The following year was a study in controlled escalation. Dragonstone became an island of relentless industry, a forge where the future was being hammered into shape, ringed by a wall of disciplined, silent guards. Our power grew, but so did the tension. It was a coiled spring, and all of Westeros waited for it to snap.
The culmination of this phase was not a battle, but a wedding. Three of them, in fact.
It was Laena who first broached the idea, her Velaryon pragmatism cutting through the unspoken tension. We stood on the balcony of the Sea Dragon Tower, watching the latest Swift-ship, its wire-threaded sails catching the sun, glide into the harbor. "They see you as a monster,"she said, her voice calm. "The boy who rides the Cannibal. The upjump trader. They need to see something else. They need to see a dynasty." She gestured towards the keep where Rhaenyra was holding court for a group of Crownland merchants."She is the heir. But you are the foundation. A foundation needs to be broad. It needs to be undeniable." Her meaning was clear.My marriage to her had secured the sea. My correspondence with Jeyne Arryn had secured the mountains. But it was an alliance of letters, fragile without a physical bond. "A union with the Vale,"Laena said, her eyes sharp. "A true union. It would make the pact with Lady Jeyne unbreakable. It would show the realm that the future of Dragonstone is not a single thread, but a woven tapestry of power."
The logic was impeccable. It was also terrifying. I spoke to Rhaenyra that night, expecting resistance. Instead, she saw the strategy instantly. "Jeyne trusts you,"she said. "She respects you. A marriage would make her part of this family. It would make the Vale ours in truth, not just in pact." She placed a hand on mine. "We do not have the luxury of following our hearts, brother. We must lead with our minds. Build your foundation. Make it so strong that no one can ever tear it down."
A raven was sent to the Eyrie. The proposal was not one of flowery love, but of stark, political necessity. I offered Jeyne Arryn a partnership in truth. A place not as a subordinate wife, but as a co-ruler of the alliance we were building. The power to shape the future alongside us.
The reply came not by raven, but by Jeyne herself, arriving on Dragonstone with a minimal escort. She met me in the same room where we had first discussed trade. "I will not be a broodmare for your dynasty,Aemon Targaryen," she stated, her chin held high. "I would not ask you to be,"I replied. "I need a partner. A queen for the East. Your mind, not just your name." She searched my face for a long moment,then gave a single, sharp nod. "Then we have an accord."
The triple wedding was held in the ancient Valyrian style on the windswept shores of Dragonstone. There was no septon. There was no Father. There were only the waves, the dragons, and the words of a ritual older than the Seven. I stood with Laena Velaryon,my wife of the sea, her hand cool and steady in mine. I stood with Jeyne Arryn,my wife of the mountains, her gaze as firm and unyielding as the stone of her home. And between us stood Rhaenyra,not as a bride, but as the central pillar, the future Queen we were all bound to protect. We were a three-headed dragon—sea, stone, and crown—a united front against the world.
The message was deafening.
The triple wedding had been a statement of political unity. What followed was a declaration of aerial supremacy, a spectacle designed to etch our power into the very sky above the capital.
The day of the Great Tourney arrived. King's Landing was a riot of color and noise, a temporary illusion of peace and prosperity manufactured by the Crown. The air thrummed with the cheers of the smallfolk, the clatter of lances, and the boasting of knights. It was the perfect stage for our message.
We did not arrive as guests. We arrived as a storm.
The first sign was a deep, thrumming roar that vibrated through the very stones of the city, drowning out the tourney fanfare. From the east, over Blackwater Bay, they came. Not three dragons.
Five.
The sight stole the breath from a hundred thousand throats.
At the van was Syrax, Rhaenyra's magnificent golden she-dragon, her roar a clear, commanding trumpet of Targaryen legitimacy. Rhaenyra sat tall, a queen in all but name, her gaze fixed on the royal pavilion.
To her right flew Meleys, the Red Queen. Rhaenys Targaryen, the Queen Who Never Was, rode her with a grim satisfaction, her presence a silent rebuke to the council that had passed her over. Meleys's wings were a scarlet slash against the blue sky.
To Syrax's left came Seasmoke, pale and swift as a ghost, Laenor Velaryon urging him on. The sea and the sky, united.
Flanking this formidable trio were the two most terrifying dragons in the world.
From the south came Vhagar. The greatest dragon alive, a leviathan from a bygone age, her scales like ancient bronze armor. And on her back, her silver hair streaming behind her, was Laena Velaryon. She guided the immense beast not with force, but with a fierce, almost primal understanding, a bond between two magnificent forces of nature.
And from the west, casting a shadow that seemed to swallow the sun whole, came Shadowwing. I rode the Cannibal. There was no gentle guidance here. Our bond was a conduit for pure, undiluted fury. I did not suppress his rage; I gave it focus, direction. We were a single entity of hatred and purpose, a black dagger aimed at the heart of the false peace below.
Five dragons. A united front of Velaryon and Targaryen power. The Heir. The Queen Who Never Was. The Sea Snake's heir. The Lady of the Tides. And the Prince of Dragonstone. It was an alliance forged in blood, marriage, and ambition, and it was displayed for all the realm to see.
We did not dive. We did not breathe fire. We flew in a perfect, wide formation, a pentagon of scales and wrath that circled the tourney grounds once, twice, three times. The silence was absolute, broken only by the thunderous beat of ten mighty wings. The message was undeniable, written in the language of ultimate power:
This is not a faction. This is a dynasty. This is the future. Cross us at your peril.
I let my gaze, sharpened by the Cannibal's malevolent perception, sweep over the royal pavilion. I saw my father's hand tremble as he gripped his throne. I saw Alicent Hightower's face, white as milk, all her schemes crumbling to ash in the face of this display. I saw Otto, his mouth a thin, bloodless line, his mind racing for a countermove that did not exist.
And I saw my half-brother, Aemond. Not cowed, but transfixed. His single eye—the other lost in some childhood mishap we never spoke of—was wide, not with fear, but with a terrifying, burning hunger as he stared up at the dragons, his face a mask of pure, undisguised envy. The sight of us, of the power so clearly out of his reach, was not a deterrent. It was an obsession taking root. He was a void, and he would seek to fill it with the only thing he believed could match us: a dragon of his own. And the only dragon left that could possibly rival Vhagar or the Cannibal was the one who had just flown over his head: the Bronze Fury, Vermithor, still riderless on Dragonstone.
We held the formation for one long, paralyzing minute. Then, as if on a silent command, we turned as one and flew back towards Dragonstone, leaving a city of stunned, silent people in our wake.
The balance had been publicly, spectacularly shifted. But as we flew away, I knew with cold certainty that we had not cowed everyone. We had created a new, more dangerous enemy. We had shown Aemond Targaryen exactly what he wanted, and exactly what he lacked. And a one-eyed boy with a heart full of envy and a mind warped by Hightower ambition would stop at nothing to tip the scales back. The dance floor was set. The players were in position. And the first, devastating move had been made not on the ground, but in the realm of the clouds, a five-headed shadow that would loom over the Seven Kingdoms forever.