POV: 3rd Person, Rhaenys Targaryen
Location: Dragonstone
The wind off the Narrow Sea was sharp and salt-laced when it reached the Dragonmont. Steam rose from the blackened earth in thin white ribbons, coiling around obsidian rocks like ghosts reluctant to fade. Meraxes stirred restlessly behind her, the great she-dragon's scales glinting pearl and silver in the morning light. Her low, rumbling breath warmed the cold volcanic air.
Rhaenys stood at the edge of the platform that jutted from the mouth of the cavern, looking to the sky.
"They should have been here by now," she murmured, though her voice remained steady.
Beside her, Orys Baratheon folded his arms across his chest. Unlike most men, the volcanic heat did not seem to bother him. His dark hair was tied back, and his sword hung at his hip, easy in his stance yet alert.
"You are certain it was them?" Rhaenys asked.
Orys nodded once. "Aye. My scouts on the southern coast sent word at dawn—both Balerion and Vhagar were spotted flying together. The sentries sounded the alarm before sunrise."
Only then did Rhaenys allow herself to release the breath she had been holding. Relief—sharp, bright, almost painful—washed through her. Meraxes crooned behind her, sensing her rider's change in mood.
The war—if it could even be called that—had lasted only a handful of days. Aegon and Visenya had flown east with their dragons, stormed the remnants of the so-called New Valyrian Empire, and shattered its armies before the first moon had waned. It had been quick. Too quick.
And yet she had been left behind.
For the first time in her life, Dragonstone had been hers to rule.
At first, the responsibility had thrilled her. Then it had exhausted her.
With Orys' steady counsel and the help of the dragonkeepers, she had learned more in a week about rule, grain tallies, and shipwright tariffs than she had ever learned in the years prior. It was… enlightening.
But the suitors were not.
Once rumor spread that Aegon had flown to war—and that not even dragons were invincible—marriage proposals descended like vultures upon a fresh corpse. Every raven brought some lord's promise of loyalty, alliance, or a son of appropriate age and ambition.
Even Lord Crispian Celtigar of Claw Isle and Lord Daemon Velaryon of Driftmark, both loyal bannermen, had made their careful overtures. Not crass or desperate like the others—but persistent, thoughtful, calculated.
She could not reject them outright without insult. So she had smiled. Spoken politely. Feigned interest.
And then fled into the sky.
Meraxes' wings had carved through clouds while she patrolled the coastline, flying far above the reach of words, proposals, and politics. Above the sea, she was not a lady, nor a future queen—only a Targaryen, wind in her hair and dragonfire in her blood.
Now, she stood grounded once more, waiting.
Behind her, two dragonkeepers whispered quietly as they checked the iron chains and feeding racks. Lord Crispian stood nearby, silver hair bound beneath a crimson cloak embroidered with tiny crab sigils. Lord Daemon Velaryon stood opposite him, sea-gray eyes narrowed against the sunlight, the pearl clasp of his mantle gleaming like moonlight on waves.
Both lords bowed when Rhaenys glanced their way.
Both were too polite to speak what lingered in their eyes.
The sky trembled.
A distant roar rolled across the horizon like thunder.
Rhaenys' heart leapt.
From the eastern sky, two dark shapes broke through the clouds. One vast and black as midnight, wings casting a shadow over the sea. The other bronze and colossal, its scales gleaming like burnished copper beneath the sun.
Balerion. Vhagar.
Aegon and Visenya had come home.
Rhaenys could not help the smile that spread across her face as the two dragons descended from the clouds. Meraxes felt it too—her great white-and-silver head lifted, a deep, thunderous roar tearing from her throat in greeting. The sound rolled across the stones of the Dragonmont, and somewhere within her heart, Rhaenys felt the pulse of her dragon's joy—Balerion had returned.
Vhagar landed first.
The bronze-green she-dragon cut a fierce path through the air, wings folding in as she skidded across the grey stone of the platform, her talons sending sparks where they gouged the rock. Dragonkeepers rushed forward at once—ropes, chains, and raw meat in hand. Visenya swung down from the saddle with practiced grace, boots touching stone as lightly as a dancing blade.
Then came Balerion.
He did not land so much as fall upon the world, like a mountain deciding to move.
The ground shook with the force of him. Dust rose. Loose stones rattled. Even the volcanic heart of the Dragonmont seemed to tremble at his arrival.
No dragonkeeper dared approach. Balerion growled low, a sound from the deep earth, teeth gleaming like molten iron. They held back—wisely.
Aegon dismounted moments later, climbing down the ropes of Balerion's saddle.
And only then did Rhaenys see—he was not alone.
Another figure climbed down with him, and the warmth in her chest flared into something hotter, sharper. Aegon's hand lingered at the woman's waist as he helped her to the ground.
Rhaenys barely felt Visenya's presence beside her until her sister spoke.
"Ah," Visenya murmured, lips curled into a smirk, "I see you've noticed our new arrival."
Rhaenys did not take her eyes off the pair. "Who is she?" The question came out more forceful than intended.
Visenya's smirk only deepened, which made it worse.
Orys, ever the unfortunate soul who thought to speak at the wrong moment, said lightly, "Don't tell me he got married—"
Rhaenys' head snapped toward him so fast that the words died in his throat. The lord of Storm's End suddenly seemed very interested in the clouds above them.
Visenya laughed. Quiet, amused, infuriating.
"I'll let Aegon introduce her," she said, stepping back as Aegon and the woman approached.
Now, Rhaenys truly saw her.
She was of similar age to Rhaenys and Visenya, with smooth dark-red hair falling freely past her shoulders. Her eyes were striking—emerald green, sharp, assessing everything and missing nothing. She wore a flowing red dress, light as flame, trailing behind her like a priestess's banner. And yet, for all its elegance, there was something grounded, unshaken, in the way she walked beside Aegon.
"Sister," Aegon said as he reached her, warmth softening his features. "It is good to be home."
The burning in Rhaenys' chest eased—not gone, but tempered—replaced by a warmth she did not hide. She stepped into his embrace without hesitation, and Aegon's arms wrapped around her, strong and solid as ever.
"Dragonstone has missed you, brother," she murmured, pulling back to look up at him.
And below, their dragons echoed them.
Balerion rumbled and strode toward Meraxes, the black and white of their scales meeting like night and moonlight. They touched their colossal snouts together, rumbling with affection, the ground trembling beneath their purrs. Vhagar followed soon after, guided by dragonkeepers deeper into the Dragonmont.
Only then did the woman in red step forward.
She bowed her head not to the dragons, nor to the lords behind Rhaenys but to Aegon, Visenya, and her.
"I am Myra," she said, voice calm and clear. "Priestess of the Red Temple. Follower of the Lord of Light."
Rhaenys' jaw tightened barely noticeable to anyone who didn't know her but after a moment, she exhaled softly, the motion smooth, deliberate. Her eyes lingered on the red-clad woman before her.
"It's a pleasure," she said at last, her voice calm yet carrying the weight of command she had learned to wield these past weeks. "I don't believe we've ever had a visitor from the Red Temple before. But I must ask why are you here?"
Myra inclined her head respectfully, the movement graceful, measured. "I come as a representative of the Red Temple," she said warmly, her tone almost melodic. "To extend the hand of faith and flame to build an alliance between our order and your House, and to ensure our interests remain aligned."
Rhaenys' brow arched her gaze shifted to her brothers a question in her eyes.
Aegon met her eyes and gave a single, steady nod.
"When I stayed in Volantis to oversee the peace talks," he began, his tone as composed as ever, "Myra… visited me. She spoke of the Red Temple's wish to ally itself with us, to offer knowledge and assistance. She also expressed a desire to join our service to act as the temple's representative here."
He paused, just briefly.
Rhaenys caught it their eyes met and words were exchanged through that meeting a promise of explanation.
"I agreed," Aegon continued, "but only on one condition that she convince both you and Visenya to accept her presence. If either of you refused, she would be sent back to her temple."
Rhaenys' gaze flicked to Visenya.
Her elder sister's face was unreadable, but the faintest tilt of her chin gave away her thoughts. "I've already agreed to keep her services," Visenya said neutrally. "But if you disagree, Rhaenys, then she will leave. Immediately. The choice is yours."
The wind shifted through the mountaintop air, carrying with it the scent of ash and the distant growl of dragons. The silence between the three Targaryens lingered long enough that even the guards seemed to hold their breath.
At last, Rhaenys inclined her head.
"Very well," she said evenly. "But I believe we can have a more detailed conversation inside rather than let the wind and ash sting our faces."
Her eyes slid toward Aegon in quiet expectation.
He gave a nod of agreement and turned slightly toward Orys. The Baratheon caught the look instantly years of loyalty making words unnecessary.
"Form ranks!" Orys barked. "Clear the path for our lord!"
At his command, the guards moved as one, spears lifted, forming a protective escort. The lords of Claw Isle and Driftmark fell in behind them, whispering quietly amongst themselves. Dragonkeepers lingered to tend to the beasts as the royal party began its descent.
Rhaenys cast one last glance over her shoulder.
Balerion's black wings curled over Meraxes like a shadow embracing moonlight, and Vhagar rested beside them, her tail coiled neatly.
Aegon and Visenya walked side by side with her, as Myra walked behind the red silk of the priestess's dress fluttering in the wind like living flame.
Rhaenys' expression softened only slightly.
She would listen.
She would judge fairly.
But she would also remember that pause in Aegon's voice.
Whatever this Myra sought, it would not come easily.
---
POV: 3rd Person
Location: Terra, beneath the Imperial Palace
The air in the gene-laboratorium was cold, sterile, and heavy with the quiet hum of machines older than nations.
Rows of incubation pods stretched into the darkness like metal sarcophagi, each one containing a child suspended in amber-gold amniotic fluid. Thick cables fed into their spines. Silver needles pulsed with faint light as gene-seed organs steadily rewrote blood, bone, and destiny.
Malcador the Sigillite stood in silence above them, his weathered hands resting lightly atop a bronze-tipped staff. His eyes—ancient, tired, and sharp despite it all—watched the process with the calm of a man who had seen empires rise and fall, and still found reason to continue.
Beside him stood Amar Astarte, high genetor of the Emperor's laboratories. The glow of the augmetic displays lit her stern features in shifting gold and blue. Where Malcador was shrouded in quiet robes and mystery, she was precision white surgical coat, crimson armor plating along the shoulders, gloved hands folded behind her back to keep them from trembling.
In the pod before them, a boy no older than twelve shuddered as the final organ was implanted. The red cord of the secondary heart fused to his ribs. The ossmodula pulsed against his spine, triggering growth. His body convulsed once then stilled as the anesthetic flooded his blood.
Only then did Malcador speak.
"Have you found a way to increase stability?"
Amar did not turn to him. Her voice remained composed, but tight. "The problem is not the gene-seed, Lord Regent. It is the absence of what anchors it."
Malcador's gaze flickered—soft, almost weary. "The Primarchs."
"Yes." Amar's jaw tensed. "Without their presence the biological resonance and stabilizing process remains… incomplete. Forced growth instead of symbiosis. Stability can be achieved, but not harmony."
Silence stretched between them, broken only by the heartbeat-thrum of the machines.
"How many successful implantations for the Second Legion?" Malcador asked, though they both knew he already had the numbers.
Amar exhaled, just once. "Two thousand stable initiates."
Malcador gave a slight nod. Not approval—merely acknowledgment. She continued.
"But only three hundred are combat-ready. The rest require augmentation revision, organ rejection repair, or psychic stabilization. Some…" She hesitated, "…will never wake again."
She didn't look away from the pods. She couldn't.
The First Legion had been different—the Uncrowned. Their Primarch was still lost, scattered across the stars like his brothers, yet their gene-seed had taken to Terran stock with grace. Almost… willingly.
But the Second Legion was proving stubborn. Powerful, yes—genetically magnificent even—but volatile. Like the echo of a storm waiting to return to its master.
Malcador's staff clicked softly against the marble as he turned to regard the rows of sleeping warriors.
"The Emperor expected this," he said quietly. "The first legions were always to be the foundation, not the final form."
Amar's voice hardened, brittle but controlled. "Expectation does not make failure easier to bear."
"Nor does pride make success come faster," Malcador replied gently.
She fell silent.
In the nearest pod, the child's heartbeat slowed into a powerful, steady rhythm. Astartes' rhythm.
For a long moment, neither of them spoke.
Then, quietly, Malcador asked, "And his gene-sire? Still no trace?"
Amar's eyes flicked to the vaulted ceiling, as though she could see through stone and sky and out into the cold void beyond Terra.
"No." A single word, sharp as a blade.
Malcador nodded once.
Above them, the lights dimmed briefly as the implementation process before them succeed.
"The Emperor will find the Primarchs," Malcador said at last. "One way or another, they will return. And when they do… there legions will be ready."
Amar said nothing.
But her gaze lingered the old man besides her the unspoken questions and answers exchanged.
Time was of the essence the great crusade to conquer the stars was aproching sooner than anyone had imagined.
And Time was running out.
An Amar felt a twinge of doubt if her creations where ready or if they would be another failure to be buried and forgotten.