In the vast and solemn Hall of Conquest, the Emperor sat high upon the Iron Throne, his bearing stern and unyielding.
His brows drew together as he looked down on the scene below. Two envoys from the Free Cities were locked in a furious quarrel, their voices loud and grating, echoing endlessly through the chamber's vaulted space.
Aegon II's mood was foul. It reminded him of his former life—those times when he had looked forward to a long-anticipated holiday, only for his company to suddenly throw some "urgent project" at him. The vacation ruined, all his expectations shattered.
Now, these two overdressed envoys squabbling before him were nothing more than buzzing flies, droning in his ears and scraping away at his patience.
At last…
The Emperor's long-contained fury broke free. He slammed his palm against the armrest with a thunderous crack and rose sharply to his feet.
The lords and ministers present instantly felt the shift. They knew well the signs of their divine sovereign's anger—when Aegon grew truly enraged, every hint of a smile vanished, leaving only a chilling, storm-dark face that froze blood in the veins.
But the two envoys seemed blind to the shadow of death looming over them. They bickered on, reckless and oblivious.
The court watched in silence, knowing these men were already marked for doom.
Sure enough, Aegon descended from the throne, his steps slow, deliberate. With a sudden motion, he raised his hand.
The crack of his palm striking flesh rang out across the hall. Prince Pentos, fat and pampered, was hurled into the air by the sheer force of the blow, spinning helplessly before crashing hard against the floor.
A hush fell. The great Targaryen lords dropped to their knees, foreheads pressed to the ground.
For the Emperor's wrath could drown kingdoms in blood and lay waste to millions. None dared even breathe.
The Magister of Norvos gaped in shock, too stunned to move. His old rival lay wheezing on the tiles, yet still he did not comprehend his own peril—until he lifted his eyes and met Aegon's storm-dark gaze. Terror surged through him, primal and absolute.
"What gives you the courage to insult me so?"
The Emperor's voice boomed like a great bell, shaking the hall.
"I lower myself to mediate your petty squabbles. I waste my precious time, sacrifice my rest, to spare you from war—and what do you give me? Endless noise! Have you no limits?"
The Magister's mouth hung open. His legs trembled, the body's instinctive fear before a god made flesh.
But Aegon did not wait for an answer. He struck again.
The backhanded blow sent the man flying like a kite cut loose. He slammed against a golden wall sconce with sickening force—the gilded metal pierced straight through his chest, pinning him to the wall. Blood poured freely, staining the floor crimson.
The Emperor turned and strode toward the doors.
Hand of the King Barth, watching, understood at once. Their sovereign intended to leave the wreckage for the Small Council to clear away.
"Your Grace, is this not too rash?" Barth called after him, voice tight with urgency. "These cities pay their tribute faithfully each year. They have not openly defied us—"
Aegon halted, just long enough to glance back over his shoulder. His gaze was heavy as a stormcloud, his tone sharp and commanding.
"Do I need to teach you this? The lands of Essos have been riddled with quarrels and strife for generations. Once, our strength was too slight to conquer them outright. But now? Now we command hosts of warriors, and countless Wyvern Knights—idle men who dream of challenging even me.
Let them prove themselves. Let them bring order where chaos festers. I want no more disputes in the Disputed Lands. I want no more tributary states on the continent of Essos."
With a sweep of his sleeve, the Emperor left the hall.
The Small Council remained, exchanging uneasy glances.
At length, Barth broke the silence.
"Clear away these wretches. Their blood must not foul these golden walls, nor stain the Emperor's honor. Let it be known they quarreled here in their hatred, and slew each other beneath the gaze of the throne.
Norvos and Pentos have brought shame upon themselves, profaning the majesty of our Emperor. Let it be decreed: within seventeen days, both cities shall kneel and submit to the realm, becoming provinces of the Kingdom."
Grand Maester Bennifer let out a long, weary sigh.
"The Second Conquest," he murmured. "It begins again…"
...
Far to the north, Queen Alysanne's patience frayed with each passing day.
The wait in Winterfell had grown intolerable.
At last, she resolved to quit the great northern fortress and ride for Castle Black, to visit the brothers of the Night's Watch.
This journey felt long, even from the back of a dragon.
Along the way, Queen Alysanne guided Silverwing down to land at the Last Hearth and several other small but well-kept castles and manors. Her sudden arrival left the local lords both astonished and delighted, and they welcomed the southern queen with the highest honors.
Her progress scattered the royal tour. Some members of the party trailed behind her with effort, while others remained behind at Winterfell.
When Alysanne first caught sight of the Wall from the skies, she could not help but hold her breath. Awe and reverence filled her eyes.
The Wall—an ice-forged bulwark nearly two hundred meters high—lay across the land like a sleeping dragon, winding over the endless white fields until it disappeared into the horizon.
"No wonder it is counted among the Nine Wonders of the World," Alysanne thought to herself.
Yet alongside her excitement stirred a note of unease.
Many of the black-clad brothers of Castle Black had once belonged to the outlawed Poor Fellows and Warrior's Sons. She worried her presence would not be welcomed.
Fortunately, Alaric had sent ravens ahead announcing her coming.
Lord Commander Lothor Barley gathered eight hundred men of the Watch to receive her in solemn ceremony.
That evening, a feast was held.
The rich taste of mammoth meat, the smooth sweetness of mead, and the strong bite of northern ale soon swept away the Queen's doubts. She felt the warmth of her hosts and knew she had been welcomed.
At dawn, as the first sunlight touched the ancient ice, the Lord Commander himself led Alysanne up to the top of the Wall.
"This," he said, pointing beyond to the boundless green of the Haunted Forest, "is the end of the world."
His voice carried both pride and resignation.
Then he apologized. "We have done our best, Your Grace. But here the beds are hard, the halls are cold, and the food—"
"…is nourishing," Alysanne finished for him with a smile. "That is enough. I am glad to share your fare."
Her kindness and understanding warmed the hearts of every brother who heard her.
Like the folk of White Harbor, the men of the Watch were struck with awe at the sight of Silverwing. But Alysanne soon realized her dragon seemed ill at ease.
It was summer, and the ancient Wall was "weeping." Meltwater streamed down its face, and whenever the wind rose, the bitter chill it gave off made Silverwing roar in agitation.
"I flew him over Castle Black three times," Alysanne later wrote in a letter to Aegon. "Each time I tried to urge him north, he turned back south of his own accord. He has never disobeyed me before.
I laughed and made light of it when we landed, not wishing the brothers to notice—but the matter has lingered in my thoughts ever since."
...
At Castle Black, the Queen also had her first encounter with true wildlings.
A raiding party had been caught attempting to climb the Wall. After a sharp skirmish, twelve captives were taken and caged for her to see.
Alysanne asked with concern what would become of them. The answer was grim: their ears would be cut off, then they would be sent back beyond the Wall.
"Except those three," one black brother said, pointing to earless men. "Their heads will come off. They've been caught before."
He explained that it was meant as a lesson, to keep the rest to their own side. Then, with a weary shake of his head, he added, "Though most never learn."
At that moment, a red-haired wildling burst out, his voice desperate:
"Our tribe was driven south by the White Ghosts! The White Plague has swept the Land of Always Winter—whole tribes of tens of thousands are dead.
We have nowhere left to go. Please, do not send us back. Have mercy!"
The guards struck him across the face until he fell silent.
"They say the same lies every time they're caught," one said to the Queen with a dismissive grin.
Alysanne only nodded softly. But as she turned to leave, she cast a long, searching look back at the red-haired man.
Aegon had spoken of divine punishment. She prayed the White Walkers were nothing more than tales—because if they were real, the gods themselves must be behind them.
...
Even at Castle Black, her nights were not without warmth.
Three brothers who had once been singers performed for her in turn: gentle ballads, rousing war songs, and bawdy campfire tunes. Laughter and music filled her evenings.
Lord Commander Barley also escorted her into the Haunted Forest, with a hundred rangers riding at her side.
Later, when Alysanne expressed her wish to see other strongholds along the Wall, Chief Ranger Benton Glover guided her westward along its icy crest.
They passed the Snow Gate and came to the shadowed, brooding Nightfort, where they made camp for the night beneath the ancient stones.
Alysanne would later say it was the most breathtaking journey she had ever known.
"It was cold and thrilling, though the wind atop the Wall was so fierce I feared the whole time we might be blown off." She wrote this in her letter to Regalus.
Her feelings toward the Nightfort, however, were far more complicated.
"It is so vast and imposing that men seem like dwarfs against it, like mice lost inside a ruined hall," she continued. "And within its walls lingers a strange darkness, a queer odor in the air... I am grateful I did not linger long."
The Queen's time at Castle Black was not spent only in sightseeing and pleasure.
She carried the voice of the Iron Throne, holding many long discussions with Lord Commander Berley.
On countless afternoons, she sat with him and his senior officers, speaking earnestly about the wildlings, the Wall, and the needs of the Night's Watch.
"The greatest quality of a queen is knowing how to listen." So said Alysanne Targaryen.
And at Castle Black, she proved those words true.
With patience and resolve, she heard the Watch's concerns in full and, through action, earned the devotion of their order for generations to come.
From these talks, she learned that a relay post was sorely needed between Snow Gate and Icemark. Yet the Nightfort—immense, ruined, and half-abandoned—could not serve its purpose.
So Alysanne proposed to Berley that the Nightfort be abandoned, and a smaller, sounder castle raised further east.
The commander agreed... but money was lacking.
Alysanne had foreseen this.
She told him she would pawn her own jewels to provide for the building.
"I have many jewels," she said with a smile.
Plans for the new fortress began. It was expected to take eight years to complete, and the Queen gave it a fine name: Deep Lake.
To honor her deed, Lord Commander Berley renamed the Snow Gate as Queen's Gate.
Alysanne also longed to hear the voices of northern women.
Though the Lord Commander reminded her that no women dwelt upon the Wall, she would not yield.
Reluctantly, he escorted her south, to the village the black brothers called Mole's Town.
"There are women here," he admitted, "though most are whores. The Watch cannot wed, but men still have their needs."
Alysanne cared nothing for such restrictions.
Among the women of Mole's Town she convened her "Women's Court." The stories she heard there would, in time, forever change the customs of the Seven Kingdoms.
...
Meanwhile, in King's Landing, Regalus proclaimed to all the realm the beginning of the Second Great Conquest.
Once the decree was issued and all preparations in place, he finally had leisure to mount the mighty Ghidorah and fly northward.
At Winterfell, he was reunited with his queen after half a year apart.
Of the Nine Free Cities in the Disputed Lands, the Targaryens had already subdued five—Volantis, Lys, Tyrosh, Myr, and Braavos.
The remaining four were so weak compared to the dynasty that they scarcely required the Emperor's personal hand.
Westeros now held thousands of dragonborn and tens of thousands of extraordinary warriors.
If even these four petty mortal kingdoms could not be brought to heel, then Aegon would truly need to question whether his rule had been wisely led.
A rabble of swine—how could they ever hope to march with him when the day came to war against the gods?