Chapter Four: Fire and Blood
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The five hundredth year since his arrival.
Ignotus stood at the prow of Aegon's flagship, Ember on his shoulder, watching the coast of Westeros grow from a grey smudge on the horizon to something solid and real. The wind carried salt, pine and the faint, distant scent of summer grass.
Beside him, Aegon Targaryen was very still.
"You've seen this land before," the dragonlord said.
"Five centuries ago. I walked its forests and its shores. I watched its people live and die and build their small kingdoms." Ignotus paused. "I never thought I would return like this."
"Like what?"
"On the winning side."
Aegon's mouth curved. It was not quite a smile.
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They landed at the mouth of the Blackwater Rush.
Three dragons wheeled overhead—Balerion black as night, Vhagar bronze and green, Meraxes silver-white. Their shadows swept across the beach like the hands of gods. Behind them, the fleet disgorged men, horses and supplies, a small army assembling on foreign soil.
The local lord sent ravens. His neighbors sent ravens. Within a week, every king south of the Neck knew that dragonlords had crossed the sea.
Aegon called his first war council in a command tent overlooking the river.
"The riverlands are Orys's task," he said, nodding to his bastard brother. "Harren Hoare thinks himself invincible behind his walls. He will learn otherwise."
Orys grinned. It was not a pleasant expression.
"The Reach," Visenya said. Her tone was flat, practical. "Argilac will expect us to move west. He's raised his banners and fortified the border."
"Then we will not move west." Aegon's gaze shifted to Ignotus. "You have studied these kingdoms. What would you advise?"
Ignotus considered the map. He knew this campaign intimately—had read about it in another life, traced its movements on paper maps in his cramped apartment. But knowing and advising were different things.
"The Storm King is old and proud," he said. "He will not wait for you to come to him. He will march on Blackwater Rush within the month, hoping to crush you before you can establish a foothold."
"And if he does?"
"Then you meet him in open field. Your dragons burn his army. His kingdom falls."
Aegon nodded slowly. "And the other kings?"
"They'll watch and wait. They hope you exhaust yourself against Argilac so they can pick apart what remains." Ignotus met his eyes. "Don't give them the chance."
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The Battle of the Last Storm was not a battle.
It was a slaughter.
Argilac the Arrogant rode at the head of his host, antlered helm gleaming in the morning light, his warhammer raised high. His knights thundered across the field in a tide of steel and horseflesh, forty thousand men who had never tasted dragonfire and did not yet understand what they faced.
Aegon waited until they were close enough to see his face.
Then he raised his hand.
Balerion descended from the clouds like the end of the world.
Ignotus watched from a hilltop, Ember clutched tight to his shoulder. He had read about this moment. He had imagined it a thousand times. But imagination was nothing compared to the reality of dragonfire—the heat, the sound, the screams of men and horses burning alive.
He did not look away.
When it was over, Argilac lay dead beneath his crushed helm. His army had scattered to the four winds. His kingdom, seven thousand years old, had ended in a single afternoon.
Orys Baratheon knelt in the mud and swore fealty to his brother the king.
Aegon accepted his oath with a face of stone.
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They marched on Storm's End at dawn.
The fortress rose from its cliffs like a fist clenched against the sea. Its walls were forty feet thick, its curtain towers studded with archers, its gates reinforced with iron and ancient spells that had held for millennia.
Ignotus studied those spells as they approached.
"First Men work," he said. "Old. Strong. But brittle."
Aegon glanced at him. "Can you break them?"
"No. But I don't need to."
He dismounted, walked to the edge of the siege lines, and raised his hands.
The wards had been carved into the foundation stones during the Age of Heroes. They were meant to repel armies, deflect siege engines, turn aside magic that sought to breach the walls. They had never encountered magic like his.
He found the fault lines in less than a minute.
Then he pulled.
The wards shattered like glass. The sound echoed across the battlefield, a scream of ancient power abruptly silenced. Archers stumbled on the walls. Guards clutched their heads. Somewhere inside the fortress, a woman began to wail.
Aegon looked at him.
"That was efficient," he said.
"I try."
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Storm's End fell within the hour.
Argella Durrandon, the Storm King's daughter, locked herself in her father's hall and refused to emerge. She sent no ravens, offered no surrender, made no plea for mercy. When Orys broke down the door, he found her alone in the darkness, her father's crown clutched to her chest.
She spat in his face.
Orys laughed. He knelt before her, took the crown from her shaking hands, and placed it on his own head.
"You are a Durrandon no longer," he said. "You are a Baratheon now. And I am your lord husband."
She did not speak. But she did not refuse his hand when he offered it.
Ignotus watched from the shadows of the great hall.
He had read this story. He knew that Argella would learn to love her conqueror, that their son would inherit the Stormlands and rule it well. He knew that Orys Baratheon, bastard-born and rough-edged, would prove himself one of the most capable lords Aegon ever appointed.
Knowing and witnessing were different things.
He turned away from the newlyweds and walked into the rain.
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The Conquest continued.
Harrenhal burned. Harren Hoare died in his tower, consumed by dragonfire that melted stone like wax. His sons perished beside him. His ironborn retreated to their islands and did not emerge again.
The riverlands submitted. The Reach submitted. The Westerlands submitted after Loren Lannister's host broke against Vhagar's flames and Aegon's patience.
Ignotus fought beside them.
Not with dragonfire—he left that to Aegon and his sisters. His magic was quieter, more precise. He silenced sentries before they could raise alarms. He unwarded gates that had held for centuries. He brewed potions for wounded soldiers and carved runes into siege weapons and stood on blood-soaked fields with his sword drawn, protecting the men who protected the dragons.
He did not kill.
Not because he couldn't. Not because he lacked the skill or the will. But because every man who fell to his blade was a man he had read about in another life—a name, a history, a family who would mourn him. He could not save them all. He was not even sure he wanted to.
But he would not be the one to end them.
Visenya noticed.
She found him one evening after the fall of Crakehall, sitting alone on the battlements with Ember in his lap. Her dragon Vhagar was curled in the courtyard below, bronze scales gleaming in the torchlight.
"You don't kill," she said. Not a question.
"No."
"Yet you have no hesitation in enabling others to kill."
He considered the question. "I enable them to fight. What they do in battle is their choice."
"And if they choose to kill?"
"Then they kill. I am not their conscience."
Visenya was silent for a long moment. Her face was unreadable—it was always unreadable, a mask of Valyrian composure that revealed nothing.
"You are strange," she said. "Even for a man who has lived five centuries."
"So I've been told."
She turned away from him, looking out at the captured fortress below. Her hand rested on the hilt of Dark Sister.
"Don't die," she said. "My brother finds you useful."
It was, Ignotus realized, the closest thing to affection he would ever receive from Visenya Targaryen.
"I'll try," he said.
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The submission of Oldtown was the turning point.
The Hightower had not fallen to siege in three thousand years. Its wards were the strongest in Westeros, woven by generations of sorcerer-lords who had studied at the Citadel and beyond. Its lord, Manfred Hightower, was old and cautious and unwilling to gamble his city's future on a dragon's mercy.
Aegon sent Ignotus.
He walked through the gates of Oldtown alone, Ember on his shoulder, his sword sheathed and his hands visible. The Hightower guards watched him pass with expressions of wary disbelief.
Lord Manfred received him in the high chamber of his tower.
"You are the mage," he said. "The one they call Peverell."
"Yes."
"They say you have walked this earth for five hundred years."
"Five hundred and two, but who's counting."
The old lord studied him with pale, shrewd eyes. "They say you advised the Conqueror at every battle. That his victories are as much yours as his."
"I advised. He conquered. The distinction matters."
"And now he sends you to demand my surrender."
"He sends me to offer terms." Ignotus met his gaze steadily. "Your city will not burn. Your people will not be harmed. Your house will retain its lands and titles in exchange for your oath of fealty. The Faith will be protected, the Citadel left untouched, your ancient rights preserved."
Manfred Hightower was silent for a long time.
"And if I refuse?"
"Then we will not send me again."
The old lord looked at him. Looked at Ember, at the sword at his hip, at the face of a man who had watched empires fall and would watch this one fall too, if necessary.
"You serve him," Manfred said. "Why?"
"Because he dreams of something larger than conquest. Larger than dragons or kingdoms or the glory of his house." Ignotus paused. "He dreams of a realm united under a single law, where lords do not make war on each other and smallfolk do not burn in conflicts that mean nothing to them. He dreams of peace."
"And you believe he can achieve this."
"I believe he can try. I believe he is the best chance this continent has ever had." Another pause. "And I believe that if he fails, no one else will attempt it for a very long time."
Manfred Hightower studied him for a long, long moment.
Then he called for his maester and dictated his terms of surrender.
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The Conquest rolled on.
The North submitted without a fight—Torrhen Stark knelt on the banks of the Trident and surrendered his crown to the dragonlords who had burned his enemies and spared his people. The Iron Islands submitted after Visenya flew Vhagar through the gates of Pyke and emerged an hour later with their lord's head in her hands.
Only Dorne remained.
Aegon sent ravens to Sunspear. Princess Meria Martell returned them unopened.
"In Dorne," she said, her voice carrying across the hot, dry wind, "we do not bow to dragons."
Aegon was not a patient man. But he was a practical one.
"Then we will not ask you to bow," he said. "We will ask you to negotiate."
Meria Martell laughed. It was not a kind sound.
"Negotiate," she repeated. "With a man who has burned every kingdom that refused him. You come to my borders with dragons and armies and a sorcerer who can shatter wards that have stood for millennia, and you speak of negotiation."
"I come to your borders with an offer of peace. Alliance. Trade." Aegon's voice was steady. "Your land is not like the others. I know this. My advisors have told me that Dorne has never been conquered, not by the Andals or the Rhoynar or the Storm Kings who spent centuries bleeding against your passes."
"Then you are wiser than most."
"I am not wise. I am practical." Aegon met her gaze. "I do not need to conquer Dorne. I need Dorne to be part of the realm I am building. If you will not kneel, I will not force you. But I will not leave your borders unguarded while the rest of Westeros unites against me."
Meria was silent for a long moment.
"What do you propose?" she asked.
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The treaty was signed at Sunspear, under the hot Dornish sun.
Dorne would remain independent, its laws and customs unchanged. No Targaryen army would cross its borders. No dragons would fly over its cities. In exchange, Dorne would not ally with any enemy of the Iron Throne, would not raid the Reach or the Stormlands, would not offer sanctuary to rebels or pretenders.
It was not a conquest. It was not even a submission. It was, Ignotus thought, the most pragmatic decision Aegon had made since landing at the Blackwater.
Visenya disagreed.
"You made them equals," she said. "Not subjects. Not vassals. Equals."
"Yes," Aegon said.
"They will use this against you. Against your sons. Against your grandsons."
"Perhaps." Aegon's voice was calm. "But they will not use it today. And today is all I can control."
Visenya said nothing. But her hand remained on Dark Sister's hilt for a very long time.
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The Conquest was over.
Aegon Targaryen had united six of the seven kingdoms under a single crown. He had built a capital at the mouth of the Blackwater Rush, raised a fortress of red stone and iron, forged a throne from the swords of his defeated enemies. He had taken Visenya and Rhaenys as his wives and begotten sons who would carry his legacy forward.
He had done everything he set out to do.
And now, Ignotus stood before him in the great hall of the Aegonfort, waiting to learn what came next.
"You asked for something," Aegon said. "When you first wrote to me. A seat at the table."
"Yes."
"That table now exists." The Conqueror's voice was calm, measured. "I am prepared to honor your request. But I would know what else you desire."
Ignotus had prepared for this question. He had rehearsed his answer a hundred times over the past five centuries, refining and revising until the words sat perfectly in his chest.
"Land," he said. "Close to the capital. A domain I can hold, build and call my own."
Aegon nodded slowly. "What land?"
"The Kingswood. Including Massey's Hook to the Gullet. All of it."
Silence. Aegon studied him with those pale, assessing eyes.
"The Kingswood is crown land. It borders my new capital, provides timber and game and a buffer against the Stormlands. You ask for a significant concession."
"I do."
"And in return?"
"Twenty years of service on your small council. My magic, my knowledge, my sword. Whatever you require." Ignotus paused. "And after those twenty years, I remain your ally and advisor for as long as you will have me."
Aegon was silent for a long moment.
Then he nodded once.
"So be it," he said. "The Kingswood is yours, Lord Peverell. From Massey's Hook to the Gullet, and the entirety of the kingswood as you requested. And a seat on my council, with the title of Royal Mage and the right to speak on any matter that touches the realm."
Ignotus inclined his head.
"Thank you, Your Grace."
Aegon's mouth curved. It was not quite a smile, but it was close.
"You earned it," he said. "Now go build your castle. I want to see what a five-hundred-year-old sorcerer considers a proper home."
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The tower rose from the edge of the Kingswood in three days.
Ignotus did not hide it. Did not cloak it in wards of invisibility, did not shroud it in illusion or glamour. He simply raised it—six hundred meters of white marble and silver mithril, diamond windows and jeweled carvings, gates of obsidian carved with a phoenix rising.
The people of King's Landing saw it from their windows. The sailors in the Gullet saw it from their decks. The lords riding south from the capital reined in their horses and stared at the impossible structure gleaming in the afternoon light.
It was beautiful.
It was terrifying.
It was, Ignotus thought, exactly what he believed the world should bear witness to as a true Wizards Tower.
Ember launched from his shoulder, wings spreading wide, and circled the tower's peak in a spiral of silver-edged black. Her cry echoed across the Kingswood, high and clear and triumphant.
Ignotus watched her fly.
Then he turned away from the tower and walked toward the Aegonfort.
He had a kingdom to help build.