Chapter 22: The Dragon's Peace, a Hatchling's Song, and Rising Tensions
It was the 20th year After Conquest, 20 AC. The Targaryen dynasty, forged in fire and blood, now held dominion over six of Westeros's kingdoms, their grip solidifying with each passing year. Yet, beneath the veneer of unity, the scars of conquest lingered, and new seeds of discord were quietly being sown.
The Runes Return and a Hatchling's Song (2 AC)
Two years after Aegon's coronation, as the newly established Iron Throne began to assert its authority across the nascent Seven Kingdoms, a profound shift occurred within me. The ancient, dormant power that had been suppressed since my arrival in this world, the intricate aetheric runes etched into my very essence, began to stir. The sheer density of aether in this world, compared to the depleted lands of Dicathen, had finally reached a critical mass, resonating with my core.
The runes that defined my Asuran form, the intricate patterns that flowed with pure, raw power across my scales, began to glow with a faint, inner light. My control over aether, already formidable, sharpened, my senses expanded, my very being felt… more complete.
And then, a familiar pulse echoed within my mind, a faint, insistent call. I focused inward, my aetheric senses probing the depths of my inventory, and found it: the egg. The egg that held Sylvie, the dragon who was more than just a companion, more than just a bond. She was a part of me, a piece of my soul given form.
The egg, nestled deep within my internal storage, was resonating with the newly awakened runes. The ambient aether of this world, coupled with the surge of my own restored power, was finally enough.
"Regis," I said, my voice a low rumble that vibrated with barely contained excitement. "I believe… it is time."
Regis, lounging in his usual spectral form, perked up. "Time for what, Princess? Another epic battle? A dramatic declaration of war? Oh, please let it be a dramatic declaration of war. I've been bored lately."
"Time for Sylvie," I replied, a rare smile touching my lips.
With a focused surge of aether, I channeled my power into the egg, coaxing it, nurturing it. The runes on my scales blazed, and a wave of pure energy washed over the Grand Castle of Leywin, sensed by the Children of the Forest and even by the animals for miles around.
It was not a violent explosion of fire and scales, but a gentle unfolding, a soft crack in the ancient shell. A creature of pure aether, a dragon unlike any other in this world, emerged. She was small, no larger than a cat, but her scales shimmered with all the colors of the rainbow, her eyes glowed with an ancient, knowing light, and a faint aura of aetheric power radiated from her.
She looked up at me, her gaze intelligent, loving, and a flood of emotions, memories, and pure, unfiltered joy poured into my mind.
Papa, she thought, her voice a soft, melodic whisper in my consciousness.
I knelt, my scaled hand outstretched, and she nuzzled against it, her small form trembling with excitement. She was home. She was alive. She was with me.
"Welcome back, Sylvie," I whispered, my voice thick with emotion.
Regis, for once, was speechless, his spectral form solidifying as he stared at the hatchling. "Well," he finally managed, his voice uncharacteristically awed. "That's… that's something else, Princess. A real dragon. And she's… adorable."
Sylvie, now manifesting her full, familiar eighteen-year-old body, stood tall beside me, her draconic grace undeniable. She looked at Regis, her head tilting. Who's the shadow wolf?
He's an idiot, I replied, a surge of affection for both my companions filling me. But he's our idiot.
Ceara, drawn by the surge of power and the emotional resonance, entered the chamber, her dark blue hair and bright red eyes wide with wonder. She stared at Sylvie, a slow smile spreading across her face. "She's… magnificent, Arthur."
Sylvie, sensing Ceara's warmth and love, bounded towards her, nuzzling her head against Ceara's hip. Mama?
Ceara gasped, a hand flying to her mouth. Tears welled in her bright red eyes. "She… she called me Mama."
I gathered my family close, the beings who were my world, my anchor, my purpose. Sylvie was home. Our family was complete.
The Coin's Price: Rhaenys's Survival (10 AC)
Eight years later, the fragility of the Targaryen's newfound power became starkly clear. The Dornish, proud and defiant, remained the lone unconquered kingdom. Rhaenys Targaryen, ever the boldest and most adventurous of the three siblings, led an expedition into Dorne, riding Meraxes, intent on finally bringing the Sunspear to heel.
It was a trap.
Near the Hellholt, the Dornish, masters of guerilla warfare and deadly ingenuity, ambushed her and her dragon. Scorpions rained down bolts, and a projectile found its mark. Meraxes fell, a tragic roar echoing through the desert, dying instantly. Rhaenys, gravely wounded by the fall and the Dornish onslaught, lay at the brink of death, her lifeblood seeping into the sands.
Then, a ripple of pure aether, a faint echo of my own power, pulsed through the realm. The coin. The favor. Rhaenys, facing certain demise, had unknowingly called upon the boon I had offered.
Across the continent, in the sanctuary of Leywin, I felt it. The almost imperceptible touch of my power, a delicate thread of aether reaching out, mending shattered bones, knitting torn flesh, cleansing deadly toxins, dragging a soul back from the very precipice of the Stranger's embrace. Rhaenys lived.
The news sent shockwaves through the Seven Kingdoms. A dragon, Meraxes, was dead – a crushing blow to Targaryen prestige. But Rhaenys, somehow, against all odds, had survived, a miracle attributed by the maesters to luck, and by the common folk to the will of the gods. Only a select few knew the truth: a silent, ancient promise had been fulfilled.
Whispers of Uncertainty (20 AC)
Ten years had passed since Meraxes's fall. The Targaryen conquest had stalled, and the Dornish remained unsubdued, a constant thorn in the side of the new monarchy. The questions of succession, fueled by the near-death of Rhaenys and the tragic loss of her dragon, began to fester. Aegon had sons by both his sister-wives – Aenys by Rhaenys (born in 7 AC), and the younger Maegor (who would be born in 26 AC, so not yet a factor at this current year, 20 AC). The focus was on Aenys, perceived by many as weak, sparking quiet anxieties about the future.
Reynold and Tesia, my children, were now approaching their eighteenth and seventeenth years respectively. They were strong, skilled, and deeply connected to the land, their eyes reflecting the subtle flow of aether, their bodies a testament to our unique Asuran-Basilisk heritage. They had grown up knowing the peace of Leywin, yet also sensing the volatile world beyond its borders.
"The air is thick with uncertainty, Father," Reynold observed one evening, his voice grave. "The lords speak of Aenys's mildness, and the Dornish defiance has emboldened others."
"The peace is fragile, Papa," Sylvie added, her voice still melodic, but tinged with a newfound urgency. "The dragon-riders' authority isn't as absolute as they believe. I can feel the resentments building."
I looked at my family, my wife, my children, my daughter. The storm was gathering, not just from the ancient darkness beyond the Wall, but from within the heart of the newly unified realm itself. It would test us all. And House Leywin, bound by ancient pacts and an unwavering commitment to protection, would watch, prepared for whatever lay ahead.