Chapter 28: The Dragon's Landing and the Shadow King's Watch (Aegon's Conquest: Part 1)
The news, when it finally arrived with undeniable certainty, rippled through the hidden sanctuary of Mount Skatus not as a shock, but as the somber, inevitable tolling of a long-anticipated bell. For years, Aelyx Velaryon, the immortal Shadow Lord of Skagos, had watched the currents of time through the often-murky lens of his greensight, supplemented by the potent visions of his daughters Lyra and Daenys. They had seen the glint of black sails on the horizon, the shadow of colossal wings, the flicker of a new, terrible fire about to be unleashed upon Westeros. Now, Tibbit's network of magically-shielded informants, house-elves glamoured as dockhands in King's Landing, as serving wenches in the inns of Duskendale, as silent shadows in the very courts of minor lordlings near Dragonstone, confirmed the prophecy's brutal arrival.
Aegon Targaryen, with his sister-wives Visenya and Rhaenys, had landed at the mouth of the Blackwater Rush. Their force was small, a few thousand men at most, a mix of retainers from Dragonstone and sellswords from the Free Cities. But their true power, the power that would shatter kingdoms and forge an empire, lay in the three beasts that accompanied them: Balerion the Black Dread, his scales like obsidian night, his fire hot enough to melt stone; Vhagar, old and bronze, her roar a promise of destruction; and Meraxes, silver-winged and swift, her rider Rhaenys as capricious and deadly as the dragon she rode. Aegon had declared himself King of All Westeros, his claim resting not on ancient lineage or popular assent, but on the undeniable argument of dragonfire.
Aelyx received the detailed reports in his private observatory within Mount Skatus, a vast, domed chamber where the constellations of both his birth world and this new one were charted in glowing, shifting patterns upon the enchanted ceiling. He felt no surprise, only a cold, analytical focus. The game had entered a new, more dangerous phase. His long period of quiet consolidation, of building his hidden strength while House Volmark became a Northern power, was now set against the backdrop of a continental war waged by creatures of his own ancestral kind.
"So, it begins," he murmured, his violet eyes fixed on a magically projected map of Westeros where a tiny, pulsating crimson light now marked Aegon's landing site. Lyanna stood beside him, her Stark beauty undimmed by the passing centuries, her expression grave. Their elder children – Torrhen, Visenya, Maegor, Lyra, and Aenar – were present, along with the now young adult Rhaenys, Aegon (Volmark), and Daenys, their faces reflecting a mixture of sober understanding and a thrill of anticipation for the momentous events unfolding beyond their misty isle.
"The visions hold true, Father," Lyra said softly, her grey eyes distant. "I see fire consuming great castles. I see kings kneeling, and crowns melting." Daenys nodded in silent agreement, her own prophetic dreams having mirrored her sister's.
"Tibbit's network is to redouble its efforts," Aelyx commanded, his voice calm but edged with steel. "I want every detail of Aegon's campaign. The tactics of his dragons – their strengths, their vulnerabilities, how they are employed in concert. The reactions of the so-called Seven Kings: Harren the Black in his monstrous folly of Harrenhal, Argilac the Arrogant in his Stormbolt, the Lannisters and Gardeners with their vast armies, the Arryns in their impregnable Eyrie, the Martells in their burning sands, and most crucially for us, King Torrhen Stark in Winterfell. I want to know who fights, who submits, who is broken, and who is raised up in Aegon's new order."
He turned to his children. "Torrhen, as Lord Volmark, your public duty is clear. You will maintain Skagos's strength, continue our trade, and publicly express unwavering loyalty to King Torrhen Stark. You will offer him sage counsel – caution, pragmatism, a clear understanding of the power he faces. The North must not bleed itself dry in a futile, glorious stand against dragonfire if it can be avoided through wisdom. Our strength lies in preservation, in endurance."
Torrhen, now a man in his early forties, though appearing much younger thanks to the diluted Elixir he regularly consumed (a privilege extended to all of Aelyx's direct children once they reached maturity and full loyalty), nodded. "I understand, Father. Skagos will be a pillar of calm strength, its resources at the King's disposal, its counsel urging prudence."
"Visenya, Maegor," Aelyx continued, his gaze resting on his fiery warrior daughter and his boisterous warrior son, both now seasoned dragonriders themselves. "Your phantom squadrons within the sanctuary will intensify their drills. Study every report of Aegon's dragon battles. Learn from his victories and his enemies' mistakes. While our dragons remain our ultimate secret, their readiness must be absolute. Should the unthinkable happen, should our sanctuary ever be directly threatened, you will be our first and last line of aerial defense."
Visenya's eyes flashed. "We will be ready, Father. Their three dragons are ancient, but ours are many, and Skagos's magic is deep." Maegor grinned, his hand instinctively going to the pommel of his Valyrian steel greatsword.
Aelyx then addressed his more magically-inclined children. "Lyra, Daenys, your sight is invaluable. Continue to watch the currents of fate. Warn me of unforeseen deviations, of hidden threats or unexpected opportunities. Aenar, Aegon Volmark, Rhaenys, you will work with me and the house-elves in the deeper labs. The destruction of Harrenhal, which I foresee as one of Aegon's first major victories, will teach us much about dragonfire's effects on even the mightiest fortifications. We will analyze, we will adapt, we will ensure Mount Skatus remains utterly impervious. We will also research countermeasures, should direct confrontation with other dragonlords ever become unavoidable – ways to disrupt their control, to shield against their flames, to exploit any weakness in their ancient beasts."
The sanctuary buzzed with a new, focused energy. While public Skagos, under Lord Torrhen Volmark, continued its peaceful, prosperous existence – its gold mines yielding their steady bounty, its fishing fleets sailing calm seas, its trade with the North flourishing – the hidden kingdom beneath the mountain became a crucible of magical research, military preparation, and intense intelligence gathering.
The news from the south, relayed by Tibbit's agents with astonishing speed, painted a grim picture of Aegon's initial campaign. Local riverlords like Darklyn of Duskendale and Mooton of Maidenpool, who dared to defy the Targaryen landing, were swiftly crushed, their armies scattered by dragonfire, their castles put to the torch. Aegon, however, proved to be more than just a brutal conqueror. He was also a shrewd statesman, raising up houses like the Tullys of Riverrun who bent the knee, granting them lordship over their former oppressors.
Then came the event that sent a shockwave of terror through all of Westeros: the burning of Harrenhal. Harren the Black, King of the Isles and the Rivers, had retreated into his newly completed, colossal fortress, the mightiest castle ever built, boasting five immense towers and walls of fused black stone, believing himself invulnerable. He had defied Aegon, murdering his envoy. Aegon's response was terrible and absolute. Balerion the Black Dread, a creature of primordial nightmare, descended upon Harrenhal. Its black fire, hotter than any earthly flame, melted the very stone of the castle, turning its towers into flaming candles, roasting Harren and his sons alive within their supposedly impregnable walls. Harrenhal became a blackened, smoking ruin, a monument to the futility of resisting dragonpower.
Aelyx received the news of Harrenhal's fall with cold, analytical interest. He had foreseen it, but the detailed accounts from his spies – the sheer destructive capability of Balerion, the psychological devastation it wrought – were invaluable. He convened his children in the sanctuary's deepest warding chamber, where Aenar had constructed a vast, three-dimensional illusion of Harrenhal based on Tibbit's reports.
"Observe," Aelyx commanded, as the illusionary Balerion unleashed its fiery wrath upon the phantom castle. "Dragonfire of this magnitude is not merely fire; it is a focused magical cataclysm. Our own dragons, while numerous and powerful, are younger. We cannot yet match Balerion's sheer destructive output. Therefore, our defenses must be superior, our magic more subtle, more insidious."
He and Aenar, along with the most skilled house-elf enchanters, began a series of experiments, reinforcing sections of the sanctuary's deepest rock with complex, interwoven wards designed to absorb, deflect, or even nullify dragonfire. They drew upon ancient Valyrian techniques for fire-resistant materials, upon Flamel's alchemical understanding of energy transference, and even upon obscure Potterverse spells designed to counter magical flames. Mount Skatus would not become another Harrenhal.
As Aegon Targaryen, having secured the Riverlands, turned his attention towards the Storm King, Argilac the Arrogant, Aelyx watched with keen interest. Argilac, unlike Harren, chose to meet Aegon in open battle, a decision that led to the bloody confrontation known as the Last Storm. Orys Baratheon, Aegon's rumored bastard half-brother and fiercest general, slew Argilac in single combat, while Rhaenys Targaryen and her dragon Meraxes wreaked havoc upon the Stormlander army. The Stormlands fell, and Aegon granted Storm's End and Argilac's daughter to Orys, founding House Baratheon.
"Aegon is not just a conqueror; he is a kingmaker," Aelyx observed to Lyanna. "He understands the value of rewarding loyalty, of creating new power structures bound to him. This makes him more dangerous than a simple brute like Harren."
The Volmark family within the sanctuary continued their own preparations. The younger dragons, born on Skagos, were growing swiftly, their diet enriched with alchemically treated food, their development subtly guided by Valyrian blood-magic rituals Aelyx performed with his elder children. Torrhen, Visenya, Maegor, Lyra, and Aenar were now dragonriders of formidable skill, their bonds with their mounts absolute, their phantom squadrons practicing complex aerial maneuvers in the largest, magically shielded caverns beneath Mount Skatus. Even Rhaenys and Aegon Volmark, now in their late teens, had successfully bonded with their own dragons, sleek, fast beasts of pure Skagosi lineage. Daenys, whose greensight was becoming almost as potent as Lyra's, preferred the company of the phoenixes, her mind more attuned to their ethereal magic.
Aelyx ensured that his grandchildren, too, were being steeped in the reality of this new, dragon-dominated world. Their lessons now included detailed studies of Aegon's battles, of Targaryen tactics, of the strengths and weaknesses of their dragons. They were being raised not just as sorcerers, but as future leaders who would have to navigate a Westeros ruled by another Valyrian house. Secrecy, discipline, and the absolute superiority of their hidden Skagosi magic were tenets drilled into them from their earliest years.
Publicly, Lord Torrhen Volmark played his part with consummate skill. He maintained close ties with Winterfell, offering regular (and substantial) shipments of Skagosi gold to bolster the North's own defenses, should King Torrhen Stark decide to resist Aegon. He also sent carefully worded reports, based on his father's sanitized intelligence, apprising the King of Winter of Aegon's devastating successes in the south, subtly counseling caution and a pragmatic assessment of the Targaryen threat. The North was strong, yes, but Harrenhal stood as a stark warning against foolish pride.
As Aegon turned his fiery gaze towards the combined might of the Westerlands and the Reach, towards the vast host assembled by King Mern Gardener and King Loren Lannister, Aelyx knew a pivotal moment was approaching. The Field of Fire, as it would come to be known, would be the ultimate demonstration of Targaryen dragonpower against conventional armies.
"Watch closely, my children," Aelyx instructed his family, as Lyra and Daenys focused their greensight on the distant plains of the Reach. "What happens there will determine the fate of kings, and will heavily influence the North's decision. And it will teach us invaluable lessons about the art of war in an age of dragons."
From his shadowed throne within the heart of Skagos, Aelyx Velaryon, the immortal Shadow Lord, watched the opening moves of Aegon's Conquest. He was a silent observer, a hidden puppet master, his own pieces carefully positioned, his own dragons slumbering beneath the mountain, awaiting a call that might not come for decades, or centuries. He was playing a longer game than Aegon, a game of eternity. The first fires of the new age had been lit, and Aelyx was ensuring that his own hidden flame would not only survive the inferno but would, in time, burn brighter and longer than any other. The dawn of the Targaryen dragons was also the deepening twilight of Aelyx's carefully guarded secrecy, a time for ultimate vigilance and patient, unyielding preparation.