Alyxander the Great VI

Excerpt from The Second Essosi War: Fire and Blood in the Free Cities
Chapter IV: Saelena Morra – The Mysterious Woman Behind the League’s Most Dangerous Weapon

Little is truly known about Saelena Morra, the alchemist whose dark genius forged the weapon that forced House Targaryen to ground their dragons in the early years of the Second Essosi War.

Her origins remain shrouded in mystery. Many believe she was a Tyroshi exile—a woman who witnessed the burning of her home and swore vengeance against the Targaryens. Yet newer theories suggest Saelena’s vendetta against the Targaryens was not born in Tyrosh, but rather stemmed from an event earlier in her life during her childhood in Westeros—a claim not widely accepted by scholars, due to insufficient evidence.

Whatever the truth, one thing remains certain: without Saelena Morra, the war might have ended far sooner.

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“Saelena!”

“Saelena!”

“Where are you, girl?”

The voice of a woman—firm but kind—carried through the small cottage nestled in the quiet village. Sunlight streamed in through the open windows, casting golden hues over the wooden walls lined with shelves of herbs, tinctures, and carefully arranged clay vials. The scent of lavender and sage lingered in the air, mingling with the warmth of the late afternoon.

The woman entered the small workroom adjacent to the main living space and immediately noticed something amiss. Some of her mixing tools—her stone mortar and pestle, a few vials of ground roots, and a strip of fine linen—were missing. She sighed, placing her hands on her hips, her silver hair gleaming in the light.

“Oh, that girl,” she muttered under her breath, shaking her head.

She stepped out of the cottage, scanning the small clearing behind their home. A few chickens clucked lazily by the fence, a goat nibbled at the grass near the well, and beyond that, nestled beneath the shade of an old oak tree, she spotted her daughter.

Little Saelena sat cross-legged on the ground, her silver curls tousled by the wind. Her hands were busy grinding something in the mortar with deep concentration, her tiny fingers carefully adjusting the consistency of the mixture.

“Saelena,” her mother called, striding toward her.

The girl suddenly tensed, her small shoulders hunching, and she quickly turned, trying to shield her work with her back.

“How many times have I told you not to play with my tools?” the woman scolded, her voice firm but not unkind. She knelt and gently—but firmly—took the mortar from the girl’s hands, inspecting the mixture inside. “What are you doing with this?”

Saelena’s lower lip jutted out in a pout. “I wanted to help.”

The mother’s face softened, and she sighed, setting the mortar aside. She cupped her daughter’s small face, brushing a stray curl away.

“I have only begun teaching you, my sweetling,” she said gently.

The little girl huffed. “I’ve already learned so much just by watching you! I can do it myself now!”

The mother laughed softly, shaking her head. “Oh, my dear sweet Saelena, blessed by the Crone herself. If you had been born a boy, we could have tried to send you to the Citadel, and you could have been a maester.”

Saelena’s eyes sparkled with determination. “I’ll go anyway.”

The woman laughed again, but before she could respond, the distant sound of marching interrupted their moment.

The woman’s expression faltered. Her back stiffened, and her hand instinctively gripped her daughter’s shoulder.

But young and innocent Saelena giggled in delight.

“Father’s home!” she cried and sprinted forward, her mother’s warnings dying on her lips.

====

Saelena Morra woke up with a faint smile, lingering on the edge of a dream that felt as real as the air in her lungs.

It had been so long since she had been graced with something pleasant in her sleep. She smiled at the memory of it, but that soon faded as the aches settled in.

She groaned, shifting slightly in her bed. Her body, now nearing seven-and-ten years, did not move as easily as it once did. The last few years had taken their toll. Sleepless nights, long hours spent perfecting her work, and the stress of it all had chipped away at her.

She sat up slowly, pressing her fingers against her temples. The air was cold, the chill of early morning seeping through the stone walls of her chamber. The scent of old parchment, her alchemical ingredients, and burning oil filled the air.

Turning her head, she gazed out of her window, where the looming silhouette of the Titan of Braavos dominated the view. Then, as if on cue, the Titan let out its deep, thunderous call—a sound that resonated through the entire city like a beast awakening from slumber.

Saelena scowled.

“Damn that thing,” she muttered, rubbing her temples.

She often wondered how most people in the city could sleep with the Titan’s constant wailing. She had lived in Braavos for only a few years, and every morning it grated on her nerves just as it had the first time she heard it.

She rose from the bed with a slow exhale, her joints still aching. As she stepped forward, the cool stone floor met her bare feet, sending a shiver up her spine.

She walked out of the bedchamber into the dimly lit house, the dying embers of last night’s lanterns still glowing faintly. The house itself was a mess—a large space filled with scattered parchments, scrolls, and alchemical tools piled on every available surface. Shelves lined the walls, crammed with glass vials, aged tomes, and rusted instruments of strange and arcane design. Some bore Rhoynar inscriptions; others carried Valyrian glyphs—knowledge she had scoured the world to piece together.

On one of the tables near her bedside, a single piece of parchment stood out from the chaos. Saelena’s keen eyes immediately found it, recognizing the ink-stained symbols—her notes on the Rhoynar ritual she had been searching for. A slow, satisfied smile curled on her lips as she lifted the parchment, her fingers tracing the intricate markings.

This… this was her greatest weapon. The culmination of decades of research. The power she needed to end the Targaryens once and for all.

She quickly changed her clothes, slipping into the simple but finely made dark robes she always wore. Over them, she pulled her heavy cloak, its hood deep enough to cast her face in shadow. It was how she had always moved through the world—hidden, veiled in mystery, an unseen force from the shadows.

‘Maron always loved it when I wore this…’

The thought struck her unexpectedly, like a knife through the walls she had built inside her heart. She froze, her fingers gripping the edge of the cloak tighter.

For a moment, she allowed herself to remember him—Maron, her dear husband, her love. His laughter, his sharp wit, the way he would teasingly call her his “little shadow” whenever she donned the cloak. A sharp ache settled in her chest, but she did not allow it to linger. She forced herself to take a slow, steady breath.

‘You will be avenged soon, my love.’

The Targaryens had taken everything from her—twice. First, in her childhood, when fire rained from the sky and tore her world apart. Then again, when Alyxander burned Tyrosh, taking Maron from her. She would not let them take anything else.

With one last glance around the cluttered chamber, she pulled the hood over her head and left the house, vanishing into the morning mist.

The streets of Braavos were quiet at this hour, the city still waking from its slumber. The air was thick with the scent of salt and fish, the distant sound of waves lapping against the canals filling the silence. She made her way to the docks, where a small felucca awaited her—a sleek, fast ship built for navigating Braavos’s winding waterways. The boatman, an old man with dark, weathered skin, nodded as she stepped aboard but said nothing.

Saelena sat at the bow, letting the wind whip through her cloak as the felucca glided across the water, passing under the great archways and bridges of Braavos. As they neared the Sealord’s Palace, the Titan let out its usual thunderous bellow, shaking the air. Saelena barely spared it a glance. The Titan, for all its grandeur, was nothing compared to what she had built.

The felucca docked near a large stone structure, close to the Sealord’s Palace but built lower, near the water’s edge. It was an unassuming warehouse, guarded only by a few men in plain clothing, but inside… inside, it held the weapon that would change everything.

Stepping onto the docks, she heard the wooden planks creak beneath her boots. The guards at the door saw her approach and immediately stood aside, bowing their heads in respect. She walked past them without a word, stepping into the dimly lit interior of the building.

Saelena smiled as she spotted the approaching figure—her son, Arnault. His dark eyes, so much like his father’s, were sharp as he strode toward her, his long coat billowing slightly in the draft that swept through the vast chamber.

“Mother,” he greeted, his tone formal but edged with urgency. “The Sealord and the envoys from the Free Cities are here.”

Saelena frowned. “They’re early.”

“There have been new developments,” Arnault continued, lowering his voice. “Word has come from King’s Landing.”

Saelena stopped mid-step, her body going still. So did her son. Her breath caught in her throat, and for the first time in a long while, she hesitated before speaking.

“Is he—” She exhaled sharply. “Is he dead?” She didn’t clarify who she meant.

Then, after a beat, her voice was harder, colder. “Are they dead?”

Arnault sighed, running a hand through his dark hair. “The king still lives.”

Saelena’s eyes darkened, but she said nothing, her fingers curling into fists.

“One of the princes—the one called Viserys—was badly hurt but survived. The only one dead is the Queen.” His voice was grim. “It is a disaster, Mother.”

Saelena let out a long breath, her shoulders tightening. She turned away slightly, as if trying to process the weight of his words.

“The dragons, boy?” she asked testily.

Arnault hesitated for a moment before answering. “The larger ones are said to be sick, not dead. The smaller ones… are dead.”

For a moment, the room felt like it had shrunk, the weight of failure pressing down on her. Then, with sudden fury, Saelena cursed under her breath.

“Damn it,” she hissed, her fists trembling. Then louder: “Damn it all!”

All that painful work, the years of research—the delicate process of refining the ancient Rhoynar poison into an airborne toxin… all for nothing. She had crafted death itself, and yet it had not been enough. They still breathed. She felt her blood boil, her thoughts spiraling into a haze of rage and anguish.

“Mother,” Arnault’s voice cut through the storm, firm yet measured. He grasped her shoulders gently, anchoring her. “We have the advantage now.”

Saelena clenched her jaw, meeting his gaze.

“The dragons might not have died,” Arnault continued, “but they are weak—incapacitated. And with your weapon…” His eyes gleamed with conviction. “We can kill the weakened beasts if they dare field them in battle again.”

She forced herself to breathe, steadying her trembling hands. He was right. It wasn’t over.

Saelena nodded sharply, exhaling through her nose. “Yes… yes, you’re right. We still have the advantage.”

Arnault’s expression softened slightly, but the fire in his eyes remained. “Father will be avenged, Mother.” He took her hand in his, squeezing it with quiet strength. “We will do it.”

Her lips pressed into a thin line. “That stubborn fool,” she muttered, her mind drifting back to Tyrosh, to the fire raining from the sky, to the last time she saw Maron standing amid the flames, refusing to leave. He had to stay behind. He had to help the fleeing citizens. He had to be the hero.

Saelena shut her eyes for a moment before shaking the memory away. She had no time for grief. Not now.

Arnault let go of her hand and gestured toward the corridor. “Come, Mother. We cannot keep them waiting.”

Saelena exhaled hard as she nodded and forced herself to move forward.

“Volantis has begun its invasion of the Targaryen lands. Myr, Lys, and what remains of Tyrosh will soon be freed. There is already talk of rebellion in the cities,” Arnault said as they walked.

Saelena scoffed, her steps never faltering as they descended deeper into the underground passage.
“What is there left of Tyrosh to retake?” she muttered, her voice laced with bitterness. “Those monsters destroyed it all.”

The image of fire consuming her home, the shrieks of men and women burning alive, the sickening scent of charred flesh—it all haunted her. Tyrosh had given her a second life, a place of peace after the turmoil of her childhood and youth. And like her first home, it had been turned to ash by dragons.

Arnault did not look at her, but there was understanding in his tone.“Without their dragons, the Targaryens cannot hold back the invasion. I am certain of it.”

Saelena narrowed her eyes. “They still have seven kingdoms behind them.”

“Their primitive armies can be beaten,” Arnault countered. “And there are parts of Dorne willing to rebel as well.”

Saelena let out a low breath. “Did the queen not die as you said? Was she not a Martell?”

Arnault nodded. “We may have made enemies of the Martells, but there are others in Dorne who hate the dragons more. There is no shortage of discontent in the realm.”

Saelena made a small noise of amusement.  “Good.”

They continued their descent, the dim torchlight giving way to a soft, eerie glow as they reached a massive cavern. A dark, still body of water stretched before them, its surface reflecting the flickering lights of lanterns and smoldering forges. At the far end, a tunnel opened out into the sea, large enough for ships to dock.

The air was thick with smoke and the clang of metalwork, the cavern alive with the sound of industry. Hammers rang against steel, grinding gears turned, and men moved with purpose as they labored over the creation of the weapon that would bring the dragons down from the sky.

Saelena’s gaze swept over the rows of scorpions—massive constructs built from black iron. These were not the weapon she was making, but they would be quite a nuisance to the dragons, holding them back until the real weapon could be used.

She turned to her son.“How long until the Valyrian steel projectiles are ready?”

Arnault adjusted the gloves on his hands. “Three more days. The final step is the inscriptions—they must be precise.”

“Then I will do it myself,” Saelena said flatly. “There must be no mistakes.”

Arnault inclined his head.“As you say, Mother.”

They moved through the cavern, past the laboring workers and the array of anti-dragon weapons, until they reached a gilded, open, and vast chamber near the water’s edge. Inside, the Sealord of Braavos sat at a long table, flanked by envoys from Volantis, Pentos, Norvos, Qohor, and Lorath.

The Sealord’s shrewd eyes locked onto Saelena as she entered. “Ah, Lady Morra, we have been waiting.”

Saelena lifted her chin. “You are early, esteemed Sealord. Esteemed envoys.”

A Volantene envoy—a man she recognized by the golden embroidery on his robe—sneered.  “Let’s get this over with. Show us this ‘grand weapon’ of yours.”

Another envoy, this one from Qohor, leaned forward, fingers steepled. “Your plot to kill the dragons failed,” he said, unimpressed. “How can we be sure this will not be another failure?”

Before Saelena could respond, the Sealord raised a hand, silencing the doubter with a single sharp glance.  “The plot failed because of bad luck,” the Sealord said smoothly. “I am sure Lady Morra has something even greater for us.”

A slow smile curved Saelena’s lips. “Yes, I do, Sealord.”

The Sealord looked around at the vast array of scorpions stretched across the cavernous space, their deadly bolts gleaming under the dim torchlight.  “Are these the weapons?” he asked, his voice carrying the weight of skepticism.

Before Saelena could answer, a deep rumble echoed through the chamber. The ground trembled beneath their feet as something immense was wheeled forward. The flickering firelight caught the gleam of polished steel, its surface shining like moonlight on water, and the pale, near-white wood of its frame seemed almost unnatural, as though carved from something beyond normal timber.

The great scorpion, massive beyond comparison, entered the vast hall, pushed forward by nearly fifty men whose muscles strained against its weight. Its arms stretched like the limbs of a great beast, its reinforced mechanisms groaning as they moved it into position.

A hushed silence fell over the room. The envoys stared in awe, their skepticism wavering as they beheld the monstrous scorpion.

Saelena stepped forward, her voice clear and sharp. “That,” she said, “is the weapon.”

A murmur spread through the gathered envoys, some exchanging uneasy glances. The Norvoshi envoy, a rotund man with a thick red beard, crossed his arms, unimpressed. “A larger scorpion does not mean we can kill dragons.”

Saelena turned to him slowly, her eyes sharp as a blade. “You misunderstand,” she said, stepping toward the weapon. “This is not merely a weapon of steel and wood. It is the culmination of years of my research.”

She ran her hand along the polished frame, almost reverently.  “This scorpion has been imbued with the ancient sorcery of the Rhoynar—the very magic they wielded against the Freehold in their long wars. You think it is impossible, but tell me: how do you believe they held off the dragonlords for so long?”

The room fell into a tense silence.

The envoy from Qohor scoffed. “Rhoynar magic? They were slaughtered, driven into exile. If they had such power, they would not have lost.”

Saelena’s lips curved into a knowing smile. “They did not lose so easily. You mistake survival for defeat. The Freehold had thousands of dragons, and yet the Rhoynar held them at bay for years. I have found the key. And I have remade it.”

With that, she gestured to the side, and ten men came forward carrying something wrapped in heavy black cloth. They laid it down carefully before Saelena, who pulled back the covering to reveal the weapon’s heart.

A massive projectile, its tip gleaming a dark, unnatural silver, was now visible. Forged of Valyrian steel, its surface was etched with intricate glyphs—Rhoynar runes, glowing faintly in the dim light, as if something within them still stirred.

The Volantene envoy—his golden robe rustling as he leaned forward—let out a low whistle.  “Valyrian steel,” he mused. “So this is why you demanded it from our vaults.”

Saelena inclined her head slightly.  “And you have my thanks for your generosity.”

The Sealord observed the projectile with a calculating gaze.  “And you are certain this will work?”

Saelena’s eyes burned with conviction. “Certain enough to bring it to battle without even testing it.”

A nervous murmur rippled through the gathered envoys.

The Lorathi envoy, a thin man with a shaven head, visibly paled. His hands clenched at his sides as he took a shaky step forward.  “We don’t even know if this will work,” he stammered. “We have miscalculated—we are wrong to have started this war. We should not have provoked the dragons!”

Saelena turned to him, her face impassive, her voice like ice. “It will work.”

The Lorathi envoy let out a strangled breath, his panic growing. “Even against the Black Dread?” he whispered in terror.

The mention of Balerion caused Saelena’s eyes to widen, her breath catching in her throat. A memory struck her like a hammer, vivid and unrelenting, pulling her back into the past—the day she lost everything.

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The heat was what she remembered most about that day. It scorched the air, so thick and heavy it felt like breathing in fire. Smoke clung to her lungs, and the acrid scent of burning flesh filled the world around her.

Her mother’s hands gripped hers tightly, pulling her forward. Saelena tried to run too, her legs pumping beneath her, but her mother was faster, more desperate.

“Where is Father?” Saelena asked, her young voice cracking with fear.

Her mother did not answer.

All around them, chaos reigned. Screams tore through the air, the sound of steel clashing against steel barely audible beneath the roaring of flames.

“Kill these scum!” a voice bellowed over the mayhem. “Let the Warrior’s Sons know what they failed to protect!”

Then came the shadow—a vast, terrible darkness falling over them as they ran.

The sound was what froze her blood, what haunted her dreams for decades. A roar, so deep and powerful that it did not just echo through the air—it shook the very earth beneath her feet.

Saelena looked up.

And she saw him.

The Black Dread.

A titan of shadow and fire, Balerion descended upon the village like a god of death made flesh. His wings blotted out the sky, and his black scales shimmered like molten iron, reflecting the inferno below. His eyes—red and glowing—pierced through the smoke, locking onto the scattering ants that fled before him.

Her mother screamed.

Everything happened too fast.

Her mother grabbed her, holding her close, her hands shaking as she tied a rope around Saelena’s waist, lowering her into the darkness of the village well.

“I love you.” Her mother’s voice was choked, trembling, final. “You’ll be safe, my sweet…”

Saelena fell.

The cold water swallowed her, and she flailed, gasping as she hit the bottom. From below, she saw flashes of fire against the night, the crimson glow of the inferno above flickering against the stone walls. The screams of men, women, and children mixed into one terrible chorus of suffering.

And then—a monstrous shape loomed above the well.

A massive black head.

Two burning red eyes.

Balerion had landed.

Saelena clapped a trembling hand over her mouth, trying to silence her sobs, her tears mingling with the well water.

But the dragon was staring at her.

He knew she was there.

For a single, frozen moment, she held his gaze.

Those red eyes—the eyes of a demon that took everything from her…

====

A voice dragged her back to the present, her heart hammering in her chest.

“Can it, sorceress?”

The Volantene envoy was speaking, his voice sharp with anticipation, his gaze fixed on the massive scorpion and the gleaming Valyrian steel-tipped bolt that lay before them.

“Can your weapon truly kill the great dragon?”

Saelena steadied herself, her fingers clenching into fists before she forced them to relax. Slowly, deliberately, she stepped forward, closing the distance between herself and the envoy.

“No one here wants the Black Dread dead as much as I do.” Her voice was low and cold, but it carried through the chamber, sending a chill down the spines of those present. “No one.”

The air grew heavy, the murmuring among the assembled envoys and nobles dying into silence as they listened.

Her gaze was hard, unyielding, like tempered steel as she continued. “Sixty years ago, Maegor Targaryen used that monster to burn my home—to slaughter my mother, my father, and everyone I knew.”

A flicker of pain crossed her face, but she buried it beneath cold resolve.“Five years ago, the monster returned. It destroyed the new home I had found. It killed my husband, burned my city, turned everything I had built into ash.”

Her words hung in the air, every syllable laced with hatred, with purpose. “So yes, Envoy.”

She lifted the massive bolt, turning it slightly so that the engraved Rhoynar glyphs shimmered under the torchlight. “This weapon can, indeed, kill the Black Dread.”

“This is the culmination of a lifetime’s worth of research, fueled by a desire for vengeance. Vengeance for my mother, for my father. For my husband. For all those who have suffered beneath the shadow of their dragons.”

A heavy silence settled over the chamber, broken only by the distant clang of metal from the forges deeper within.

Then, a voice rang out. “I want the weapon in my city as soon as possible.”

The envoy from Pentos stepped forward. “Pentos will be the first to be attacked. And with your blessing, my lady, we shall kill a dragon—if they dare bring one to our gates.”

The Sealord of Braavos, the unofficial leader of the League of Free Cities, nodded, his expression unreadable. “It shall be done. The weapon will be sent to Pentos.”

He paused, tilting his head slightly, his gaze searching hers.“Does it have a name?”

Saelena smiled, a slow, knowing smile.

“The Harbinger.”

A fitting name—for it would herald the end of the dragons.

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Rhaenys Targaryen POV

Meleys grunted softly, her crimson scales shimmering under the morning light as Rhaenys ran a hand along the ridge of her snout. The great dragon’s eyes were half-lidded in contentment, a low rumble emanating from her chest—a sign of trust. Of all the dragons poisoned during the Faceless Men’s attack, Meleys had been the first to recover.

It had been three months since that night—three months since the attack that had thrown the world into war. The others still struggled; Balerion, the Black Dread himself, had yet to recover, and Caraxes, Daemon’s Blood Wyrm, remained weakened, his once-deafening roar now a strained growl. Silverwing fared little better, her breaths still labored.

The League of Free Cities had been prepared. The moment their Faceless assassins struck, their armies moved. Volantis marched on the Valyrian Marches, sending its tiger-cloaked legions into Daemon’s lands. Myr, Lys, and Tyrosh erupted in rebellion, emboldened by the League’s invasion.

Daemon had been forced onto the defensive—without Caraxes, he could not command the battlefield as he once had. Each passing week brought more soldiers and more warships from the other cities of the League. From the last reports she heard, Daemon could lose those lands sooner than expected.

But Westeros had not been idle.

The death of Queen Myria had done what many thought impossible—it had united the Seven Kingdoms as never before.

Dorne had now fully thrown its weight behind the war, rallying under the banner of vengeance. Rumors of rebellion were whispered there, but the Martells assured they would crush any dissent. Levies were called in every kingdom, banners summoned in every hall. The blacksmiths of Westeros worked day and night, forging new armor, swords, and spears for what was to come. Alyxander was gathering the largest army the Seven Kingdoms had ever seen—a force to bring Essos to its knees.

Rhaenys had seen the war councils, the endless planning, the relentless preparations. She had watched her brother, once so full of fire, now cold and empty, driven only by vengeance. Gael’s death had wounded him—but Myria’s had broken him.

She exhaled softly, her gaze turning from Meleys to the Dragonmont above her. Viserys had suffered too—her husband had been injured in the attack but had, thankfully, been spared by the grace of the Seven.

“My princess,” a voice called from behind her.

Rhaenys turned to see Ser Arlan Crabb, his weathered face solemn beneath his helm. The knight bowed briefly before delivering his message.

“The king’s ship has been spotted. He will be here in three or four hours.”

Rhaenys nodded, offering the knight a rare smile. “Thank you, Ser Crabb.”

She turned her gaze again from Meleys to the towering Dragonmont above them, the great volcano that loomed over Dragonstone like an ancient sentinel.

All the dragons had come here in their weakened state—Balerion first, as if leading them in silent command. No one had questioned it. Dragons were intelligent creatures, far more than men often realized.

The dragonkeepers had searched desperately for a cure to the poison, yet none had been found. And still, the dragons had chosen Dragonstone, as if they knew something the maesters and dragonkeepers did not.

Meleys had been the first to rise once more, and with her recovery came the certainty that all of them would heal in time.

She turned her gaze towards the other dragon near them, settling on her daughter.

Rhaenyra sat near Syrax, the golden dragon curled lazily beside her, its wings half-folded. The princess absently ran her fingers along the dragon’s warm scales, her eyes distant, deep in thought.

She walked towards Rhaenyra, her steps light against the stone.

“Why do you think they came here?” Rhaenyra asked, her voice thoughtful, never turning from Syrax.

Rhaenys studied her daughter for a moment before responding. “Perhaps it is because of the Dragonmont.”

Rhaenyra finally looked up. “There is so much we don’t know about them.”

“Yes, there is,” Rhaenys admitted.

The young princess hesitated for a moment, then said, “Uncle Alyx knew a lot. I had been helping him research old Valyrian texts.”

Rhaenys’s eyes narrowed slightly.

“I hope he is fine,” Rhaenyra continued, a softness in her tone. “I have never seen him like this before. Perhaps when he comes, I shall try to cheer him up.” A small, hopeful smile tugged at her lips.

Rhaenys exhaled slowly.

“I know what you want, daughter.”

Rhaenyra tilted her head slightly. “Want what, Mother?”

“Don’t play coy with me.”

Rhaenyra feigned innocence, her expression unreadable. “I only said I wish to offer my uncle some companionship in these trying times. Am I wrong? Is that not the duty of a good niece? A good princess? A loyal subject?”

Rhaenys’s gaze hardened. “Try not to get burned, Rhaenyra.”

Rhaenys straightened, her expression smoothing. “Come. The king will be here soon.”

Rhaenyra’s eyes lit up, her excitement poorly concealed. Without another word, mother and daughter made their way back to the castle.

====

Rhaenys walked toward the chamber that housed the Painted Table. She was dressed for war, clad in blackened plate and silver mail, her cloak fastened with the sigil of House Targaryen—the three-headed dragon wrought in rubies.

She was ready to ride for war against Pentos. But she had no desire to do so.

Alyxander had commanded it, saying her dragon, Meleys, would be the key to taking the city quickly. She did not want that. She wanted to ride south—to the Valyrian Marches, to Daemon.

Volantis, Qohor, and Norvos had sent wave after wave of men against her cousin, and with Caraxes slowly recovering and unable to be used, he was on the defensive.

Alyxander himself would be sailing for the Marches in two weeks, leading the armies of the Vale, the Stormlands, and the Riverlands. Rhaenys had argued that Meleys would be better suited to join him, but he had rejected the idea and commanded her to go to Pentos instead.

She clenched her jaw at the memory.

Now, as she neared the chamber, she heard something unexpected:

Laughter.

Not just any laughter—her brother’s.

It was a rare sound these past three months. Even more surprising was the lighter, melodic laughter that followed.

Rhaenyra.

Curiosity overrode her irritation with matters of war, and she pushed open the doors.

Inside, Alyxander sat at the head of the Painted Table, his silver hair unbound, his expression unburdened—if only for a moment. Rhaenyra stood beside him, a pitcher of wine in hand, her lips curled in a smile as she poured him more.

At the sight of Rhaenys, Alyxander grinned. “Ah, sister.”

Rhaenyra turned as well, her violet eyes gleaming. “Mother.”

Rhaenys raised a brow. “What are you two laughing about?”

Rhaenyra smiled wider. “Uncle Alyx was telling me the tale of how you helped him steal Daemon’s sword when you were children.”

Rhaenys couldn’t help but smile. It was indeed a good memory of more innocent times—better times.

“I see you are prepared to leave,” Alyx said, his voice measured.

Rhaenys nodded. “I still believe I should come with you,” she said, her tone firm.

Alyxander exhaled through his nose, shaking his head. “You cannot, sister.”

His voice was not unkind, but it was resolute. “My spies tell me the League has a weapon that can kill a dragon.”

Rhaenys’ eyes narrowed. “There is nothing that can kill a dragon,” she countered, her voice edged with disbelief.

Across the table, Rhaenyra poured her uncle another cup of wine, glancing up. “The dead hatchlings say otherwise, Mother.”

Rhaenys’ jaw clenched. “An adult dragon,” she corrected, “Ours survived their cowardly attack. Nothing can kill a dragon head-on.”

Alyxander tapped his fingers against the polished wood of the ancient map, his expression unreadable.

“I am not going to take that chance.”

Rhaenys opened her mouth, but Alyx lifted a hand to silence her.

“The weapon is rumored to be in Volantis,” he said, his voice hardening. “Which is why you are going to Pentos. It is said only one exists—for now. If that is true, I will not risk all of us in one battle until I know it is destroyed.”

There was a quiet pause. Rhaenyra reached out and placed a hand on Alyxander’s shoulder.

Rhaenys glared at her daughter, but her expression softened after a moment. She sighed, her shoulders relaxing—just slightly.

“Fine. I will go to Pentos.”

===

Rhaenys stood near Meleys. The Red Queen shifted her weight, her golden eyes alert. She was recovered enough to fly.

Alyxander approached, his dark cloak billowing slightly in the wind. “Be careful, sister.”

Rhaenys smirked, placing a hand on Meleys’ warm scales. “Worried about your big sister?”

Alyx gave a small chuckle. “Always.”

His expression darkened slightly. “Little Alyx wanted to come with me. He wanted to ride Vermithor and burn all the Free Cities.”

Rhaenys exhaled sharply, her heart twisting at the thought of her young nephew. She knew the boy had taken his mother’s death as hard as his father—perhaps harder.

Alyxander’s gaze drifted beyond her for a moment, his lips barely moving as he whispered a single name.

“Myria…” His hands curled into fists, and when he spoke again, his voice was iron. “I am going to destroy them all, sister. And you will begin our revenge by taking Pentos.”

Rhaenyra stepped forward, her violet eyes filled with something unreadable. “Mother,” she said softly, “like Uncle said—please be safe.”

Rhaenys turned and placed a kiss on her daughter’s brow. “Be careful yourself as well, my sweet.”

At those words, Rhaenyra’s gaze sharpened, her lips pressing into a thin line.

Rhaenys said nothing more. She turned, climbing onto Meleys’ back with practiced ease. The dragon let out a deep rumble as she adjusted her grip on the reins.

With a single command, Meleys leapt into the sky.

The wind rushed past Rhaenys’ face, pulling at her cloak, her dark braids whipping behind her. Below, the waters of Blackwater Bay stretched endlessly, reflecting the sun’s first golden rays.

And beneath her, a great armada followed.

=====

Rhaenys soared high above Pentos, the wind cutting through her as Meleys, the Red Queen, carried her over the battlefield. Below, the city burned. Flames still flickered along the shattered remnants of the city walls, their stones blackened by dragonfire. The Pentoshi defenders had been laughably weak—a few thousand men, broken within moments. They had assembled a meager force at the gates, but Rhaenys had burned them where they stood. The walls of Pentos crumbled beneath Meleys’ fire, leaving the city defenseless.

‘Pitiful,’ she thought.

Rhaenys exhaled sharply, watching as her army poured into the streets below. They met little resistance—the city was already theirs. 

She smiled and scanned the horizon and to her surprise she spotted movement. Rhaenys narrowed her eyes. A new force was approaching.

Horses. Thousands and Thousands of them.

“Malakes,” she muttered—one of Alyxander’s strange curses. She knew who it was.

Dothraki.

It seemed the Pentoshi had called upon the horselords, likely promising them wealth, plunder, and slaves in return for their aid. Rhaenys gritted her teeth and pulled on the reins.

Meleys roared and banked sharply toward them. She had to stop them before they reached the rear of her army. If the Dothraki broke through, they could wipe out her entire force.

She urged Meleys faster, but then—

Something caught her eye: a strange gathering on a hill near the river below.

Rhaenys’ sharp gaze flicked toward it, confusion tightening her chest. A circle of people—hundreds of them, perhaps more.

She frowned. ‘What was this? A ritual? A final plea to their gods to save them from me and Meleys?’

Then she saw the blood filling the river.

Her stomach twisted.

One by one, the people were being executed. Hundreds of bodies—men, women, even children—were slaughtered in the shallows, their lifeblood spilling into the water. The river itself had turned a deep, sickly red, swirling like a living thing.

‘What is this?’

Her gaze fell upon something else: a massive scorpion—larger than any she had ever seen—being pushed toward the bloody waters.

Her blood ran cold.

The weapon her brother had warned her about.

She pulled Meleys hard to the left, banking away. But it was too late.

The scorpion fired.

A bolt of gleaming Valyrian steel cut through the air—but it wasn’t just the steel. Rhaenys watched in horror as the bloody waters surged upward, following the bolt like a living creature.

‘Dark magicks,’ she thought in terror.

She yanked on the reins, trying to pull Meleys away, but the projectile moved as if guided by something unnatural—something that refused to miss.

She braced herself, giving in to the inevitable. There was no escape.

Impact.

The bolt struck Meleys square in the chest, piercing through her thick red scales as if they were parchment.

The dragon’s scream split the sky.

Rhaenys felt a searing pain tear through her chest, as if the bolt had struck her as well. Her entire body tensed, her breath caught—and then, nothing.

The bond was gone.

She felt a great void open inside her.

Meleys was dead.

The dragon’s wings buckled, and they plummeted.

Rhaenys was numb, her hands slack on the reins, her body frozen as the wind rushed past her.

She could no longer feel Meleys.

The sea loomed closer and closer beneath her, the world a blur. She closed her eyes.

Her last thoughts were of her family.

And then—darkness.

.

.

.

Should Rhaneys live ? I leave that upto you.

So the war has begun. I grounded the dragons since this is a Alexander the Great story, and I want to focus on what Alexander did best.

That will be the next chapter—Alyx leading armies against the League.