The Wolfswood
Daemon Snow.
The last few days had been quite good for me—I had slaughtered my way through the bandits. Whoever said violence is never a solution must have never been in a fight. It was cathartic, and the turmoil of my emotions settled enough for me to think clearly about what would happen when I returned to Winterfell.
I am an adult now, and if I combine the years I have lived, my age would be close to eighty. Holding onto this level of hatred for my father and grandmother at this point is not normal. For fuck's sake, I am ageless, and yet I still wonder why anger grips me whenever I think of my father—especially when I have done the same, or worse, to countless children of my own across the North. Whatever my issues are, I was never a hypocrite. Yet, the fact that I never even realized this contradiction myself was something that angered me greatly. I had considered all my other weaknesses and taken steps to turn them into strengths, and yet I never realized how compromised my own emotions were.
It took Cregan pointing out that I became irrational whenever the Targaryens were involved for me to finally understand it. And the fact that my little brother had to be the one to point out my weakness pissed me off. It happened during an argument when Cregan realized that if I was in Winterfell when the Targaryens arrived, I would refuse to kneel with the Stark household.
"Daemon, what is wrong with you? You're clever enough to hide your emotions in any other matter, to the point where I have to pry them out, but you wear your hatred for the royal family on your palms. Your plan to disrespect the Queen so blatantly may even lead to useless bloodshed. For fuck's sake, you even forgave Brandon, your sworn shield, and made me forgive him too—despite the fact that he abandoned his oaths to you and had a bastard with my mother. I love my half-sister, Sara Snow, but if anyone finds out that he did it without your permission, you'll be forced to take his head. The Targaryens have never even come close to that level of betrayal and disrespect." Cregan had yelled at me.
I was shocked then, as I finally grasped the truth.
"Cregan, you've given me a lot to ponder." I exhaled, rubbing my temples. "In Brandon's case, I never wanted a sworn shield. It was only a means to an end—to spread tales of my god-blessed abilities among the people of the North. And at the end of the day, love is blind. Let him and Aunt Giliane have their happiness, or do you really want your mother and sister's hatred aimed at you? Let the story of their marriage spread, and it will be the end of any bad-mouthing."
After the slaughter, I sat under the nearest weirwood and decided to meditate on my life until now. I wanted to understand why this hatred existed and how I needed to deal with it. After all, everything had happened according to canon as long as I wasn't involved. Aemon would fight back against the Myrish and die accidently in 92 AC. I had kept an eye on Myr and the bloodbath was just starting. It was pointless to hate someone when I had already almost had my revenge even without trying. Aemon will never be king and his own wish of Rhaenys being the queen will never happen then.
The most Aemon had done to me is ignore me and that allowed me to train and attain the power I had today. It was the best thing as I would have been limited in kingslanding. I will return the favor by ignoring him and what will happen;
Aemon would die, the king would ignore Aemon's wishes and make his daughter a laughing stock before the realm by ignoring her claim, not once but twice. No matter how I looked at it, I had come out on top without even playing the game of thrones. And yet, my irrational mind in not satisfied with it.
I closed my eyes, my thoughts drifting back to the first and last time I had met my paternal family. Within minutes, I reached the moment I first gained consciousness in this world. I saw my father's eyes fading into death, filled with hatred toward me, and my grandmother's sheer indifference. The only time they had actually acknowledged me. Having an adult mind had allowed me to remember it clearly.
I opened my eyes and sighed. They had never actually harmed me, and yet, I couldn't let go of my anger. Looking back, the Targaryens had even helped me in some ways. The money they granted me, the king's decree that no blood of the dragon should be punished—both had made me untouchable in the North. Only my Stark grandfather could have disciplined me, and he had died long ago. I had even gotten my revenge on the Targaryens without trying. The number of them who had died and would continue to die in the future simply because they couldn't be bothered with me should have satisfied me.
I was never the grudge-holding type. I was the "forgive, but never forget and be indifferent" type—the kind who would never help those who had wronged me. Even in this life, I treated most people the same way—except for my paternal family. Like Cregan said, I had even forgiven Brandon just the other day for abandoning his vows of life and sword to me, for siring a bastard with Lady Giliane. At least I could give him credit for managing to bed a woman so far above his station. And yet, I still couldn't forget my anger and hatred toward my family. Maybe this was my own version of Targaryen madness.
Every Targaryen had their own kind of madness, both in canon and in this world. Aemon, with his fear of childbirth and his hatred toward me. Jaehaerys, with his obsessive micromanaging of the royal family and his hatred for anything connected to Maegor. Alysanne, with her indifference and unshakable belief in her own opinions. Baelon, with his blind, almost fanatical loyalty to Aemon. It was almost amusing when I heard that the second son had been named Daemon in this life too. I had thought my presence might change things, that the Rogue Prince might be given another name. But Aemon's attempt to replace me, and Baelon's support for such foolishness, painted a clear picture. Then there was Queen Visenya, with her disdain for anyone without Valyrian blood.
I shook my head, clearing my thoughts. I couldn't keep dwelling on this. Sighing, I decided to enter the weirwood network and observe the recent happenings in Winterfell.
I saw the queen's arrival and the talk of my presence. I saw the servants being cheeky and laughed to myself—perhaps I should give them something more to gossip about. I watched Aemon and the queen discuss matters, and though I could understand the logic behind their words, they had forgotten one thing—I was not some nameless peasant's son. I was a son of Winterfell, raised as almost a Stark.
I followed them into the godswood.
Seeing my daughter standing so close to Silverwing made me freeze in shock. My body tensed, ready to brute-force my way through time itself if necessary to save her from harm. But what followed was something I had never even dreamed of.
At least Aemon and the queen were sharp enough to recognize Lyanna and even show some care for her—care they had never shown me. I saw the deep sadness in Aemon's face as he spent almost the entire day with my daughter, even taking her for a ride on Caraxes.
At least they had not dared to make my favorite daughter sad or harm her. Otherwise, I had no idea what I would have done.
I saw Rhaenys observing her father's interaction with Lyanna, frowning. She subtly inquired about the girl's identity, and the queen told her that she was her bastard brother's daughter—a Mormont at that.
Relief flickered across Rhaenys' face as she asked if I was married, but when the queen denied it, the relief vanished faster than it had come.
Seeing that my daughter was in no danger, I withdrew from the weirwood network and returned to the present.
I was surprised. They had so easily forgotten about me and treated Lyanna with warmth. I couldn't understand how they could do that when I, in contrast, could never think rationally where they were concerned.
What was wrong with me?
I let out a bitter laugh and snapped loudly to the forest.
Suddenly, I heard Aethan's voice in my mind, echoing words from the night my grandfather died.
"….You're crying because you loved him enough that your control over your emotions has shattered. The indifferent mask you always had for others from the first moment I saw you had finally shattered….."
I recalled the rest of my thoughts from that day, and the answer struck me like a hammer blow.
I couldn't feel anything but anger and rage because of my ability to control myself.
I remembered my father's sheer hatred and fury in my first moment in this life—hatred that should have been love. The baby I had been had imprinted that emotion deep into my mind. My own response that day, just before I lost consciousness, came rushing back to me.
"Fuck the Targaryens."
I laughed hard as I realized that my own irrational hatred was because of that day and how much the words I casually said because of my own anger at being cheated by the Being send me here. I was expecting to be Jon Snow after all.
Fenrir padded over and licked my face, sensing the sheer fear that gripped me. I had spent so long believing I was rational, only to realize I had been acting irrationally because of my own ability. I had pride on my own long term planning and how I was accomplishing my goals to end the threats in this world, but now I have to rethink everything and decide whether it was actually good or not.
I needed my rationality. I needed my logical mind. Without them, I was doomed in this world of death and chaos.
And what would happen if I lost a battle and was the last man standing?
A violent shiver ran down my spine as the terrifying thought took root. I would be nothing more than a vessel for the Night King—or some other entity. A slave within my own mind. That was a fate I had to avoid at all costs.
"Boy, it seems that I was fucked by my own abilities. Atleast I should correct it as I am going to interact with Targaryens in the coming days and years. why bother making unnecessary enemies when I could achieve what I want from them without even interacting with them that much." I whispered to Fenrir as I scratched behind his ears.
Fenrir let out a soft huff, sending me his feelings of absolute belief in me.
==========================
It took almost the entire night to unravel the control ability from my emotions. The moment the automatic application of control was lifted, I felt as if a heavy weight had been removed from my shoulders. I had been shackled by irrational hatred and anger. Without serving any purpose to motivate me, such emotions were nothing more than self-destructive forces waiting to consume me.
My father despised me, and my grandmother had insulted me. They had suffered for it—my grandmother lost her children, and my father would die before ever seeing a grandchild from Rhaenys. I decided I would no longer go out of my way to enrage or provoke them. Instead, I would focus on something far more crucial for my survival and my plans to explore this world—securing a dragon of my own.
From the moment I witnessed it easily kill and devour another dragon at Dragonstone, my eyes had been set on one beast. I gave myself two years to tame and bond with it after Aemon's death in 92 AC. Even if that didn't happen because of butterfly effect, I resolved to travel to Dragonstone and blend in among the smallfolk. My natural ability to learn quickly would help me mask my accent and integrate seamlessly.
But before I ever stood before the green, deadly flames of the Cannibal, I needed to develop some resistance to dragonfire. I had seen its flames consume dragon scales as if they were mere kindling. If I were caught in such fire unprepared, there would be nothing left of me but ashes.
"Thank you, Cregan," I whispered, realizing that my resistance to dragonfire could be built easily now that there were three dragons in Winterfell.
I considered my options carefully. Silverwing was the first I dismissed—far too old, and I wasn't willing to risk being turned to cinders instantly. The second was the Blood Wyrm, Aemon's dragon, but it was the most volatile. I couldn't be certain it would use fire instead of simply mauling me. I had seen it play with its prey many times, only unleashing flames after its victim was already dead.
That left only one option—Meleys, Rhaenys' Red Queen.
"Well, Fenrir, you should hide when we get near Winterfell. I'll find Meleys and try to make her breathe fire."
Fenrir gave me a look as if I were an idiot and huffed mockingly.
"Yeah, I know it's foolish, boy," I muttered. "But I have no choice. I won't stand before the Cannibal without this. It's too risky."
Fenrir simply huffed again and disappeared into the forest cursing the Old Gods for making him bonded with such an idiot.
==============================
I was on my way back to Winterfell when I heard a distant roar. Immediately, I connected with one of my eagles, and elation filled me as I spotted the Red Queen soaring over the forest.
I stood in a clearing where the dismembered bodies of bandits lay scattered. The blood had already attracted scavengers, feasting on the remains. I decided to wait there, wondering if the scent of death would draw the Red Queen.
As I had guessed, the dragon descended into the clearing. However, I was immediately proven wrong about her coming for the scent when I saw the slender form of my younger half-sister dismounting. She spoke in High Valyrian, her tone light.
"Thank you, my dear Meleys. I needed to clear my head, and this was a nice flight. I knew you would land in this clearing, as I said."
The dragon sniffed the air, then let out a low growl of warning. At once, Rhaenys tensed, her gaze sweeping over the clearing. Her cautious expression twisted into one of fear and disgust as she took in the gore and scattered body parts.
Quickly, she climbed back onto her dragon, ready to take off in case any threats remained.
"No need to worry about bandits, my dear sister," I said with a grin, stepping out from behind a tree and into the clearing.
Rhaenys stiffened further atop her dragon, her eyes narrowing at my casual tone.
"What? This is your doing?" she demanded.
"Aye, dear sister. I left to hunt this scum, after all," I said with a shrug.
"But this is needless cruelty! They deserve a burial at least. You left their bodies to be devoured by animals," Rhaenys said, her voice filled with reproach.
"Of course I did, dear sister. Why should I bother burying this filth? I have far more important matters to attend to," I replied with an air of indifference.
"Monster," Rhaenys hissed. "And don't call me sister, bastard. I am a trueborn Princess of the Realm, and you are just a bastard." Her voice dripped with venom, her lips curling into a mocking smile.
My smug grin only widened. The word bastard had long lost its sting, whether it had any in the first place. She must have truly expected it to affect me, for a flicker of fear and surprise crossed her face when she saw my lack of reaction.
"Of course, I am a bastard," I said, my voice amused. "Both literally and figuratively, dear sister. And now, you must think carefully before insulting such a monstrous bastard in the middle of the forest—when you are alone. After all, I could harm you, sister."
Her fear melted into mocking laughter.
"Are you out of your wits? You stand before my dragon, while I sit upon her back. A single word from me, and you would be nothing but ash where you stand. You should be thankful that I do not punish innocent men over foolish words."
She looked at me then, my bright smile unwavering. Something in my expression must have unsettled her, for a storm of emotions flickered across her face.
"That is the most perfect thing you could do for me, Princess," I said with a mocking bow. "After all, I was planning to have Meleys breathe fire on me. I need to adapt to the magical nature of dragonfire, and the other two dragons are far more powerful—and far more dangerous. So, Dracarys is the word, Princess Rhaenys. Say it now." I smirked, spreading my arms as if welcoming the flames.
For almost a minute, Rhaenys remained silent, her mouth slightly open in sheer disbelief.
"What? I am no kinslayer! Are you mad?" she finally yelled.
"Of course, I am mad, little sister. A small piece of advice for you—take it as you will. Everyone in this world is a little mad, and only the consequences of their actions hold their madness in check. You insulted me without reason, and now, you will bear witness to my burning. Had you simply greeted me or even ignored and left me be, I would have enacted my plan tonight when the dragon was alone. But now, this will serve as a lesson—to never insult your elders. And most importantly a valuable lesson to you little sister, never issue a threat unless you are prepared to carry it out. After all, you are supposed to be this land's future Queen," I finished with a mocking grin as I remembered the future.
Rhaenys snorted. "Oh? You think you can make me do this, bastard? You are truly mad. And these lands' queen? I am no fool—I did not miss the mockery in your voice nor the implication that I would not be your queen. You seek something that does not belong to you."
My eyes widened briefly at her words before I burst into laughter.
"Oh, sister. I have no lands, and therefore no king or queen to swear to. I could always leave for Essos and do whatever I wish. And as for the Iron Throne? I have no need for a seat that is painful for mere mortals to sit upon. I merely meant that you would curse your own chance of ruling. After all, you are deciding whether to marry the arrogant Sea Snake or Viserys. If you desire the throne, marrying Corlys Velaryon would be idiotic. My second and final piece of advice to you—marry Viserys and be the Queen. Marry Corlys, and you shall be the Queen Who Never Was.
"Now, enough talk. Say Dracarys and let us be done with this. I estimate it will take two days to heal from the burns and return to Winterfell."
Rhaenys stared at me, anger flashing in her eyes. Finally, she shook her head.
"I will not be part of your madness be a kinslayer and I have better things to do. I am leaving, bastard. May you become food for some beast in this cursed forest."
I merely grinned, feigning a wound to my heart. "Now, now, sister. No need for such negativity. Since you refuse to comply, I shall make Meleys do it myself."
I cut my connection with all but Fenrir, focusing my mind.
Rhaenys snorted. "You may have the blood, but you lack the knowledge of even basic dragonlore, Snow. Bonded dragons obey only their riders."
"Oh? Is that so, dear sister? Then allow me to test it," I said before shouting, "Dracarys!" as my mind slammed into Meleys like a battering ram.
The dragon's mind immediately flared with fire, burning away my intrusion. But black flames engulfed me, shielding me from Meleys' mental defenses.
A piercing scream from Rhaenys rang out, filled with agony. I ignored it, sending another command to the dragon. Panicked, Meleys did what was natural to her— Breathe fire at the perceived threat. Lots and lots of fire.
Immediately I left the mind of Meleys and prepared myself.
A furious "NO!" tore from Rhaenys, but I paid it no mind.
The dragonfire engulfed me.
For fifteen seconds, I felt nothing—my trained fire resistance battling the flames. By the twentieth second, I sensed faint warmth on my skin. My clothes had already disintegrated into ash. At thirty seconds, blisters formed. By fifty seconds, pain set in—but I suppressed it using my control ability.
Meleys, enraged beyond reason, continued spewing fire, the stench of burning flesh filling the air.
At the two-minute mark, Rhaenys, sobbing in horror, finally regained control, slashing Meleys' side with her whip. The fire ceased.
I jumped sideways from the burning area. I opened my eyes and looked at my body. I had protected my face using my hands allowing my eyes to be saved from burning. Apart from my hands and the place in my stomach, I had stabbed Ice to stop the necrosis of the Night King, my entire flesh had vanished and become ash. My hands and the place in abdomen which had already injured by magical fire long back had only 4th degree burns. I was glad about the control aspect as I could just mute my pain, otherwise I would have turned insane by this amount of pain.
Rhaneys looked at me in horror her eyes filled with tears. She was shaking in the saddle, whispering, "No… no…"
I grinned. "Oh, sister. Don't worry. It's just a flesh wound. I'll be fine in two days."
And I was right.
My own healing has improved so much that I am sure I now has atleast 70 percent of wolverine's healing ability. Unlimited potential is just such a hack. And the muscles was already healing slowly to visible eye.
Rhaenys whispered in awe and fear, "What… how? Who are you?"
"I am god-blessed, sister," I said darkly. "You have heard the rumors. And you will keep this knowledge to yourself."
"And why would I want to do that?" Rhaneys asked, her tone sharp with defiance.
"Because if you don't, the realm will brand you a would-be kinslayer—driven by hatred and jealousy toward the so-called god-blessed bastard. And if you remember your lessons, the last kinslayer to sit the throne did not have a good reign." My voice was calm, but the warning was clear.
Rhaneys hesitated before nodding. "I will be silent," she whispered, though her face betrayed lingering resentment. Then, without another word, she turned and shouted, "Soves!" The great beast took to the skies, its wings beating against the air as it carried her away.
I sighed, already feeling the weight of exhaustion settle over me. The healing process had already started draining me, but at least I had Fenrir to bring a fresh supply of game—dozens of animals for me to cook and consume while my body recovered.
Surveying the damage left by Meleys, I grimaced. Even a younger, lesser dragon had done this much to me. It was a sobering reminder of how much more dragonfire is. I can now stand in ordinary fire for hours now and yet with dragonfire this was the result.
I had the foresight to test myself now before standing before the Cannibal. Had I gone to him unprepared, I was certain I would have been reduced to ashes before I even had the chance to react. At least now, I had the experience and the adaptation against Dragonfire to atleast survive the coming confrontation.
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Winterfell
I sat with my back against the weirwood in the godswood of Winterfell while Fenrir rested his head on my legs. I was patting the warm, soft fur of the wolf when the scent and sound of someone approaching reached me—or rather, reached Fenrir first, and our bond alerted me. Whenever I was near Fenrir, our connection had strengthened to the point where I could almost have parallel thoughts. I wondered how much of that was due to my fight with the Night King, which might have helped develop this bond. After all, the Night King had multiple perspectives and controlled many at once.
I opened my eyes and saw Prince Aemon Targaryen walking toward me. Ever since I returned to Winterfell after healing, I had been busy with wedding preparations and had not spent a single minute with Aemon. He had been trying to meet with me alone, without it being an order, and I had been avoiding him—without even trying—simply because I was too occupied. Now that the wedding was over as of yesterday, I knew this meeting was inevitable.
Rhaenys had not said a single word about what had happened, and for the past two days, she had looked at me with a mix of fear and awe. The queen had ignored my presence entirely. At least both Aemon and the queen had spent much time with my daughter, and those were good moments for my daughter.
Aemon reached the weirwood and looked at me.
"Prince Aemon. This is truly a surprise," I said, without any courtesy, still lying with my back against the tree.
A frown passed over his face, and I wondered—was it because I called him "Prince Aemon," or was it my lack of courtesy?
"Surprise? There is nothing surprising about it. A father can have a meeting with his son. I am not 'Prince Aemon' to you. I am your father. Call me that," Aemon said with some sternness.
I snorted and couldn't stop my laughter.
"You are twenty years too late to establish a father-son bond, Aemon," I said with a grin. "This is the first time I'm meeting you, so yes, it truly is a surprise. What do you want?"
Aemon took a deep breath and closed his eyes.
"I... I..." Aemon started, then stopped, as if lost for words. After several moments of uncomfortable silence, he finally asked,
"Don't you have any questions? About why? Why I hated you and left you behind?"
I looked at Aemon carefully and saw that he was tired. Dark circles under his eyes made it clear he hadn't been sleeping.
"What is there to question?" I replied. "I know you foolishly blamed me for my mother's death in childbirth, and you were madly in love with her. That means nothing to me, nor is it something I care about." I shrugged indifferently.
I could see that my nonchalant attitude had rattled Aemon, and I mentally patted myself for maintaining control over my emotions. Truly, sheer indifference was more damaging to Aemon than any rage I could direct at him.
"My son, please—at least shout at me. You may even hit me. Why are you just sitting there, doing nothing? Don't you even care?" Aemon snapped.
"It is pitiful that it took you two decades to move past your grief," I said, my tone calm but cutting. "And I don't care about you enough to shout at you or blame you. Do you know something, Aemon? I remember everything that has happened in my life from the moment I first gained consciousness after birth. I saw the madness in your eyes when you heard the healer declare my mother dead. It took me several years to fully understand, but by then, I already had another father figure." I shrugged again. "I lost nothing when you left me here. It was your house that lost much because of it."
Aemon thought about what I meant, and realization dawned on him—the deaths of his brothers and sisters. If I had been in the South from the beginning, they might have lived, thanks to my abilities. He looked at me again, finally understanding the sheer indifference in my words and stance. It was the same cold detachment his own mother had for some people. The same his father had.
Anger flickered across his face, but the mocking grin on mine, as I recognized that I had gotten to him, tempered it.
"I see," Aemon said at last. "You truly are your grandmother's grandson. The sheer indifference, the lack of care for your blood relatives—it's just like her."
Aemon smirked as he saw anger flash in my eyes. I was so tempted to let Fenrir take a bite out of him for comparing me to that bitch of a grandmother. The so-called "Good Queen" was someone I had always disliked in my past life, and nothing had changed in this one.
"Ah, well," I said coolly. "I have your blood, after all. And I'm glad it was the indifference I inherited, and not your cowardice."
Aemon smirked. "I'll give that a seven out of ten. But I'm not young enough to be angered by being called a coward. I was afraid, and I ran away—from duty, from you. It was cowardice." He took a deep breath. "Anyway, I'm not here to trade insults with you. You are my son, and your exile must end. My father doesn't want you in King's Landing, but I am sure I can convince him. I came here to ask if, when the time comes, you will come with me and try to mend the rift between us."
I was surprised by the offer, but there was no way in hell I would let myself be trapped in King's Landing—especially not now. I needed to be free to travel the South. To claim Cannibal.
"You shouldn't bother, Prince Aemon," I said, stressing the title. "Should such a letter come to Winterfell, the answer would be no. I will not come. There's no need to mend anything, just so you can placate your guilt. Or is it that, after two decades and you growing old, you finally remember my mother will be very angry with you in the afterlife?" I tilted my head. "Whatever the reason, I don't want anything to do with you or the king."
Aemon looked as if I had struck him. He sighed, tired and resigned.
I see you have her stubbornness added with my own. I will not send such a letter.
"I see you have her stubbornness," he muttered. "Mixed with my own. I will not send such a letter, but I will be in contact with you."
"Good," I said simply. "Anyway, I have to go to my sleep now. Get some sleep—you need it."
I stood up, and Fenrir followed suit.
"Also, Prince Aemon," I added, pausing for a moment, "you've been good to your granddaughter, so I'll give you a single piece of advice."
Aemon frowned. "Advice?"
"Always stay on top of your dragon when you're in enemy territory or a war zone," I said. "Myrish crossbows are deadly at close range."
Aemon's eyes widened in shock as I walked away from the godswood.
I wondered why I had tried to save my father's life.
It was a gamble. A test to see how much I could change the canon by just existing. Aemon's death mattered more to the timeline than Aegon's or Viserra's. Would fate fight back?
And if so, how much effort would it take to truly change the canon?
===========================
Maesters often wondered what Prince Aemon's reign would have been like had he not died in 92 AC at the hands of traitorous assassins disguised as Myrish men. The Myrish exiles who swarmed Tarth were defeated by the combined might of the prince's dragon, the Velaryon fleet, and Stormlander troops. But victory turned to tragedy for the royal family with the cowardly assassination of the crown prince.
When the news reached King's Landing, it is said that the king himself had to restrain Prince Baelon from mounting Vhagar and going on a rampage. Yet, not even the king's closest confidants knew that the usually wise and benevolent ruler was merely waiting for the full picture to emerge—before proving that he was indeed King Maegor the Cruel's nephew after all. No matter how far one tries to run from it, blood still reigns supreme.
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Rhaenys Targaryen
King's Landing, 91 AC – First Moon
Rhaenys felt tense as she stepped into the king's solar, accompanied by her father, Prince Aemon, her uncle Baelon, and the Queen. After much deliberation, she had decided to marry Corlys Velaryon rather than Viserys. She couldn't deny that her meeting with her bastard brother had played a role in her decision—or that his warning against marrying Viserys had lingered in her mind.
The thing she had seen that day still haunted her.
For a moment, she had believed her brother would be found dead, and somehow, she would be branded a kinslayer. Yet she had nearly died of shock when the insane bastard walked into Winterfell two days later—without so much as a scratch. Since then, she had never dared to speak to him alone or even be near him.
She had been prepared to inform Aemon and the Queen of her choice in Winterfell itself, but her concern for Uncle Baelon and her cousins had stayed her hand. It was only when she overheard a conversation in Winterfell—where Lord Manderly and the Reeds mocked Corlys with disdain—that she finally made her decision. Their scorn was born of jealousy—jealousy of his accomplishments, his wealth, and the power he had built. She knew that wealth was its own form of power.
Her father had tried, time and again, to change her mind, urging her to consider Viserys—or even the second son Daemon—as her consort. But she had made him see reason, promising that when the time came, Uncle Baelon or his sons would rule beside her. She had also pledged that her children might wed theirs, uniting their claims.
"Grandfather is still healthy," she had argued. "He has ruled for four decades now. You will be king for decades more, and Uncle Baelon could serve as your Hand all those years. By then, we will have children of our own, and our houses will be bound together."
In the end, it had taken her mother's support for Aemon to finally relent. He had spoken to Uncle Baelon, and though disappointed, Baelon had—as always—agreed to follow.
And now, they stood before the king, seeking his approval.
============
The king sat in his solar, eyeing them with a knowing smile.
"So," he said, "why is everyone gathered in my solar after requesting a meeting? Is it finally time to announce Rhaenys and Viserys's betrothal? My head aches from the sheer number of letters I receive about the matter will finally end."
Rhaenys almost flinched, and she saw her father tense beside her. At once, the smile vanished from the king's face.
It was her grandmother who spoke first. "Brother, our granddaughter has chosen Corlys Velaryon as her husband—not Viserys."
The king stilled. The air in the room grew heavy, thick with unspoken tension. In that moment, Rhaenys understood why her kind grandfather had once inspired such fear in her father and uncle.
"Rhaenys," the king said at last, his voice dangerously quiet and calm. "Is this true?"
The weight of his gaze made her hesitate, but she refused to cower. Lifting her chin, she met his eyes.
"Aye, Grandfather," she said. "I want Corlys as my husband. He has the will, the talent—"
"Enough."
The king's hand struck the table with a sharp crack. "It does not matter why you have ignored a son of House Targaryen and chosen the vaunted Sea Snake. I don't care enough to know whatever drivel he has filled your head with."
It took all her bravery not to cry then and there.
The king ignored his distraught granddaughter and turned to Aemon and Baelon.
"Aemon, I am asking you here and now. Are you willing to back this madness of your daughter and the overstepping of your bannerman? Driftmark is, after all, sworn to Dragonstone and House Targaryen. Are you willing to ignore your lifelong dream of joining your line with your sibling's? For this ungrateful child?"
Rhaenys saw her father hesitate. He looked at the stoic and emotionless Baelon and then at her.
Aemon sighed and then opened his eyes with determination.
"I am, Father. This is my will. I gave her the choice long ago, and I won't take it back now. I can't do that."
The king grimaced, and the tense posture of his shoulders relaxed.
He looked at Baelon and said, "I am sorry, Baelon. It seems that your brother and niece have taken your loyalty for granted."
Aemon flinched as if he had been struck by a dragon's tail.
"Enough, husband. Do not try to manipulate your sons against each other just to have your way in this," the queen snapped.
The king remained silent.
"I see that you all have made your decision. I am old and nearing the last decade of my reign. I don't have to worry about my heir's succession. That will be your headache when you are king after me. Do as you will, but I will not allow money to be wasted on a grand celebration or anything of the sort. If he wants a grand marriage, Corlys can well pay for it himself," the king said, tiredly.
Before anyone could reply, he suddenly straightened and looked at Rhaenys.
"Rhaenys, my sweet grandchild, look at me," the king said. "I will not say no to this if it is truly your final decision. But know this—Corlys Velaryon is known as the Sea Snake, not the seahorse that graces their banner. That is for a reason, and his ambition is the venom of the snake. I advise you to consider Viserys or even Daemon as your husband. You have one day to make your final choice."
The next day, Rhaenys confirmed Corlys Velaryon as her husband. The frown and the stone cold mask of disdain that followed the rest of the meeting on the king's face was something Rhaenys would never forget for the rest of her life.
=============
And later, after years she finally understood that her bastard brother's warning was not a trap like she thought, but a genuine one.
===============
91 AC 2nd moon
Winterfell
Daemon Snow
Ever since the Targaryen left after the wedding, I had been preparing for my journey south, hidden as a bard. I had already met with the five bards under my control about joining them at various times. They were surprised at my decision to travel with them as a lowly bard, but they were very happy to allow me in. The healing I had done for their families, along with the gold I paid them for singing the catchy songs I composed—which made them popular—had earned their trust. It took me years to find these five, and yet I am still searching for more, but it takes luck to find those who match my specifications.
I was returning from my meeting with the bards in Wintertown when I heard that Cregan was looking for me. I entered the lord's solar of Winterfell, and even without my senses blaring from the mirth and smug happiness radiating from my aunt Viserra, I could see the mocking laughter on her face as she read a letter. She was already with child, and we had developed an almost good relationship. For some reason, she saw me as a kindred spirit—someone who had issues with both the king, the queen, and the crown prince. I never bothered to correct her; unlike her, my life did not revolve around petty revenge.
"Daemon," Cregan called happily. "Come sit. Viserra is just reading the invitation to Rhaenys' marriage to Corlys Velaryon."
I was not shocked, as I had already observed the meeting the king had with the family.
"I already know that, Cregan. I even informed you weeks ago, didn't I?" I asked curiously.
Immediately, Viserra cleared her laughter. "What do you mean by that, nephew?"
I just smirked.
Viserra sighed. "Of course. How many fucking abilities do you have?"
"Enough," I replied. "By the way, why are you laughing so much?"
"Well, my plans finally succeeded. I wish I could see my father's face when he learns his beloved granddaughter is marrying the Sea Snake. This is the subtlest thing I have ever done. And I must thank you, nephew—Rhaenys already had a very good impression of Corlys since he bested the Northern Voyage and apparently got one over you. I think that was the first time she learned about you or something."
"Oh?" I asked, finally understanding how my warning may have been interpreted by my sister.
"I never knew you had been doing this. Interesting… And that must be why she didn't take my advice. I told her she would be the 'Queen Who Never Was' if she married Corlys."
"What?" Viserra asked, confused.
"Oh, you'll see," I said, giving a knowing smirk to Viserra. "Leaving unimportant matters aside—Cregan, I am leaving for the Wall to bring the mammoth herd to the Gift. They would be very useful for us in shipbuilding, as the trees need transportation, and even for tilling the land if properly planned."
Cregan nodded.
"After that, I will be leaving for the south and will not be in contact. It is time that I claim my birthright."
Viserra looked intrigued and wary. She had learned about my abilities and had seen Cregan's fanatic love and loyalty toward me and our goals. She was a lot happier after being healed, as the worries of childbirth had completely vanished.
"But you are exiled. What birthright?" Viserra asked.
"Oh, Aunt, please. I never visited the south because it was not my will to do so. It is time, and I want to—so I am going. Birthright? The same one you were denied, Aunt—the skies."
Her eyes immediately widened as she understood. "Dragons."
"Which one, and how? The Dragonpit is guarded by the Keepers, and they are efficient."
I smiled. "Dragons are not only found there, Aunt. There are three wild dragons on Dragonstone, after all."
Viserra's eyes widened in wonder.
"And the king's reaction?"
"What he doesn't know until much later won't hurt him."
========
I was on the Kingsroad when I sighed at Fenrir's foolishness.
"Oh, come on now, you big furry idiot. Why are you hiding when you know I can always sense where you are from our bond?" I yelled.
A direwolf the size of my horse emerged from the treeline, and anyone could feel the sadness radiating from the massive wolf. Despite his sheer size, he seemed like a small puppy that had just lost its favorite thing.
"Oh, enough with the dramatics. You're too big for the puppy face to work on me. You're not coming with me to the south. I am traveling incognito, and that wouldn't be possible with you following me, you big idiot."
Feelings of sadness hit me through our bond, and images of Fenrir hiding behind bushes flashed in my mind—but it wasn't enough to sway me.
I snorted, laughter erupting from me at the ridiculous image. I jumped down from my horse and hugged the wolf.
"You will be with me in mind. I want you to stay here in Winterfell so that I can easily contact Cregan," I said while burying my face in the soft fur.
Irritation flickered through our bond, and suddenly, I saw the image of Bear Island and my daughter.
"What, you're going to stay with Lyanna?" I asked, surprised. "But I wanted you to stay here."
A snort of derision came from the wolf, and he huffed.
"Yeah, yeah, don't be grumpy. Do whatever you want," I said, ending the hug with a smile.
At least my daughter will be protected, I thought as Fenrir ran back.
================
92 AC
I was at the Crossroads Inn in the Riverlands when I saw my father being killed by crossbows. I had watched the entire campaign from my animals eyes and was surprised that Aemon actually followed my advice. He was always protected by the dragon's body or wings whenever he was not in his tent or in the air. The Myrish were cornered animals without any choice, but the Crown's army hunted and killed everyone.
It was after the celebration, when the guards were low, that the assassination of my father happened. Caraxes was outside the camp, as the noise and alcohol made men very rowdy. My father was talking with Lord Baratheon and was about to fly back to King's Landing when two crossbowmen made their attempt. They were aiming for the prince, and my father died instantly.
The death was shocking in the sense that this was a gamble on my part—whether I could change the fate of people without being directly involved. It seems that the most important events will happen as per canon, even with my small involvement. Prince Aemon was supposed to die at the beginning of the Myrish bloodbath, but that did not happen. Instead, he died after the fighting was over.
Seeing my father dying was not that affecting for me. I felt pity that he had to die so young, and I knew my daughter would be sad that her grandfather had passed. Every other week, there were letters between them, and since there was no grandfather on the Mormont side, my daughter had truly grown close to the prince. I had seen that at the time, and it was the reason I gave that advice to Aemon when we met for the first and last time. Whether he was alive or dead, I understood that he would never try to harm me. Thus, when the news of me claiming a dragon reached the king, it didn't matter if Aemon was alive or dead.
It was only curiosity that made me follow the fleeing assassins.
In canon, Baelon vented his frustrations on thousands of Myrish. Now that they were already defeated, I wondered what would happen. I pondered whether to do something about the Conningtons. They only dared to act because Aemon had defended me all those years ago, and now they had dared to harm my blood.
And that thought struck me hard and for the life of me I couldn't just let go the need for vengeance. It was like my own mind raging against the fact that someone managed to harm one of my blood. But I was the master of my own mind and finally swallowed the need for slaughter and think through logically.
Suddenly, a thought struck me—Lyanna is my daughter. What would people do to her for forcing my hand when the people of this world finally believed the rumors? No definite answer came to me as I considered making an example of the Conningtons.
It was that night, when I felt Fenrir tug at our bond, that I made up my mind. Fenrir was beside my daughter, and she was screaming in her dreams. One word hit me like the attack Balerion had landed on me all those years ago.
Grandfather...
Fenrir was licking my daughter's face, trying to wake her from the vision or nightmare, but it was no use. I gave the command for him to bite her without too much damage so that the pain would at least break her out of it. I let Fenrir do it, as he knew his strength better than I did—I didn't want to bite through the bone by mistake. She woke up with another yell as the pain registered, and Lyra finally entered the room. I looked through Fenrir's eyes and saw the wound. It was big, but she had inherited enough of my healing that the bite would heal in a week.
I closed my connection entirely as despair filled me—I was not there.
Slowly, the anger I tried to bury, enveloped me. These lowly nobles dared to kill one of my blood and, in doing so, made my daughter see nightmares. Aemon had defended me and punished them for me. That is a debt I now intend to repay.
=================
Griffins Roost.
Next Day.
I had to run so fast that I could reach Griffin's Roost all the way from the Riverlands. I used my birds to scout the road ahead, and whenever I saw someone approaching, I leaped into the trees lining the King's Road and ran through the branches. At least the deviations through the forests allowed me to gather the herbs needed to put the entire castle to sleep.
I scouted the castle by taking over the rats and cats in it from outside and it was surprisingly easy to accomplish my goals.
I wondered, if Bran had his warg powers when he was still in Winterfell, how much would the story have changed? I whispered to myself as I made my way to the lord's solar.
With my skinchanging abilities, breaking animals in and scouting was child's play. I was carrying the lady of the castle and the lord's three-year-old son. I placed them in a chair before taking out an herb to bring Lord Connington and his bastard brother back to consciousness.
I was already wearing a wooden mask with a laughing face when the lords awoke, their screams of fright echoing through the chamber.
"Now, now, please keep quiet," I hissed.
"What is this?" the bastard demanded, while Lord Connington made incoherent sounds. "Lady Connington—"
Both men staggered to their feet, swaying slightly, but still determined to attack me. The bastard was faster. His right hand shot toward me—I blocked it. His left came at me next, but enraged, I caught it with my own. I tightened my grip, exerting my inhuman strength, and within seconds, he screamed in agony as the bones in his left hand shattered.
Lord Connington froze, panic flashing across his face before he hesitantly sat back down.
"Now," I said, my voice steady and cold. "I am here because you murdered Prince Aemon. That is a crime many people find most grievous, and an example must be made." I placed parchment and ink before him. "You will write a confession for the king and the seven great lords of Westeros. Let me be clear—I am going to kill you, your brother, the maester, and every single person in this castle. There are thirty of you, including the servants. The servants will be spared. They may take whatever they wish from the castle and leave.
"But if you write this confession, I will not kill this fine woman and her child. I will let them live."
Disbelief twisted Lord Connington's features, and again, he muttered protests.
I sighed, turning to the bastard brother, who was curled up in the corner, sobbing and whimpering. I raised my foot slightly and kicked. A sickening crunch filled the room, followed by a scream of unbearable pain.
"Now start writing," I said, my voice calm. "Or there will be more pain for your dear brother and after him-"
Lord Connington wasted no more time. He moved swiftly, his hands trembling as he put quill to parchment.
Hours passed, and so did many lives. By the time I was finished, I took the three-year-old boy with me, leaving his mother dead. Two days later, I left him sleeping in front of a sept in the Reach. He never stirred once.
Unlike my father, I don't leave enemies alive so they can plot revenge. Tywin had the right of it—threats must be eliminated, root and stem.
=======================================
King's Landing
Baelon Targaryen
For the past few days, Baelon had been feeling uneasy for reasons he couldn't quite place. He had attempted to divine any dangers, but nothing had been revealed. He knew Aemon was being cautious, always protected by Caraxes, and that he was winning the war. Still, Baelon remained wary and tense. Even the usually unflappable king was weary and short-tempered. He had tried to go in place of Aemon or atleast with him, but both The King and the Crown Prince agreed that it must be Aemon himself who saves his wife's birthlands.
The answer to his worries arrived in the form of two letters, delivered during a small council meeting.
Baelon sat numb as the Grand Maester read the message aloud, a letter his acolyte had rushed to bring to the king. Jaehaerys had commanded the Maester to read it aloud, seeing as it was from Lord Baratheon.
Your Grace,
It is with deep sorrow that I must inform you of the death of my nephew and good brother, Prince Aemon. He was slain by hidden Myrish assassins wielding crossbows.
Prince Aemon never left Caraxes' side during an attack, not even while planning his strategies. The entire campaign was a success—every Myrish soldier was wiped out, according to our outriders and even the slaver scum under sharp questioning. The prince had declared the war over, and the remaining Myrish forces were being slaughtered across Tarth and the Stormlands.
The army was in a celebratory mood when the prince finally dismounted from Caraxes and retired to his tent. The next morning, as he stepped outside with me to mount his dragon, a hidden Myrish crossbowman struck. The bolt pierced his throat. I am sorry to say there was nothing we could do.
The prince's final words were: Lyarra, Daemon, Baelon, and Rhaenys.
— Lord Baratheon
A suffocating silence filled the room. There were splutters of denial from the Master of Coin and even the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard. No one dared to look at the king—no one except Baelon. The tension in the chamber reached a breaking point.
"Read the second letter from Lord Connington." The King ordered to the maester.
And read he did.
A fucking confession of killing his brother.
Even with his fading sight due to the fog of rage and sorrow, Baelon saw something that made his mind snap into full clarity. The king had known. There was no surprise on Jaehaerys' face—only rage. He had expected this news but had dreaded the confirmation.
Within a heartbeat, a rage unlike anything Baelon had ever felt burned through his veins. The silence was shattered by a tremendous roar from above.
Vhagar.
The ancient dragon was circling over the Kingswood near King's Landing before the meeting, her fury already echoing Baelon's own from their close bond. Her massive form banked sharply, racing toward the walls of the city. A deafening roar rippled through the capital.
"My prince—" the fearful voice of the Grand Maester trembled, but Baelon barely heard him. The entire council, except the king, turned to the windows, watching as Vhagar flew faster than almost anyone had ever seen.
Baelon stood quickly and the chair moved back all the way at the force. He was almost at the door among the protests of the councilmen due to the disrespcy when his kings voice reaxhed him.
Baelon moved. He stood so suddenly that his chair skidded backward, scraping against the stone floor. He was already at the door when the king's voice cut through the growing chaos about the clear disrespect of leaving the King without being dismissed.
"And pray tell, where are you going, Baelon?"
Baelon nearly ignored the question. His mind was singular in its purpose: reach Vhagar, take flight, and burn everyone responsible for this atrocity to ashes.
But something in Jaehaerys' voice made him pause. It was not the usual regal authority, nor the weariness of a grieving father. No, this was something far worse—controlled, simmering fury.
So Baelon answered.
"I am going to Griffin's Roost and turning it into another Harrenhal. I will not rest until Aemon's murderers are either burned by dragonflame or their blood soaks my Dark Sister."
The room erupted into immediate protests—pleas about armies, castles, and the innocent women and children who would perish.
"Everyone else. Out."
The king's voice was cold and unyielding.
Despite their protests, no one was foolish enough to disobey. Baelon stood near the door, unmoving, as the councilmen shuffled past him and the doors were closed.
"Come here, Baelon."
Reluctantly, Baelon turned back and approached the king.
Jaehaerys tossed a parchment onto the table.
"Read this."
Baelon picked up the letter, his eyes scanning the words with growing fury.
King Jaehaerys
I really want to say that it is with sadness that I write this to inform you that Prince Aemon has been killed by assassins with crossbows, dressed as Myrish. But in truth, I am not really sad about the prince's death. He was foolish and, at times, even insane, and his hatred toward many people made me care very little about him.
Anyway, I have been observing the war from the beginning, and the prince did follow my instructions—never exposing himself without Caraxes throughout the entire campaign. So it was disappointing to see him grow careless after defeating the Myrish. When he was about to return to King's Landing, he exposed himself outside his camp by walking to Caraxes. Sometimes, it seems, no one can change fate.
Regardless, I was curious about who the assassins were and what they would do after killing a dragonrider. I mean, would they boast about it in inns? Escape back to Essos? But I was surprised when they reached Griffin's Roost, and one of the assassins turned out to be the brother of Lord Connington. I was utterly confused as to why the fuck that happened—until I remembered the punishment that took place at Rhaenys' tourney.
Pretty bad of you to keep the insulted still a lord and relevant. You should have taken care of him before things like this happened.
I thought about what to do, and the answer came on the night when someone very close to me had a nightmare of Prince Aemon being killed.
Fate has its funny ways, as the event made someone very close to me deeply grieve—and that was a mistake. I have just ended the Griffin's line, root and stem. No more future enemies for me or even for you. By the way, you are welcome, and I expect a great reward.
Everyone except the servants is dead. The servants will escape with whatever they can take once they regain consciousness—as of now, while you are reading this. Connington's letter of confession will reach you, the seven Lord Paramounts, the Citadel, and the High Septon. The servants will spread the tale that the angry ghost of Prince Aemon came for bloody vengeance.
I thought you would like to know this as early as possible to ensure you can retain whatever image of strength that remains for yourselves—and for House Targaryen after your brother's vassal dared to even think about killing The Blood of the Dragon.
A Well-Wisher of Westeros.
"What the fuck?" Baelon exclaimed. "Who would dare to mock us and my Aemon's death?"
The king just scoffed. "Anyone could write an insulting letter like this without putting their name, but the matter itself is the more important one. The man conquered an entire castle alone without a raven being sent and made a proud fool like Connington write confessions. The letter arrived in front of me by an eagle. This letter mocks me and even my son's death—all while doing a service to our house. There is only one person I assume has the skills to watch the war unfold and follow two wary assassins. There is only one person who could have dreams of Daemon dying if it was anyone not here—my great-granddaughter, Lyanna Mormont. More than that, there is only one who would dare to do this—my grandson, Daemon Snow."
Baelon gasped in surprise for a moment before rage enveloped him. "That little bastard! He mocks my brother's death and now takes away my vengeance? I shall hunt him down myself and bring him before you. If he watched the assassins, I want to know why he didn't save Aemon."
"No. You shall do no such thing," the king said. "Daemon probably watched through some animals—he is likely a skinchanger. He couldn't have done anything, and we have more important matters to deal with than hunting my wayward bastard grandson. Also, he didn't mock you—he mocked me, just like Connington did when he dared to even think about spilling our blood. I thought that no one would dare to challenge me in my lifetime after what Maegor has done, and even my own punishments to my dear friend Barth and Grand Maester. But I was wrong." The king finished with a calm smile.
For a moment, Baelon felt pity for everyone about to face the monster hiding behind the Good King —but then, the fact that his brother was dead made everyone else irrelevant. They deserved whatever was coming to them.
"Father? What is to be done?" Baelon called after decades of only addressing him as "King" or "Your Grace."
The king looked surprised for a moment before sighing.
The king looked surprised for a moment before sighing. "No. Nothing would make me happier than mounting Vermithor and burning everything down that made this possible. But no, it is not my fight anymore. I can see the fire in you—this is your vengeance. My grandson has taken one aspect of vengeance from you; I will not take the other part. In return, you will leave Daemon alone. He will be the hidden knife for the survival of House Targaryen if the things get awry for me and you. The rest of our family is too soft or mercurial and the pragmatism required for strength at worst days is missing in them."
Baelon scoffed. "What vengeance? The bastard took that from me by killing the Conningtons and now you wanted to make use of a wild dragon like Daemon? "
"Oh, Baelon, you think too directly. Everything in this world exists for my use as a Dragonlord and can play a part—if you know how to use it. I shall teach you that later. Now, what does my half-brother write? His goodson is dead by Myrish assassins. This would have ended there, and the bastard Conningtons would have gotten away if not for my grandson.
The Myrish exiles lost in Myr and fled to the Stepstones. They lost there too—to pirates and Tyrosh. After that they dared to attack an island sworn to a Dragonlord after loosing to scums and vermins? They thought that attacking me was easier than challenging the Myrish faction, the Archon of Tyrosh, and some pirates in the Stepstones. It was their arrogance and daring that allowed one of our vassals to plan this and take my son's life. This is an insult that no true Dragonlord will leave unanswered."
Baelon looked wooried for a moment before the truth of the the words hit him.
"That is correct, my King. They dared to attack us because they feared the Myrish and Tyrosh more. So… are we calling the banners?" Baelon asked, knowing that even Vhagar would be hard-pressed to fight an entire Free City alone.
"No. I am not calling the banners. There will be no war or parley talks. The Myrish and the Archon excused themselves from the events on Tarth when we sent envoys. Now, I will send dragons. There will be no warning for them. Both the victors of Myr and the Archon of Tyrosh, alongside the pirates who supported them, will die in dragonfire. Now come, son. Let me take you to Vermithor and make him come with you and Vhagar."
========
Baelon watched as the king whispered to Vermithor. He couldn't hear anything, but he could guess what was being said.
After that the king turned towards Baleon,
"Son, you will go to Griffin's Roost first and burn the castle down. Let it be another Harrenhal—a reminder. After that, you will go to Tarth and send all available ships to the Stepstones. I will use the dragonglass candle to scry every one of the enemies who failed to finish a fight and ran their enemies into my territory. They are celebrating their victory while we mourn—and that is not acceptable.
While the ships go to the Stepstones, Vermithor will lead you to the manses in Myr and Tyrosh that need to be burned down. Then, you are to burn down the walls and gates of the cities. Afterward, you will arrive in the Stepstones and burn all the ships. Our own fleet will have reached there, and they are to loot whatever they can."
Baelon was pleased with the order of vengeance his father had just issued.
"I will accomplish this with complete happiness, Father," Baelon replied with a bloodthirsty grin.
"Baelon, I am sure there will be no defense against the dragons, as this is a surprise attack. But make sure you come back safely, even if you have to burn all of Myr or Tyrosh to the ground. No amount of blood spilled will ever equal my son Aemon's—or yours."
Baelon simply nodded and vowed to come back no matter what.
=============================
The events of 92 AC are well recorded in every part of the world, as the message was sent to every Free City;
"If any of the Free Cities' infighting causes even a single death in my kingdom again, then House Targaryen will ensure that there shall be no more wars between the Free Cities at all—just as King Aegon made sure there was no infighting in Westeros. I have extracted my blood price from Myr, Tyrosh, and the pirates of the Stepstones, who sent an army to my kingdom to test the waters, leading to the death of my son, Crown Prince Aemon Targaryen.
King Jaehaerys of House Targaryen,
The Good King of the Seven Kingdoms,
Protector of the Realm."
Thousands perished in the aftermath of Crown Prince Aemon's murder, and every magister or person of importance in Essos whispered of "Cruel's Heir"—how it was his own vassal who had truly slain the prince. But a king's word was law, and none dared to protest the blood price extracted from Myr and Tyrosh. More than that, the rumours of The King's Dragon attacking without a rider present send the entire Essos reeling.
The Bronze Fury and Vhagar burned nearly a quarter of Myr to the ground, and the newly appointed council of magisters—victors of the Myrish bloodbaths—could not even savor their triumph before they too perished in the flames. Tyrosh fared slightly better, as its Archon was the sole leader, and only his manse was destroyed, but the fire started had spread unnaturally and parts of the city was destroyed along with hundreds of men.
Not a single scorpion was loosed upon the dragons—the attack had been too sudden, too swift.
It is believed that this devastating assault was the catalyst for the formation of the "Eternal Alliance" of the Triarchy and the widespread development of scorpions and other means of warring against dragons across Essos.
===================