[162] Conquest and Celebration

Chapter 162: Conquest and Celebration

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The sky belonged to dragons once more.

Beneath us, the Narrow Sea stretched endlessly, its waters darkening from teal to navy as we flew farther from the smoking ruins of Braavos.

The salt wind tasted of victory and ash, a heady combination that made my blood sing. Viserion rode the currents with renewed vigor, her wounded wing almost completely healed. The occasional golden droplet of blood still fell from her, catching sunlight like molten metal before disappearing into the waves below.

"You're quiet," Dany called over the wind, guiding Drogon closer to my side. Her silver hair whipped around her face, those inhuman violet eyes glowing with their own inner fire.

"Just savoring the moment," I replied, though my thoughts were darker than my tone suggested. "Not every day you destroy the world's deadliest assassins and kill the most powerful lord in Westeros."

"And yet something still troubles you." My sister knew me too well now. The bond we'd forged through blood and fire transcended mere siblinghood. We were the last dragons, the last true Targaryens, two sides of the same blade.

"One betrayal remains unpunished," I said, my voice hardening as I recalled the System notification that had started this bloody crusade.

[Rhaegal has been afflicted with 'Wyrm-Blight' Poison. Status: Critical.]

Later the source was traced. A tribute from Prince Trystane Martell of Dorne.

Dany's expression shifted to something primal, a look that reminded me she wasn't entirely human anymore. "We burn Sunspear to the ground. Salt the ashes. Make Dorne an example even more terrifying than Braavos."

I laughed, the sound carrying strange harmonics after my transformation. "And here I thought I was the bloodthirsty one."

"They tried to kill our child," she said, reaching out to stroke Rhaegal's scales as he flew between us. The jade dragon looked better after our rampage through Braavos, but his movements still lacked their usual grace. "Dragons don't forgive."

"No, they don't." I considered my options, weighing vengeance against strategy. "But I'm thinking something more... surgical. For Arianne's sake."

Dany raised an eyebrow, genuine surprise crossing her face. "I didn't think you actually cared for her beyond pretty words and bedding."

"Neither did I at first," I admitted, feeling strange warmth at the thought of the Dornish princess. "But I do enjoy her company. Her fire. Her ambition. She reminds me of what I might have become if I'd been born a woman in this world."

"A whore?” she laughed. “You're getting soft, brother."

"Call it selective mercy. I can afford it now."

She studied me for a long moment, then laughed. "The mighty Dragon King, with whatever inhumane strength you’ve reached, brought low by a pretty face and sharp tongue."

"Not brought low," I corrected, my pride stinging. "Just... considering all variables."

"And if she stands with her brother against you?"

The question hung in the air between us, weighted with implications. I let my eyes shift to their draconic slits, feeling power pulse beneath my skin.

"Then she'll learn why even gods fear dragons."

****

Myr greeted us with a mixture of celebration and terror. Word of Braavos' destruction had traveled faster than dragons somehow, perhaps to sorcerers doing divination spells, or merely carried by merchant ships that had fled the burning city a bit earlier.

As we descended toward the Magister's palace, now my eastern seat of power, I saw the crowds gathering. Some cheered. Some knelt. Most simply stared in stunned silence. I suppose some people had dreaded this outcome. Feared my victory. Now it was here.

Waiting in the courtyard were familiar faces.

Yara Greyjoy stood with her characteristic swagger, though even she couldn't hide the shock when she saw me land. My transformation was no longer something I could conceal – I stood nearly seven feet tall now, my eyes permanently slitted, my presence making even veteran Ironborn step back involuntarily.

And beside her, watching with an expression caught between hope and dread, stood Arianne Martell.

She looked radiant despite her obvious distress, dressed in burnt orange silks that highlighted the bronze of her skin. Her dark eyes widened as she took me in, noting the changes that Braavos had wrought.

"My Dragon King returns victorious," Yara called out, the first to recover her composure. "I hear the Faceless Men are now faceless corpses?"

I loved the way she said that. "Indeed, that’s history now," I replied, dismounting with inhuman grace. "Along with Tywin Lannister and Littlefinger."

A cheer went up from the Ironborn gathered nearby. Yara grinned fiercely, her grey eyes alight with bloodlust. "I wish I could have seen it."

"Next time I'll take you along," I promised, embracing her briefly. Her body felt oddly fragile against mine now, though I knew she was anything but. "I need someone to write the songs. 'The Day Death Drowned' has a nice ring to it."

"You're in a good mood for someone who just committed genocide," Arianne said, her voice carefully neutral as she approached. I could see the relief and happiness in her eyes, seeing me safe, but there were more emotions. Worry. She was trying to read my face, searching for any softening, any forgiveness regarding her brother.

She found none.

"Mass murder," I corrected, my smile vanishing. "Genocide implies I killed all Braavosi. I only killed those who stood against me."

"A crucial distinction," she murmured, though her eyes said she found it anything but. "My King, I…" she began, clearly intending to broach the subject of Trystane.

"No." The word wasn't spoken loudly, but it carried weight beyond its single syllable. Power rippled through it, and I saw her physically flinch. "Not here, my dear. And I’m tired after a day’s conquest."

She swallowed hard, those proud shoulders slumping just slightly. "As you command."

I hated seeing her cowed, but this was a discussion that required privacy and care. As well as the will of steel. I couldn’t be favorable toward her this much. And I wasn't ready to have it until I'd seen Trystane's face myself.

"Prepare a feast. Prepare a party! We’ll celebrate. On the side, Yara, prepare the fleet," I said, turning back to the Iron Queen. "We sail for Sunspear soon afterwards."

"Sail?" She looked confused. "Why not fly?"

I smiled, feeling my teeth sharpen slightly. "Because I want them to see us coming. I want them to have time to think about what they've done. And… I want them to understand that not even the deserts of Dorne can protect them from my wrath."

****

Kinvara watched the celebrations from her place beside the high table, crimson robes stark against the pale marble of the Magister's palace in Myr. The conquering heroes had returned from Braavos, and the city pulsed with a mixture of relief and terror. Relief that Myr had bent the knee early, terror at the whispers of what happened to those who hadn't.

The ruby at her throat pulsed with each beat of her heart.

R'hllor's presence grew stronger with each of Viserys's victories. Such a strange feeling it was. The Lord of Light favored him, as he should. Viserys had fulfilled so many prophecies that the ancient texts spoke of, though not quite in the way the temple's scholars had interpreted.

Perhaps that is why the flames show me only fragments now, she mused, sipping Myrish fire wine. The future reshapes itself around him daily. What a man.

Her gaze drifted to where Arianne Martell sat, tension visible in her shoulders despite her practiced smile. The princess had been subdued since learning of her brother's betrayal. Soon, they would sail for Dorne to deliver judgment, but tonight was for celebration.

"More wine, High Priestess?" A servant bowed, pitcher poised.

"No." Her eyes never left Viserys. "The night grows interesting enough without it."

Across the hall, a commotion stirred. A young woman with olive skin and hair streaked blue and gold swayed toward the high table. Lysara of Myr. Magister Orthys's daughter, the self-proclaimed jewel of Myr. The girl wore silks so sheer they might as well have been mist, clinging to curves generous enough to draw every male eye in the room.

And she was spectacularly, dangerously drunk.

"Your Majesty," Lysara called, louder than decorum allowed. "I find myself... unfulfilled by my father's hospitality."

The open sky fell silent. Guards tensed, hands moving to sword hilts. Yara Greyjoy smirked, clearly anticipating entertainment.

Viserys merely smiled.

"Come closer, little jewel," he beckoned. His violet eyes gleamed with amusement rather than anger at the interruption. "Tell me how I might remedy this lack of fulfillment."

The girl stumbled forward, emboldened. "W-well… They say the Dragon King takes what he wants." Her hands trailed along her own body, outlining her curves. "Perhaps what I want is to be taken."

Whispers erupted across the hall. Such brazenness before the man who had just destroyed the world's most powerful financial institution and assassins' guild!

Kinvara saw the exact moment Viserys made his decision. The slight tilt of his head, the predatory narrowing of his eyes. She had seen that look before, in her bedchamber, in the throne room, in conquered cities.

With one fluid motion, he pulled Lysara onto his lap. The girl squealed in delight, then gasped as his hands tore at her flimsy silks. Flesh spilled free, golden-olive in the torchlight.

"You offer yourself to fire," Viserys said, loud enough for all to hear. "Be careful what you wish for, little Lysara."

What followed shocked even the Myrish, no strangers to pleasure houses and carnal arts. The Dragon King took the beauty there on his borrowed throne, her body arched and writhing as she screamed her pleasure for all to hear. Magisters watched, horrified yet unable to look away as their conqueror demonstrated another form of power.

Kinvara felt a stab of jealousy, quickly banished. Such an odd thing at her age. Flesh is fleeting, she reminded herself. My connection to him transcends mere bodies.

Besides, she had greater concerns. The flames had shown her darkness growing beyond the Wall. An ancient cold that even dragonfire might struggle to melt. The White Walkers gathered their forces while the realm celebrated conquests. The true war approached, the war for dawn itself.

R'hllor had not chosen Viserys merely to conquer kingdoms. He would need to save the world first.

"Enjoy your flesh, my king," she whispered, unheard amid Lysara's cries. "Your destiny will claim you soon enough."

Kinvara smiled, fingers tracing the plans hidden in her robes. Plans the Lord of Light had shown her. Plans even the Dragon King did not yet suspect.

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