Chapter 20: The Unbecoming
The journey back to Dragonstone was a voyage through a silent, personal hell. For Prince Jacaerys Velaryon, the salt spray felt like acid on his skin, each wave a reminder of the chasm that now lay between his duty and his soul. For Lord Corlys Velaryon, the steady rocking of the ship was a comfort, the only predictable thing in a world whose foundations had crumbled. They did not speak. There were no words for the message they carried.
They were met in the Chamber of the Painted Table. Queen Rhaenyra sat on her throne, composed and regal, but her eyes were dark pools of anxiety. Her council was assembled, their faces a mixture of hope and trepidation. They expected news of terms, of a formal surrender from the Greens. They were not prepared for the truth.
Lord Corlys, as Hand of the Queen, spoke first. His voice was flat, devoid of emotion, the voice of a man reporting a shipwreck. "Your Grace, we presented ourselves to the entity on the Hill of Rhaenys as you commanded. It has… laid out the terms for the new governance of the realm."
He recounted the first decrees: Rhaenyra's ascension to the throne of a united kingdom, Aegon's status as a powerless ward of the state, the dissolution of the Iron Throne itself. A confused murmur went through the council. It was everything they had fought for, and yet it felt hollow, a victory given, not earned.
"He solves our war with a wave of his hand?" Lord Bartimos Celtigar asked, bewildered. "Just like that?"
"He considers our war a triviality," Corlys said grimly. "A mess to be tidied. He has… a different perspective on power."
"What else?" Rhaenyra asked, her voice tense. She knew this was not the end of it. She could see it in the haunted eyes of her son.
Jace, who had been standing rigid and silent, finally spoke, his voice cracking with a rage born of profound grief. "He wants our dragons."
The words fell into the chamber like stones into a still pond, the ripples of shock spreading across every face.
"He called them a liability," Jace continued, his voice growing stronger, fueled by the sheer insanity of the demand. "An echo of a dead age. He commanded us to bring them to him. Syrax. Vermax. Tyraxes. All of them. To be… reabsorbed."
"Reabsorbed?" Baela Targaryen cried out, stepping forward. "What does that even mean?"
Jace looked at his cousin, his expression twisting in pain. "It means he ate our father, Baela. It means he devoured Aemond and their dragons. And now he wants to finish the meal. He wants our souls."
"I will not do it!" The defiant shout was expected, but it came from Rhaena this time, the quieter twin, her face a mask of fury. "I will not lead my dragon to be slaughtered like a sheep!"
"We are the blood of the dragon!" Jace took up the call, his voice ringing with the pride of his ancestors. "Without our dragons, we are nothing! We are just another house of pale-haired lords! I would die before I surrender Vermax! We should all die! A Targaryen does not live on their knees!"
A chorus of agreement, led by the younger lords, rose up. The thought of surrender was anathema to them. To give up their dragons was to give up their very identity.
Lord Corlys let the tide of youthful defiance wash over the room before he spoke again, his voice cutting through the noise like a foghorn. "And what will your death achieve, Prince Jacaerys?" he asked, his gaze steady. "You will die. Your mother will die. Your brothers will die. Your cousins will die. Everyone in this castle, every man loyal to our cause, every smallfolk who looks to us for protection—all will be erased. Your noble death will purchase nothing but a moment of silence before the end of all things. It is a fool's bargain."
"It is better than a slave's bargain!" Jace retorted. "He wants to make us his puppets, his zookeepers for the realm of men!"
"I have lost my wife," Corlys said, his voice dropping, each word heavy with personal loss. "I have lost my son. I have lost my daughter. I have lost my fleet and my fortune in this war for a crown that no longer matters. I will not stand by and watch my grandsons, my last hope for the future of my house, throw their lives away for a symbol." He looked directly at Rhaenyra. "To live is to have hope, Your Grace. Even in chains, a man can hope. To be ash is to be forgotten. Do not let your pride turn our entire lineage into a forgotten memory."
The chamber fell silent. The two opposing arguments hung in the air: the fire of Targaryen pride versus the cold, hard sea of pragmatism. The choice fell, as it always did, to the one who wore the crown.
Rhaenyra Targaryen rose from her throne. She walked to the great window that overlooked the sea, her back to her council. She thought of her father, Viserys, whose desire for peace had inadvertently birthed this catastrophic war. She thought of her son, Lucerys, lost to a storm of pride and hatred. She thought of her husband, Daemon, who had made a pact with this devil to secure her throne, only to be consumed by it. They had all died for the legacy of the dragon.
And now, she was being asked to kill that legacy to save her people.
"When I was a girl," she said, her voice a soft, melancholic whisper that nonetheless carried to every corner of the hall, "my father told me that the idea that we control the dragons is an illusion. He said they are a power that man should never have trifled with." She turned back to face them, her violet eyes filled with a sorrow so deep it seemed ancient. "He was right. For a century, we have flown. We have conquered. We have burned. We have believed ourselves to be gods on earth. And all the while, a true god was sleeping beneath a lake, disturbed by our noise."
She looked at her son, Jace, her expression softening. "You have your father's fire, my love. And I am so proud of you for it. But fire, unchecked, consumes everything. It consumes the good with the bad. It has consumed our family."
She took a deep breath, her shoulders straightening. The moment of decision was upon her. "The Iron Throne is a puddle of slag. My husband is a memory. The age of our house's glory is over. It was ended by a power greater than our own, a power we cannot fight." Her voice grew stronger, imbued with the final, terrible authority of her office. "I will not sacrifice my children on the altar of a memory. I will not burn my kingdom to keep a symbol warm. I am your Queen. And a Queen protects her people. Even from their own pride."
She looked at each of them, her decision made. "We will accept the terms. We will surrender the dragons."
A cry of anguish went up from Jace, from Baela, but it was quickly silenced by the weight of the Queen's decree. The great debate was over. The soul of their house had been put to a vote, and survival had won.
The last flight of the Targaryen dragons was a funeral procession in the sky. Rhaenyra, her face a stoic mask, flew Syrax, the beautiful golden queen who had been her companion for a lifetime. Jacaerys flew Vermax, his knuckles white on the reins, his heart a cold, dead stone in his chest. A tear froze on his cheek as he whispered a final goodbye to the dragon who was a part of him. Young Joffrey, his face streaked with tears, flew Tyraxes. They were followed by the other, smaller dragons of Dragonstone, riderless, but herded by the will of the larger beasts.
They did not fly as conquerors. They flew as supplicants, leading their souls to the slaughter. There was no triumphant roar, only the sad, rhythmic beat of wings against the air.
They arrived at King's Landing and saw him. Krosis-Krif was a wound in reality, a mountain of shadow and void where the Dragonpit used to be. He watched them approach, his golden eyes burning with an intelligence that was utterly alien.
Rhaenyra led her sad procession forward. They landed at the foot of the great hill, the dragons grumbling and shuffling nervously in the presence of this colossal being. Rhaenyra dismounted, her boots sinking into the churned earth. She stood before the god-king, a queen in black, her head held high.
"Beast! God! Whatever you are!" Her voice did not tremble. It was the voice of a monarch, even in surrender. "We have come as you commanded! Here they are. Syrax. Vermax. Tyraxes. The last of our line's glory. The price you demanded for our lives."
Krosis-Krif's immense head lowered slowly, the clouds parting around his horns. The voice entered all their minds, devoid of triumph, devoid of anything but a vast, cosmic finality.
"A WISE CHOICE. THE FLOCK IS NOW PROPERLY MANAGED. THE PASTURE WILL NOW BE QUIET."
He did not roar. He did not attack. He did something far more terrifying. He inhaled.
It was not a breath of air. It was a breath of reality. A great, silent, irresistible vortex of power centered on his open maw. The dragons shrieked, a sound of pure, soul-deep terror. They tried to resist, tried to fly away, but the force was absolute.
Syrax, the Golden Queen, was the first to go. Her beautiful golden form dissolved, not into blood and gore, but into shimmering streams of golden light and pure life force, which flowed into Krosis-Krif's mouth like a river into the sea. Rhaenyra cried out, a sharp, ragged sound, as she felt the bond that had defined her life shatter, leaving a cold, empty void in her soul.
Vermax fought, unleashing a torrent of green flame that splashed harmlessly against Krosis-Krif's hide. Then he too was undone, his green scales and fiery spirit unraveling, becoming a stream of emerald energy that joined the golden river. Jace fell to his knees, a silent scream locked in his throat. The others followed, each dragon unmade, its physical form and its magical essence drawn into the being on the hill. It was not a violent death. It was an unmaking. A reabsorption.
When it was over, the sky was empty. The Targaryens stood alone on the hill, dragonless for the first time in a century and a half. They were just people now, their divine right erased, their souls wounded.
Krosis-Krif raised his head, the new energy swirling within the cosmic patterns of his hide. He was more powerful than ever, but he felt… complete. The last vestiges of the old world's power had been integrated. The equation was solved.
"IT IS DONE," the voice stated in their minds. "GO TO YOUR RED KEEP. RULE YOUR LITTLE WORLD OF MEN. KEEP THE PEACE. KEEP THEM FED. KEEP THEM QUIET."
The golden eyes, vast as suns, focused on them one last time, a final, chilling warning.
"I WILL BE WATCHING. I AM THE SKY ABOVE YOU, THE GROUND BENEATH YOU, THE SILENCE BETWEEN YOUR WORDS. DO NOT DISPLEASE ME."
The presence in their minds withdrew, leaving them in the sudden, deafening quiet. Rhaenyra Targaryen looked at her children, at their tear-streaked, devastated faces. She took her son Joffrey's hand, then Jace's. She walked to them, the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, the ruler of a world she had won and lost in the same breath.
"Come," she said, her voice soft, but unbreakable. "Let us go home."
She led her family away from the Hill of Rhaenys, away from the silent god that now sat upon his new throne of ruins. They walked towards the Red Keep, not as dragonlords, not as conquerors, but as survivors, to begin their reign as the wardens of a world that was no longer their own. The age of dragons was over. The long, quiet, terrifying age of the Shadow on the Throne had just begun.