Chapter 26: The Dance of Dragons and the Wolf's Ascension
King Viserys I Targaryen's reign (103 AC - 129 AC) began in the shadow of his grandfather Jaehaerys's long peace. He was a good man, kind and amiable, but lacked the steel and foresight needed to navigate the treacherous currents of his own family. The very virtues that made him beloved would, ironically, pave the way for a devastating civil war. Tensions within the Targaryen family began to rise, fueled by the question of succession and the personal animosities between his chosen heir, Princess Rhaenyra, and Queen Alicent Hightower, his second wife.
Aemma's Survival and a New Daughter (105 AC)
The first great turning point came in 105 AC. Queen Aemma Arryn, Viserys's beloved first wife, was once again pregnant, her pregnancies notoriously difficult. As the time for her confinement approached, a sense of dread hung heavy over the Red Keep. Childbirth had claimed so many queens, and Aemma had already suffered through stillbirths and miscarriages. As the birth became agonizing, her life fading, her attendants desperately called for maesters and prayers.
Then, a flicker. A faint ripple of power, unseen by most, emanating from the heart of Westeros. The coin, the second boon of healing granted by the Immortal Lord, pulsed into existence in Aemma's dying hand. She had unknowingly or instinctively called upon it. My power, woven into the fabric of the coin, reached across the realm, mending what was broken, drawing her back from the precipice of death.
Queen Aemma survived. But the cost was heavy; the child, a daughter named Princess Daena, was born frail, and Aemma herself was left unable to bear more children.
Viserys, desperate for a male heir to secure his legacy, showered affection on his newborn daughter, yet the deep-seated desire for a son remained. The realm rejoiced at the Queen's survival, but the underlying anxiety about the succession persisted.
A King's Betrayal and a Queen's Exile (106 AC)
Just a year later, in 106 AC, King Viserys, still yearning for a male heir, took a second wife: Alicent Hightower, the cunning and ambitious daughter of his Hand. This act, though lawful, was a profound betrayal to the still-recovering Queen Aemma.
Aemma, heartbroken and disillusioned, made a choice. She had survived death, brought a child into the world, but found her husband's love now divided, his focus elsewhere. Gathering her resolve, she chose to leave King's Landing. Not for the Vale, her ancestral home, but for a place of peace and true sanctuary. With her youngest daughter, Princess Daena, in tow, Queen Aemma sought a quiet life in the protective shadow of the Grand Castle of Leywin, a place whose Immortal Lord had subtly saved her life. She invoked the ancient pact, seeking refuge not from external enemies, but from the pain of a broken marriage and the turbulent court.
We welcomed them. Ceara found a quiet kinship with Aemma, two queens who understood the complexities of a dragon-ruled world. Reynold and Tesia provided a sense of calm strength, and Sylvie, magnificent and understanding, became a silent guardian for young Princess Daena. Aemma lived out her days in quiet grace, raising her daughter far from the brewing storm of the Red Keep.
The Dance Begins (129 AC)
Viserys, despite his second marriage and the sons born of it (Aegon, Helaena, Aemond, Daeron), remained steadfast in his declaration: Princess Rhaenyra, his firstborn daughter by Aemma, would be his heir. This singular decision, coupled with the rising animosity between Rhaenyra's "Blacks" and Alicent's "Greens," set the stage for the catastrophic civil war that would engulf Westeros.
Upon Viserys's death in 129 AC, the succession crisis exploded. Aegon, Alicent's eldest son, was crowned king by the Greens, defying Viserys's will. Rhaenyra, on Dragonstone, was crowned queen by the Blacks, refusing to yield her birthright. The Dance of the Dragons had begun, a brutal, fratricidal conflict that pitted dragon against dragon, brother against brother, and brought fire and blood on a scale not seen since the Conquest.
The realm burned. Cities were sacked, houses annihilated, and dragons, once symbols of power, became weapons of mass destruction, their roars filling the skies as they tore each other apart.
Sanctuary and a Wolf's Wisdom (130-131 AC)
As the Dance raged, Rhaenyra's cause eventually faltered. Driven from King's Landing, betrayed and desperate, her sons became targets. Her two youngest, Prince Viserys and Prince Aegon, separated from her and facing certain death or capture by the Greens, invoked the ancient pact made by their great-grandfather. In the chaos of war, loyalists managed to smuggle the young boys towards the Riverlands, seeking the inviolable sanctuary of House Leywin.
They arrived, terrified and exhausted, clinging to each other. They were received by Ceara, Reynold, Tesia, and myself. Sylvie, her immense form a comforting presence, extended a quiet warmth towards the traumatized children. We provided them with refuge, upholding my promise to Jaehaerys, regardless of the greater war outside.
The Dance was drawing to its bloody conclusion. Rhaenyra was dead, eaten by Aegon II's dragon, Sunfyre. Aegon II was triumphant, but his victory was hollow, his realm ravaged.
It was then that Cregan Stark, Lord of Winterfell, marched south. He was a force of nature, a true Northman: honorable, stern, and utterly implacable. As he led his host through the Riverlands, sensing the ancient magic that hummed in the heart of the continent, he felt a pull towards the Gods Eye. He came not seeking battle, but answers.
He found me, not hidden in a castle, but standing by the Weirwood tree on the Isle of Faces, a silent observer of the realm's agony. He was a young man, but his eyes held an ancient wisdom, a sense of purpose.
"Lord Leywin," he stated, his voice direct, unwavering. "The realm burns. The dragons have consumed themselves. What must be done?"
I looked at him, truly seeing him. He was a beacon of honor in a world consumed by ambition. He was the kind of man who could be swayed by larger truths. I revealed myself fully, my Asuran form radiating a quiet authority that would have cowed a lesser man. But Cregan Stark, to his credit, merely regarded me with awe, not fear.
"Lord Stark," I began, my voice carrying the weight of millennia. "You are called to finish what the dragons have begun. Not with more fire, but with justice. The realm needs a hand to steady it, and a purpose beyond petty thrones." I spoke of the true nature of the realm, of the ancient prophecy, of the greater darkness that patiently waited beyond the Wall. I did not explicitly train him in aether, but I imparted knowledge, guidance, and a perspective that transcended mortal politics. I gave him a reality check not of terror, but of profound understanding, opening his eyes to the true nature of his world and the role his house had to play. He grew in my eyes, not just as a mortal lord, but as a potential ally in the grander scheme of things. He became my disciple in understanding the cosmic balance.
The Hour of the Wolf and the Dragon's Scion (131 AC)
Armed with a newfound understanding and an unwavering resolve, Cregan Stark came and finished the Dance. He marched into King's Landing, putting an end to the remaining chaos, executing those who had betrayed their oaths, and ensuring justice where it was due. His actions earned him the moniker "The Hour of the Wolf."
With the last remnants of the Greens defeated, Rhaenyra's youngest son, Prince Aegon, was taken from the protection of House Leywin and instilled upon the Iron Throne as Aegon III Targaryen, beginning a long and difficult reign as the Dragonbane.
Regis's POV: The Fall of the Lizards
"Honestly, Princess," Regis's voice echoed in my head, a mix of boredom and perverse satisfaction, "it was a spectacular show. I mean, all those fancy, oversized lizards tearing each other out of the sky! It was like a very expensive, very fiery, very bloody pigeon fight. I give it a solid eight out of ten for sheer chaos. They didn't really put up a fight against real power, mind you, but for mere mortals playing with fire… quite the spectacle."
He chuckled darkly. "Just imagine the poor bastards on the ground, minding their own business, and then boom! A hundred tons of angry scales and fire comes crashing down. And that's just the dragons. The sheer number of petty lords and knights falling over themselves to get themselves killed for a throne that's going to spend the next century being fought over by more lizards… brilliant."
He paused, a mental image of a charred, smoking crater. "And the smell. Oh, the smell of roasted dragon. You'd think they'd learn, wouldn't you? That playing with bigger sticks than you can handle tends to end badly. But no. The human spirit, always so eager to self-immolate. Truly inspiring."
I merely shook my head, observing the rebuilding efforts in the distance. The Dance was over. The realm had been purged by its own fire, a cleansing of sorts, however brutal. And the next generation of dragons, those who survived, would fly over a scarred, weary land, constantly reminded of the cost of ambition.