wide open.

She glanced back to see the bolt still trailing her. Just as she was about to accept her fate, she saw it—a shadow. A massive, all-consuming shadow under the clouds, shifting the very air around her.

Her breath caught. it can’t be…

A monstrous shape emerged from the clouds—a titan. And then—jaws. Enormous, gaping jaws.

Balerion. The Black Dread.

His teeth—like massive, blackened swords—closed around the bolt, catching it and crushing it in an instant.

Rhaenyra let out a scream—not of terror, but of relief and disbelief. Syrax roared, her yellow scales catching the sunlight, her joy echoing through the sky. Then Balerion roared—and the world trembled.

Rhaenyra’s heart pounded in her chest as Syrax turned, wings folding slightly as her body dipped into a sharp descent. Balerion followed, and Rhaenyra felt her fear melt away, replaced by a burning fury.

She was not going to die today. She was going to rain hell upon the armada that had tried to kill Syrax and her family. She was going to show them the meaning of her house words: Fire and Blood.

“Dracarys!” she screamed as the fleet came into view once more.

Fire. Smoke. Death.

Rhaenyra dove into the storm of flame and steel, her blood pounding in her ears, her breath ragged with fury. The ships were like ants beneath her, their sails turning into desperate white flags against the raging inferno. Syrax’s flames roared, hotter than any forge, setting entire decks ablaze in a heartbeat. Men screamed as they leaped into the blackened waters, only to be swallowed by the fire floating atop the waves.

Her mind was blank—only rage, only vengeance.

She turned her attention to the weapon, the very thing that had killed Meleys. Rhaenyra bared her teeth.

“Burn. Burn it all.”

 “Dracarys!” she shrieked, her voice raw and animalistic.

Syrax’s fire licked hungrily at the hull, consuming wood and blood alike, turning the entire construct into an enormous funeral pyre. A deafening crack split the air as the ship snapped apart, the cursed weapon sinking beneath the flames.

It was over.

The red haze in her vision began to fade, and suddenly, she felt it—the suffocating heat, the stench of charred flesh, the thick smoke choking her lungs. Her stomach churned.

She couldn’t breathe.

Rhaenyra pulled Syrax up, fleeing the destruction, fleeing the screams. She needed air. She needed to escape.

She directed Syrax toward a strip of sand in the distance—a lonely beach where fishermen and their families stood watching. She landed hard, stumbling as she dismounted, her legs weak, her stomach lurching.

Then—she broke.

Rhaenyra collapsed to her knees, her shoulders heaving with silent sobs. The men’s screams, the flames crackling—all of it still echoed in her ears. The stench of burning flesh clung to her.

She heard footsteps behind her—a familiar voice calling her name—and felt arms wrap around her. Olympia. Her cousin held her tightly, crying as well, their bodies shaking together.

In the distance, Balerion was still tearing the armada apart. Ships split like rotten fruit beneath his claws. The sky glowed red and black with his wrath, the Black Dread’s black fire turning the sea into a molten graveyard.

Alyx landed nearby and ran over, his face pale, his hands trembling.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered.

Rhaenyra lifted her head, tears staining her cheeks. “It’s fine, it’s fine,” she murmured, pulling him close. The boy clung to her, burying his face in her shoulder.

“I didn’t like the screams,” Alyx whispered. “I didn’t like the smell.”

Rhaenyra shut her eyes, holding him tighter. Neither did she. Neither did any of them.

They stayed like that, three Targaryens holding each other beneath a blood-red sky, as the Black Dread razed the armada to ruin.

Finally, Rhaenyra spoke, her voice hoarse. “We need to go back,” she said, staring at the inferno in the distance. “The king needs to know the Black Dread has recovered.”

.

.

.

Sealord Tormo Antaryon was not having a good day.

In truth, he had not had a good year.

Everything had gone wrong.

A year ago, the League had begun this war with absolute confidence. They had attacked the Targaryens in their own capital, poisoned their dragons, and killed their queen. The opening strike had been a disastrous success—the dragons were not dead, the king still lived, and rather than cowering, the Westerosi had rallied.

Despite that disastrous opening, momentum had shifted in the League’s favor for a time. They had done the impossible: they had killed a dragon. The South of Essos was swept clean—the Westerosi were running scared. The League’s armies advanced deep into the Valyrian Marches, and Volantis had almost reclaimed Myr, Lys, and Tyrosh.

But it had all come crashing down.

A hundred thousand men—gone. The greatest army assembled since the fall of the Freehold wiped from existence at the Battle of Alyxandria. The Targaryens, even without their dragons, had proven just as dangerous.

So, in desperation, Tormo had ordered a grand invasion—a massive armada, the largest Braavos had ever built. A force that would take the Crownlands, sack their capital, and end this war.

Yet, three months ago, that fleet had burned, destroyed by dragons. Balerion himself had recovered and razed most of the armada.

Tormo clenched his fists. He could still hear the terrified screams from the survivors who had returned—those who had lived only long enough to tell the tale before dying from their burns. The weapon they had placed all their hopes on had failed.

And now?

Tormo stood atop the grand balcony of the Sealord’s Palace, his hands gripping the railing as he stared down at the streets below. Smoke rose from multiple quarters, curling into the sky in thick black plumes. Braavos was bleeding from within.

Riots had broken out the moment word spread that their armada was lost, that the Targaryens had crushed their invasion before it even reached their shores. The merchants screamed for an end to the war—they had lost too many ships, too much wealth. The Iron Bank whispered behind closed doors, already preparing for the inevitable shift in power. And the people? The people were afraid. And fear led to desperation.

Behind him, a voice broke his dark thoughts. “So this is what it has come to?”

Tormo turned, his jaw tightening as he saw her standing there: Selaena Morra, the wretched woman. She stood with her hands clasped, hood drawn low over her face, her ever-present cloak draped around her shoulders. Tormo hated her. She was the one who had promised them victory, the one who had created the weapon that was supposed to reduce the dragons to legends. She had failed. Yet here she stood, calm, emotionless.

“You have something to say, witch?” he spat, turning away from her and back toward the city.

Selaena stepped forward, her voice as smooth as ever. “I have made a more potent version of the Harbinger,” she said, as though discussing the weather. “No dragon will be safe in this city.”

Tormo’s anger boiled over. His fingers dug into the stone railing, his teeth grinding together. “That is what you said last time,” he growled, his voice low and dangerous. “And yet my armada is gone.”

Selaena tilted her head, her expression unreadable beneath her hood. “I warned you not to use it at sea,” she said, her tone almost bored.

Tormo whirled on her, his face red with rage. “GET OUT,” he roared. “GET OUT OF MY SIGHT.”

Selaena stared at him for a moment, then simply nodded, stepping back into the shadows.

Tormo turned back to the city, his breaths coming fast and ragged. He had sent delegations in the last two months, hoping to end this conflict. The others might not agree, but he wanted Braavos out of this war. But the Targaryens had been silent—no response. And that terrified him most of all.

He stood there for a while, his mind racing, trying to decide what to do next. Just as he was about to head inside, he heard it: a low, distant roar—small, almost a whisper, yet it reverberated through the air, crawling up his spine like a cold dagger.

He froze. “What?” he muttered, his breath hitching as he turned his gaze toward the Titan of Braavos, the great guardian of his city, standing eternal at the mouth of the lagoon. Mist clung thickly to the sea, choking the horizon, swirling around the Titan’s massive form. The mornings had grown colder with winter’s approach, and mist was normal.

He strained his ears, listening. There it was again—another distant roar. Soft. Muffled. Almost as if the mist itself was carrying it, pulling the sound from far across the water. His hands trembled as he gripped the edge of the balcony, knuckles white. No. No, it cannot be.

Another roar—closer now. His breath came faster, his chest rising and falling as an icy dread pooled deep in his gut. His eyes flicked to the sky—nothing. Just endless, rolling mist. But the sound was growing. Louder. Nearer.

Another cry, long and drawn-out, a sound that sent a tremor through the stones beneath his feet. His legs buckled. No. No. No. No. No.

The sound was multiplying—not just one roar, but two. Three. Four. The very air vibrated with it. His breath hitched, a shuddering gasp clawing out of his throat. He knew what was coming.

His eyes were fixed on the Titan, the mist around it obscuring everything behind it. Tormo stood frozen, heart hammering against his ribs as the mist parted just enough to reveal a shifting shadow—monstrous, hulking…

Tormo barely had time to react before—

A thunderous impact.

The Titan shuddered violently as an immense force slammed into its back. A crackling boom split the air, stone grinding against stone. And then, through the mist, it appeared:

The Black Dread.

His immense wings unfurled, blotting out the sky as he perched atop the Titan, black scales gleaming like polished obsidian. His massive claws dug deep into the ancient stone, cracks spiderwebbing outward beneath his weight.

Tormo sucked in a breath—but it never left his lungs. The Titan groaned again, stone snapping and crumbling. Balerion spread his wings wider; it was as if the Titan had grown its own wings. With an earth-shattering roar, he launched himself into the air.

The Titan could bear no more. It snapped at the waist, its upper half toppling forward, arms outstretched as if reaching for salvation. The colossal statue collapsed into the sea. The impact was cataclysmic.

A wave of churning white water erupted from the point of impact, crashing against the docks, swallowing ships whole, smashing wooden piers to splinters. The shockwave rocked the city. Buildings trembled. Windows shattered. The sea swallowed the fallen Titan, its head barely visible above the surging waters.

Tormo staggered backward, his mind refusing to comprehend what he had just witnessed.

The Black Dread stood on what remained of the Titan—and from behind him, another shape emerged from the mist. Then another. And another.

A flash of crimson—a lean, sinuous body, red as fresh-spilled blood, slipped through the mist.

A second shadow—pale blue, with silver streaks glinting in the weak light—glided in smooth, deadly silence.

A third—sun-kissed yellow, scales like hammered bronze, wings spread wide as it joined the others.

A fourth—silvery white, a shimmering ghost against the grey sky.

And then a fifth—nearly matching Balerion in size, its scales a deep, stormy gray, its wings thick and jagged like torn banners.

The sky was full of them now.

Tormo sank to his knees as he beheld his doom. 

Balerion, perched where the Titan had once stood, opened his jaws. The sound that followed was not a roar—it was calamity itself. The very air shook with the force of it, the stones beneath Tormo’s feet trembled, and the sky itself seemed to split apart.

His vision swam, his mind unable to endure the sheer weight of the sound.

Then the others joined in: the red, the blue, the gold, the silver, the storm-grey—all roared in unison.

The sky screamed.

Tormo collapsed, his body striking the cold stone. The last thing he saw before darkness claimed him was Balerion’s smoldering, hellfire gaze locked onto the city.

Then—

Nothing.