ASOIAF: Alyxander the Great I

There were many good ideas for fics you gave me when I asked for them, and this will mark the beginning of a series of one-shots and short fics I plan to create based on those ideas. Some will be expansive and much larger, while others will remain brief.

This particular story will be a three-parter and revolves around Alyxander the Great, reborn as the son of Prince Aemon Targaryen and Lady Jocelyn Baratheon— brother to Princess Rhaenys Targaryen, the Queen Who Never Was.

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He was a god. Tyrant, they yell so easily. I laugh; no tyrant ever gave back so much. It takes strong men to rule. Alexander was more; he was Prometheus, a friend to man. He changed the world.

— Ptolemy I Soter  

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Excerpt from "Alyxander the Great: His Wars, His Empire, His Legacy"

Written by Maester Aerys Targaryen

Alyxander Targaryen, the only son of Prince Aemon Targaryen and Lady Jocelyn Baratheon, was born in the year 80 AC. His birth, though marred by tragedy, was surrounded by a sense of divine providence. Lady Jocelyn, beloved by all, succumbed during labor, leaving the young prince motherless and Prince Aemon without his cherished wife. It was a day of both mourning and inexplicable wonder, for it seemed the world itself shifted to acknowledge the arrival of a figure who would reshape its destiny.

The birth of Alyxander was marked by auspicious signs, as if the gods themselves had taken an interest. On the very morning of his birth, a remarkable transformation took place within the dragonpit of King's Landing. Balerion the Black Dread, the greatest of all dragons, who had been fading slowly since the ill-fated incident involving young Aerea Targaryen years earlier, suddenly regained his strength. The Black Dread, once lethargic and thought to be dying, let out a powerful roar that echoed across the city, shaking the very foundations of the Red Keep. Dragonkeepers, witnessing the beast's renewed vigor, were astounded, and whispers began among them that the newborn Targaryen prince was destined to ride the great dragon, as if a bond between them had been forged at the moment of his first breath.

Other curious events took place that day, seen as further omens of greatness. A shower of falling stars was reported by smallfolk near the Blackwater, and an unusual calm settled over the usually turbulent Blackwater Rush, its waters flowing as smooth as polished glass. In the godswood of King's Landing, the heart tree—which had not flowered in decades—was said to have sprouted a cluster of bright red blossoms. From the perspective of the court, these signs pointed to something extraordinary—a life destined for deeds that would eclipse even those of his forebears.

Among all these omens, none stood out more than the Black Dread's sudden recovery. The elder dragonkeepers, grizzled veterans who had tended dragons for decades, whispered that Balerion himself knew a new master had been born. As Alyxander grew, the connection between boy and dragon seemed to prove the truth of these whispers. At just six years old, Alyxander stood before the Black Dread and did what few would dare: he touched the beast's ancient scales, and Balerion allowed it—a quiet acceptance of his new master.

In this Maester’s opinion, Alyxander was the greatest rider of the Black Dread, surpassing even Aegon the Conqueror. While Aegon forged an empire and laid the foundations of the realm, Alyxander expanded it threefold, taking Balerion to the ends of Westeros and across the Narrow Sea to Essos. For all his victories, Aegon had boundaries, but Alyxander had none—only horizons yet to conquer…

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Myria Martell POV

Myria awoke to the sound of dragons.

Her heart pounded in her chest, breath heavy with fear as her eyes darted around the dimly lit chamber. The sound was distant yet unmistakable—the deep, guttural roar of a dragon splitting the night, seeping through the thick stone walls. She shivered, wrapping her arms around herself.

Suddenly, the door to her chambers burst open. Her brother Qoren rushed in, his face pale and slick with sweat, eyes wide with urgency.

"Myria, we have to go!" he shouted, his voice barely masking his own fear.

"Qoren—" Myria gasped, struggling to rise from her bed, her legs weak with dread. "Have they...?"

"Yes." He nodded, his voice trembling. "They're here."

Dorne was at war.

And had been for six months.

The Targaryen kings, who styled themselves as the rulers of the Seven Kingdoms, had never been able to claim the entirety of Westeros. Six kingdoms they held, but Dorne had always resisted. Aegon the Conqueror himself had failed to break it, and the Martells had ensured it stayed that way. They had even killed a dragon—Queen Rhaenys and her beloved Meraxes had perished at Hellholt.

Dorne embodied the Martell words: Unbent, Unbowed, Unbroken.

Yet now, with this new invasion led by Crown Prince Alyxander Targaryen, those words were being tested like never before. In just half a year, the prince had carved through their defenses and taken most of Dorne. He had won every battle.

The Targaryens had five dragons. Myria had expected the sky to burn, cities reduced to rubble under overwhelming fire. But the dragons had hardly been used. Instead, it was the armies that were winning—step by meticulous step. Her father cursed Alyxander's name at every meal, swearing the boy had a mind sharper than any blade. He prepared for everything—every ambush, every stratagem. He came with plans and executed them flawlessly.

As Qoren led her through the castle halls, panic was everywhere. Servants ran with arms full of goods, faces masks of terror, while guards barked orders, trying to restore order.

Suddenly, a shadow fell over the hallway, blotting out the moonlight streaming through the high windows. Myria's stomach twisted in horror. She glanced up, her steps faltering.

"Qoren," she whispered, her voice cracking.

"It will be fine, sister," Qoren said, but his tone lacked its usual certainty. His grip on her wrist tightened almost painfully. "We're going to escape. We'll make it out of Sunspear, I swear it."

"Where is Father?" Myria asked, her voice trembling. Qoren didn't answer, his gaze fixed ahead.

They rounded a corner, and Myria's foot caught on uneven stone. She stumbled forward, and Qoren grunted as he tried to catch her. She felt his hands trembling as he pulled her back to her feet, his eyes darting around as if expecting danger to leap from every shadow.

"Qoren..." she began softly, but she saw something behind him. Her blood turned to ice.

Men in strange armor were approaching, like wolves closing in on wounded prey.

"Qoren, look out!" Myria yelled, her voice strained with panic as she saw Martell guards rushing to attack the armored men. For a moment, hope flared in her chest—but it died quickly as the soldiers moved with ruthless precision, cutting down the guards.

"No, no, no!" Qoren muttered, his face twisted in frustration as he pulled Myria to her feet. They had to keep moving; they couldn't stay here. But it was no use. Myria's heart sank as she looked around, realizing they were completely surrounded.

"How?" she wondered aloud, breathless and desperate.

How had Sunspear fallen?

She had thought they were safe, that the Targaryens were still far away.

Where had they come from? How had they breached the walls?

"Surrender, Prince." One of the armored men stepped forward, his voice muffled by his visor. "We have your father."

Qoren's face contorted, his jaw clenched so tightly Myria could see the muscle twitch. His eyes were aflame with fury, his hands trembling at his sides, helplessness coursing through him like poison. Myria wanted to scream, to fight, but a different kind of fear grew inside her—a fear not for herself but for her brother.

Suddenly, a woman's voice cut through the chaos. Myria turned to see a figure walking past the armored knights, her stride confident. Clad in steel, the dark metal shaped with elegance and strength, she stopped before them and pulled off her helm, revealing a face framed by raven-black hair.

"Prince Qoren," she said evenly, almost dismissively, as though speaking to a mere child.

Qoren's eyes narrowed. "Princess Rhaenys," he spat her name like a curse, every syllable trembling with anger.

"Are you going to resist?" Rhaenys asked, her gaze flickering briefly to Myria before returning to Qoren. "Think of your sister."

Myria felt rage flare in her chest, burning away fear and helplessness. She clenched her fists, ready to snap back, to curse this dragon whorewho dared threaten her family. But before she could speak, Qoren's voice cut across her anger.

"Yes," Qoren said, his eyes fixed on Rhaenys. His shoulders slumped, his voice losing some of its fire. "Do not harm her."

Rhaenys's lips curved into a slight smile—without warmth or kindness. "I am a woman of my word," she said simply, her voice carrying a cold confidence that made Myria's skin crawl.

She turned and ordered her men, her tone brisk. "Take them to the throne room. My brother awaits."

===

As Myria and Qoren were dragged through the corridors toward the throne room, her eyes kept returning to the men in strange armor flanking them. She had heard of them—the Crown Prince's elite guard. Her brother had spoken of them with awe and a hint of fear, calling them a terrifying presence on the battlefield. Stories painted them as relentless and utterly loyal to Alyxander.

Now, seeing them up close, she understood why they were so feared.

Their armor was unlike anything she had ever seen. The chest plates were layered with golden, scale-like segments, each overlapping the next and shimmering faintly in the torchlight. These plates were fastened by intricately detailed straps and buckles, etched with ornate patterns resembling waves or feathers. The pauldrons on their shoulders were angular and reinforced, engraved with curling dragons—beautiful yet deadly.

Their armguards bore the same ornate carvings, each studded with small rivets that caught the flickering light. But it was the helms that struck Myria the most. The metallic sheen of their golden finish gleamed as they moved, and the faceplates bore the likeness of a man—a man she would soon lay eyes on.

The throne room loomed before them, its doors thrown open. Myria saw her father already kneeling, his head bowed before the throne—her father's throne—now occupied by the dragon prince.

Her stomach churned, her eyes narrowing as she was dragged closer, her feet stumbling on the polished stone floor. Qoren was forced to his knees beside her, and she could feel his tension, his fury bubbling just beneath the surface. But he did not fight. Not now. There was nothing to be gained from fighting now.

Myria felt hands push down on her shoulders, forcing her to kneel. She did so defiantly, her eyes fixed on the Crown Prince. She looked up at him, her heart pounding in her chest.

Alyxander Targaryen.

He sat on her father's throne, clad in black and red armor, a dragon motif etched across his breastplate. His shoulders were broad, his posture relaxed as if entirely at ease. His blue eyes looked down on them—on her.

For a moment, she couldn't breathe.

‘He is handsome,’ a traitorous part of her mind whispered. His face was sharp, with high cheekbones, a proud jaw, and eyes that seemed almost too bright, even in the dim torchlight. She bit down on her lip, pushing the thought away, refusing to let such weakness take root.

His eyes caught hers. Myria held his gaze defiantly, but there was something strange in the way he looked at her. It was as though he had seen a ghost. His expression faltered, a flicker of something passing over his face—shock, confusion, almost recognition. Myria's brow furrowed, her heart pounding faster. Why was he looking at her like that?

"Brother."

The voice broke the moment. Myria turned her head slightly, her gaze catching the raven-haired princess as she entered the room. Princess Rhaenys approached the throne. Alyxander looked away from Myria, his gaze shifting to his sister and then to her father.

"Your children are here, Prince Lewyn," Alyxander said, his eyes glancing toward her father, who knelt silently. But then his gaze wandered back to Myria, and she could feel his eyes on her, even when she looked away.

Alyxander turned his attention fully to her father, his eyes narrowing, his voice now holding a dangerous edge.

"My uncle was attacked under a flag of truce," he said. "He is alive. But his sons, my dearest cousins, are not happy."

"A casualty of war," her father replied, his voice clipped, though Myria could hear the fear beneath it.

Alyxander's lips curled into a smile, but there was no warmth in it. "Ah, yes, you Dornish and your little tricks," he mocked. He paused, letting the silence linger like a blade above them. "The only reason you are alive, my lord—"

"Prince," her father interrupted angrily, his pride cutting through the tension. "Prince Lewyn of House Martell."

Alyxander's eyes flashed, his smile widening. "Not anymore," he said, his voice dripping with finality. He leaned forward slightly, his blue eyes locked onto her father's. "Well... it depends. It depends on what choice you make in the next few minutes."

Her father straightened, his jaw clenched, eyes fierce with defiance. "Unbent, Unbowed, Unbroken," he declared, his voice trembling with emotion.

Alyxander's expression did not change, his smile unwavering. "You are bent, bowed, and being broken," he said, each word deliberate, as if savoring them. His eyes shifted toward Myria, lingering on her for a heartbeat. "But whether you are utterly broken... well, that depends, like I said, on the choice you make."

Myria could feel her father's hesitation, the weight of defeat pressing down on his shoulders. Alyxander began to speak, detailing the totality of their loss. He recited the names of lords who had already surrendered, territories taken, armies defeated. There was no hope left, and he made that brutally clear. There was no winning now, yet here he was, offering mercy.

"Even my sister Rhaenys here wanted to kill you all," Alyxander said. "Extinguish House Martell, burn Sunspear to the ground."

Myria's heart skipped a beat, her eyes widening in shock. She glanced at Qoren, whose face was pale, eyes wide with terror. She could hear the shudder in his breathing.

Princess Rhaenys stepped forward. "That is still an option," she said coldly.

Alyxander stood, rising from the throne, his tall figure casting a long shadow across the floor. His eyes landed on Myria once more before shifting back to her father.

"What will it be, my lord?" Alyxander asked, his voice sharp, emphasizing the title in a way that stripped it of its power.

"I... I..." Her father stammered, his voice cracking. He looked lost, eyes clouded with disbelief, as if he couldn't fathom what was happening. Myria saw the weight of it all pressing down on him—his entire life spent defending Dorne, the Martell pride, the legacy of the Rhoynar. How could he give in? How could he submit to the descendants of the Valyrians who had driven their ancestors to Dorne and now came to crush them again?

"No, Father!" Qoren suddenly shouted, his voice filled with desperate courage. He turned toward their father, eyes blazing with the last of his defiance. "Do not do it! We should die before we surrender!"

Myria barely had time to react before Princess Rhaenys stepped forward, her hand striking out to hit Qoren hard across the face. The sound echoed through the throne room. Myria felt her blood boil, her vision turning red. She couldn't stop herself.

"You dragon whore!" she shouted, her voice trembling with rage.

Rhaenys turned, eyes narrowing, her hand lifting again, but before she could strike, Alyxander intervened, his voice cutting through the tension.

"No, Rhaenys." His tone was firm, commanding. Rhaenys hesitated, her eyes flickering between her brother and Myria before stepping back, lowering her hand.

Alyxander looked at her father, his face composed once more, eyes cold and commanding. "Well?" he said, his voice like a blade, sharp and cutting. "What will it be, Lord Martell?"

Silence hung heavy in the room. Myria looked at her father, her heart in her throat. She saw defeat in his eyes, resignation. He looked broken.

"I will submit," her father said, his voice barely a whisper. The words hit Myria like a blow. She felt the air leave her lungs, her heart clenching painfully.

Alyxander nodded, his expression unchanged. "Then, in the name of King Jaehaerys Targaryen, King of the Seven Kingdoms, I, Alyxander Targaryen, Crown Prince, accept your fealty and submission."

Myria's mind was spinning, her ears ringing. She barely registered Alyxander's next words.

"My sister will be staying. We will meet again soon, my lord." He turned to walk away, Rhaenys following at his side. Myria could hardly process what was happening when, halfway across the throne room, he stopped. He turned back toward them, his eyes once again landing on her. He motioned to the guards beside her.

"Help her stand," he ordered. The guards obeyed, their hands rough but effective as they pulled her to her feet.

Alyxander's eyes never left hers. "I will be taking your daughter with me," he announced.

Her heart lurched, fear gripping her anew. ‘A hostage,’ she thought.

Her father's head snapped up, eyes filled with panic, his voice rising in protest. "No," he said, his voice trembling. "You cannot—you cannot take her!"

Alyxander looked at him impassively. "To ensure my sister's safety, my lord," he said, tone polite but unyielding, "we will need to build trust, given our shared history."

Myria swallowed, her eyes darting between her father and Alyxander. She took a deep breath, steadying herself, then spoke up, her voice as calm as she could make it. "Father," she said, meeting his gaze, "it's fine. I will go with the Prince."

Qoren struggled against the guards holding him, his face twisted in fury. "No, Myria! You cannot go with him—"

"It's fine, Qoren." She shook her head, her gaze fixed on her brother, trying to reassure him. "I will be fine."

She turned, locking eyes with Alyxander. He looked at her, his expression unreadable. For a long moment, they stared at each other, the connection only broken when he turned and left.

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Myria was taken outside. The guards' grip on her arms was firm, forcing her to keep pace as they marched through the halls of Sunspear and into the open air. Her breath caught in her throat as she took in the scene before her.

The city had been sacked.

Buildings smoldered, the pale light of the moon illuminating collapsed walls and shattered windows. Smoke hung in the air, rising in thin, dark tendrils that curled against the sky. The streets, once lively and vibrant, now lay empty except for scattered debris and a few broken bodies that had not yet been moved.

Myria’s eyes filled with tears as they forced her forward. She swallowed a sob, her heart aching as she saw the broken remnants of her home, her people.

‘Savages,’ she thought, her mind filled with anger and grief. Her tears spilled over, her vision blurring as she tried to look away.

Alyxander rode nearby, his eyes catching the sight of her tears. "This is war, my lady. It is how it is."

Myria looked up at him, her eyes blazing with fury. "You started this war!" she spat, her voice trembling with emotion. "We had no quarrel with you! Dorne did not seek this fight."

Alyxander let out a laugh, the sound echoing in the cold night air. He turned to look at her, his eyes sharp. "No quarrel?" he repeated, his voice carrying a touch of amusement. "We have plenty of quarrel, my lady. And this was inevitable. Even you must see that."

Myria’s heart pounded in her chest, her anger boiling over. She turned her gaze away from him, her eyes drawn upward to where dragons flew in the moonlit sky. Their wings were vast, blocking out the stars as they circled above the city.

Two of them were enormous, their scales glinting in the pale light, and Myria felt her body tense at the sight of them. They were terrifying, monstrous. One of them kept roaring, its sound like thunder.

The Targaryen camp was being set up outside the walls of Sunspear. Tents were erected, soldiers moved about in disciplined lines, the banners of House Targaryen, Stark, Lannister, and Tyrell all flapping in the breeze. They dismounted, and Alyxander gestured for her to follow. The guards pushed her forward, forcing her to keep pace with the prince as he led the way to a large tent near the center of the camp.

The interior was dimly lit, the flickering light of oil lamps casting long shadows across the canvas walls. Myria's eyes widened slightly as she took in the sight of three more silver-haired men—Targaryens. These must be his family. They looked at her briefly before turning back to Alyxander.

"Uncle, what are you doing sitting up?" Alyxander asked, his tone one of concern.

The older man sitting on the bed looked up, his expression weary. "I am fine, nephew," he said. Myria guessed that this must be Baelon Targaryen, the prince's uncle.

"No, you are not, Father," the older of the two men standing said, his face creased with concern. Myria recognized him as Viserys Targaryen.

The other man, who had an air of restlessness about him, scoffed. "If Father says he is fine, then he is fine," he said, his voice edged with irritation. Myria guessed this was Daemon Targaryen.

Alyxander shook his head, his voice turning firm. "No," he said, looking at Baelon. "You are coming with me to King's Landing, Uncle. I have asked Rhaenys to take over here, and you two"—he gestured to Viserys and Daemon—"will help her."

Baelon tried to protest, shifting in his seat. "Alyxander, I can still—"

"No, Father," Viserys interjected, his eyes full of worry. "You need to recover—you almost died."

Baelon sighed, and eventually he gave in. He looked at Viserys and then at Alyxander, nodding reluctantly. "Very well."

Myria watched, her eyes moving from one Targaryen to another as they spoke.

Daemon, for his part, seemed to sulk, clearly unhappy with the arrangement. "So I have to work under Rhaenys?" he muttered, his lips curling in displeasure. "Is this a punishment, cousin?"

Alyxander ignored him, his attention focused on his uncle. Daemon then noticed Myria standing near the entrance, flanked by guards.

"And who is this beauty?" Daemon said, his eyes glinting with interest.

Alyxander turned his head slightly, glancing at Myria before speaking. "Lady Martell," he said simply, his voice giving nothing away.

"A hostage?" Baelon asked, his brow furrowing as he looked at her.

"Yes," Alyxander replied, his gaze returning to her. "She will be riding with me."

Myria felt her heart lurch, her eyes widening. Riding with him? Did he mean... She swallowed hard, her heart pounding, her thoughts racing.

Was she going to be riding a dragon?

===

Yes, she was going to ride a dragon, she realized, as she was taken to a separate tent and told by one of the guards that she would be flying with Prince Alyxander to King's Landing.

She sat there for hours, the time blurring together as her thoughts spiraled. Her mind replayed the events of the night over and over. She then thought of what was to come. What would happen to her now? She knew she would be treated well enough—as a useful hostage, the Targaryens would not harm her.

Yet her life was not secure. The thought haunted her, gnawing at her from the inside out. A part of her almost wanted to end it herself, to die by her own hand rather than live in chains. She knew her father would rebel eventually; he would not allow House Martell to be bound by the Iron Throne’s tyranny. It was in their blood. They were Martells—they would fight until the last breath. And when that day came, she would welcome whatever fate awaited her.

Her thoughts were interrupted when the tent flap opened, and the masked guards came for her again. They motioned for her to follow, their gold-plated armor glinting in the morning light as they led her through the bustling camp.

They led her toward a clearing where the largest of the dragons lay. Myria felt her breath catch in her throat as they neared, her steps faltering. She had seen dragons from afar in the sky, but nothing could have prepared her for the sight of the legendary Balerion.

The great black-scaled beast was massive. His body was covered in scales as dark as a moonless night, each one as big as a man’s shield, shimmering faintly. His wings were folded at his sides, and even at rest, they seemed to stretch endlessly, casting a wide shadow across the camp. Awe and fear filled her in equal measure, her hands trembling at her sides.

Standing near Balerion was Alyxander, and she noticed something odd. He stood with his back to her, his hand resting on the dragon's side. As they approached, the guards pushed her closer, and she could hear a tune—soft, lilting, the words flowing like water. She frowned, straining to understand, but the language was foreign to her. It wasn’t Valyrian; she knew that much. It was something else.

Alyxander turned at the sound of their approach, his blue eyes locking onto hers. He stopped singing, the tune hanging in the air like a distant echo.

“Well, my lady,” he said, his voice carrying a hint of amusement. “It’s time for us to leave.”

Myria remained silent, her face set in defiance, refusing to show fear or give him the satisfaction of a response.

Alyxander looked at her for a long moment before his lips twitched into a small, almost nostalgic smile. “You’ll love King’s Landing, Roxana,” he said softly.

Myria blinked, her brow furrowing in confusion. Roxana? Who was Roxana? She glanced up at him, and for the briefest moment, she saw something strange—a flicker of confusion, a hesitation in his eyes. His expression hardened, his gaze shifting back to her.

“I will help you climb up,” he said, stepping toward her. “And don’t try anything foolish. I don’t want you falling off, my lady,” he added.

She didn’t answer, but she felt her heart pound in her chest as the guards led her closer to Balerion. Alyxander moved ahead of her, leading her to the saddle that rested atop the dragon’s back. It was large and could hold more than five or six people.

Myria struggled to catch her breath as she found herself atop the Black Dread, the ground below seeming impossibly far away. She was seated in the large saddle, the leather smooth and well-crafted, straps ready to secure her. Alyxander climbed up behind her, moving with ease and familiarity. He settled himself in the saddle and turned toward her.

“Hold on to me,” he said.

Myria hesitated, then slowly wrapped her arms around his waist, her heart hammering in her chest. She could feel the warmth of him, the strength beneath the armor.

“Hold tight,” Alyxander added.

Suddenly, Balerion moved, his wings unfolding with a deafening whoosh, the force of it almost knocking the breath out of her. Myria gasped, her grip tightening around Alyxander as she felt the world tilt.

The dragon leaped into the air, his massive wings beating with a force that made the ground fall away beneath them. Myria let out a scream, the air rushing past her face as they climbed higher and higher, the camp below shrinking to a mere blur.

The speed was terrifying, the wind howling in her ears, the ground far below seeming like nothing more than a dark smudge. She felt her stomach twist, her eyes wide with fear, her heart racing as Balerion soared through the sky, each beat of his wings carrying them farther from Sunspear, farther from her home.

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Excerpt from "Alyxander the Great: His Wars, His Empire, His Legacy"

Written by Maester Aerys Targaryen

The conquest of Dorne was completed in just six months—a feat many believed impossible given the storied history of Dornish resistance. The proud Princes of Dorne were no more, and House Martell was reduced to the status of lords, much like the other former monarchs of Westeros. Their power and pride were brought low under the banner of the Iron Throne.

The war began after the death of Queen Alysanne, during a time when King Jaehaerys, weary and frail, decided to step away from the burdens of ruling. It was the perfect moment for Prince Alyxander to take up the mantle, his sights set on the last unconquered realm within the Seven Kingdoms. The campaign to subjugate Dorne drew forces from the Reach, Westerlands, Stormlands, Vale, and Riverlands, each contributing to the massive effort. Even the North, often distant from the affairs of the southern realms, sent a small contingent, showcasing the unity forged under Targaryen rule.

Prince Alyxander’s elite fighting force, known as the Immortals, earned their fearsome reputation during this campaign. These soldiers, personally trained by the Crown Prince and outfitted in distinctive golden scale armor and their fearsome masked helms, became symbols of Targaryen supremacy. Their presence on the battlefield heralded swift victories; they were disciplined, relentless, and utterly loyal to the prince and, later, to the future emperors.

The war highlighted not just the might of the Targaryen dragons but also the tactical and strategic genius of Prince Alyxander. His meticulous preparations, innovative battlefield maneuvers, and use of combined forces showcased his brilliance. The conquest of Dorne was merely the beginning of the great victories he would achieve—a prologue to the larger story of conquest yet to unfold.

Yet the campaign was also marred by tragedy. Two months into the invasion, Princess Gael, Alyxander’s beloved wife, passed away during childbirth, and the child did not survive. It was a blow that shook the prince, the sorrow evident to those closest to him. From this union, the prince had only one child, Princess Olympia. He would have more children with his second wife and also with his third...

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Alyxander has introduced changes inspired by Macedonian, Greek, and Persian traditions—for example, the Immortals, various architectural innovations. These elements will be explored further in the second part, which will explore King’s Landing and the beginning of the conquest of the Stepstones and beyond.