The revolution erupted across Volantis like wildfire consuming dry timber.
From my perch atop the Temple of the Lord of Light, I watched as five thousand Red Priests burst from hidden sanctuaries throughout the city. They moved with religious fervor, their torches painting the afternoon sky crimson as they carved through the streets like a river of flame. Temple bells rang out in chaotic symphony—not the measured tolls of ceremony, but the wild clanging of uprising.
But it wasn't just the Fiery Hand. The sound that rose from the slave quarters was like nothing I'd ever heard—half a million voices raised in desperate hope, a roar that seemed to shake the very foundations of the ancient city. Chains rattled and snapped as bond servants threw off their shackles with inhuman strength born of divine inspiration. Overseers and masters fell beneath improvised weapons wielded by hands that had never known freedom but now tasted its intoxicating promise.
"Rise, my children!" I roared from Aserion's back, my enhanced voice carrying across the city like thunder. "Rise and claim what is yours by right! Let every chain be broken! Let every master burn!"
The response was immediate and devastating. Throughout Volantis, slaves turned on their owners with the fury of the righteously oppressed. Kitchen knives became weapons of liberation. Work tools transformed into instruments of divine justice. And everywhere, the cry went up: "DRAGON GOD! DRAGON GOD!"
From the harbor came the sounds of battle as my armada engaged the city's defenses. But those sounds were quickly overwhelmed by something far more shocking—the clash of steel on steel from within the city itself, as the Tiger Cloaks, Malaquo's personal slave army, turned on their masters.
Even his own soldiers believed me to be their god.
I urged Aserion into the sky, soaring over the chaos below. The great black walls that had protected Volantis for millennia were meaningless when the enemy was already inside. Slave quarters burned—not from destruction, but from the forges where chains were being melted down into weapons. The great plaza filled with armed figures wearing the broken shackles of their former bondage like badges of honor.
And through it all, the Red Priests moved like angels of vengeance, their flames cutting down any who dared oppose the will of their god.
The conquest of Volantis took less than six hours.
-----
"Kneel," I commanded.
Malaquo Maegyr, once the most powerful triarch of the greatest Free City, looked up at me from his position on the floor of his own throne room. Blood trickled from a cut on his forehead where one of his own Tiger Cloaks had struck him down, and his fine silk robes were torn and stained. Around him lay the bodies of the other triarchs—those who had chosen to fight rather than surrender.
He was the only one I'd ordered taken alive.
"I will not kneel to a pretender," he spat, though his voice shook with barely controlled terror. "You may have turned my slaves against me, but you are still just a boy playing at being a god."
I smiled coldly and drew Blackfyre, the Valyrian steel singing as it cleared its sheath. The blade seemed to drink in the torchlight, its rippled surface gleaming like water touched by flame.
"Your slaves called me their god long before I arrived," I said pleasantly. "They prayed to me in the darkness of their chains. They dreamed of me in the depths of their despair. And when I came, they chose to serve me rather than you." I pressed the sword's point against his throat, just hard enough to draw a bead of blood. "Tell me, Malaquo—what does that make you?"
His face went pale, but his defiance remained. "A fool who believed in honor among thieves."
"No," I corrected, applying just enough pressure to make him gasp. "It makes you a relic. A remnant of an age that ended the moment I set foot in this city. But don't worry—I'm not going to kill you. Not yet."
I sheathed Blackfyre and gestured to the Unsullied guards flanking him. "Take him to the cells beneath the pyramid. He'll have an excellent view of what comes next."
As they dragged him away, his curses echoing through the throne room, I turned to survey what remained of Volantis's former leadership. The other triarchs hadn't been so fortunate—their resistance had been met with the swift justice that rebellion against divine authority demanded.
"The purge lists, Your Grace," Missandei said, approaching with a leather-bound ledger. Even in the chaos of conquest, her administrative mind had been working. "Every slave owner, every overseer, every merchant who profited from human bondage. Five thousand names in total."
I nodded approvingly. "Begin immediately. I want it finished before sunset tomorrow. No trials, no pleas for mercy, no exceptions. Anyone who owned another human being dies."
"And their families?"
"The adults die with them. The children…" I considered for a moment. "Any child under ten can be spared if they publicly renounce their family name and swear loyalty to the new order. They'll be raised in the temples, taught to serve the common good rather than their own greed."
It was harsh, but necessary. Revolution required both inspiration and terror—the slaves needed to see that their oppressors faced consequences, while potential future rebels needed to understand the price of defiance.
"The free citizens who didn't own slaves?" Boromir asked.
"Unharmed, provided they accept the new government. Most will—they have more to gain from stability than from chaos." I walked to the great windows of the throne room, looking out over the city that was now mine. "This isn't about conquest for its own sake. It's about building something better."
-----
"By all the gods…" Jorah Mormont's voice trailed off as he stared at Boromir with undisguised shock. "You… you look exactly like…"
"Like Lord Eddard Stark," Boromir finished calmly. "So I've been told."
The two men stood in the courtyard of what had once been Malaquo's palace, now converted into my temporary headquarters. Around them, soldiers from both armies worked together to organize supplies and coordinate security, but their attention was focused entirely on each other.
Jorah's hand had moved instinctively to his sword hilt, old habits dying hard. "I saw Ned Stark's head removed from his shoulders by the king's executioner. Yet you stand before me, alive and whole."
"I am not Eddard Stark," Boromir replied with infinite patience. "Though I understand the confusion. His Grace has explained the resemblance—it is a manifestation of his divine power, a sign that god himself approves of his cause."
I stepped into the courtyard before the tension could escalate further. Both men immediately turned toward me, their postures shifting from suspicion to respectful attention.
"Ser Jorah," I said warmly, clasping the older knight's shoulder. "I see you've met my Supreme Commander. And yes, the resemblance is… remarkable."
"Your Grace," Jorah said carefully, "if I may ask…"
"Magic," I said simply, letting divine mystery serve where complex explanations would fail. "The same power that gave me dragons, that allowed me to break chains that had bound men for millennia, that brought you a second chance at redemption. My father god works in ways that mortal minds struggle to comprehend."
Jorah studied Boromir's face for another long moment, then slowly nodded. "Of course, Your Grace. I… forgive me. The resemblance is simply uncanny."
"Think of it as providence," I suggested. "A sign that even in death, honor finds a way to serve justice. Boromir commands my armies with the same integrity that Lord Stark brought to his duties. In a sense, Ned Stark lives on through the cause he died supporting—the end of tyranny and the triumph of righteousness."
Both men seemed to accept this explanation, though I could see questions still lingering in Jorah's eyes. That was fine—doubt was healthy, as long as it didn't interfere with loyalty.
"Now then," I continued, "we have work to do. Three weeks until the coronation, and I want every detail perfect."
-----
**Three Weeks Later**
The Temple of the Dragon God rose from the heart of Volantis like a monument to divine authority made manifest. What had once been the Temple of the Lord of Light had been transformed into something far grander—its red stone walls now inlaid with precious metals that formed the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen, its spires crowned with actual dragon sculptures that seemed to breathe fire in the torchlight.
But it was the crowd that truly took my breath away.
Two million people filled the great plaza and the surrounding streets, stretching as far as the eye could see. Former slaves from Volantis stood shoulder to shoulder with free citizens who had embraced the new order. Soldiers from the United Cities of Dragons Bay formed honor guards along the processional route. Merchants and craftsmen, priests and scholars, children and elders—all of them united in their devotion to the god who had brought them a new age.
I stood at the temple's entrance, resplendent in armor of black steel inlaid with gold and crimson. Blackfyre hung at my side, its ancient blade seeming to hum with anticipation. Behind me, Daenerys wore a gown of silver silk that caught the light like dragon scales, her violet eyes bright with pride and love. Rhaenys flanked my other side in the armor of a dragonlord, her own sword gleaming at her hip.
The three heads of the dragon, united at last.
Kinvara approached from the temple's altar, carrying a crown unlike any the world had ever seen. It wasn't gold or silver, but some strange metal that seemed to shift between colors in the firelight—sometimes black as night, sometimes red as flame, sometimes bright as starlight. Dragon heads formed its points, their eyes set with rubies that burned like captured fire.
"PEOPLE OF THE WORLD!" I called out, my enhanced voice carrying to every corner of the massive gathering. The crowd fell silent instantly, two million faces turned upward in worshipful attention. "TODAY MARKS THE END OF ONE AGE AND THE BEGINNING OF ANOTHER!"
The silence was absolute—not the quiet of fear, but the hush of reverence.
"For too long, this world has suffered under the weight of false kings and corrupt masters! For too long, the strong have preyed upon the weak while calling it natural order! For too long, chains have bound the righteous while crowns have adorned the wicked!"
I gestured toward the crowd, encompassing all of them in my words.
"BUT NO MORE! Today, you witness the coronation of your god-made-flesh! Today, the Dragon God takes his rightful place as Emperor of Mankind and Lord of all Planetos! Today, we begin the great work that will reshape this world according to divine will!"
The roar that went up from two million throats was like the sound of an avalanche, a wall of noise that seemed to shake the very heavens. But I wasn't finished—this was my moment, the culmination of everything I'd built since arriving in this world.
"I have broken chains from Slaver's Bay to the Rhoyne! I have toppled tyrants and raised up the oppressed! I have proven that a better world is possible—not through the mercy of the powerful, but through the strength of the righteous! And this is only the beginning!"
I drew Blackfyre and held it high, the Valyrian steel catching the light like captured lightning.
"We will not stop until every chain is broken! We will not rest until every throne built on suffering has been cast down! We will not falter until every corner of this world knows the justice of the Dragon God! From the Wall to the Summer Isles, from Westeros to the far reaches of Essos—all will bow before the righteousness of our cause!"
The crowd was in full fervor now, pressing forward despite the lines of guards that held them back. I could see tears streaming down faces, could hear individual voices breaking through the chorus of worship.
"This coronation marks the start of a new age!" I declared, my voice rising to a crescendo that seemed to set the very air ablaze. "An age where the worthy rule and the weak are protected! An age where justice flows like water and freedom burns like dragonfire! An age where the Dragon God's will becomes the law of nations!"
I knelt before Kinvara as she raised the crown above my head. The Pontifex of the reformed faith, she spoke the words that would echo through history:
"By fire and blood, by dragon and flame, by the will of the righteous and the power of the divine—I crown thee Viserys Targaryen, God-Emperor of Mankind, Lord of All Planetos, the Dragon Reborn, the Breaker of Chains, the Light in the Darkness!"
The crown settled onto my head like it had been forged for this moment. Power flowed through me—not just the artificial enhancement of the system, but something deeper. The faith of two million believers, the strength of their devotion, the weight of their expectations.
I rose and turned to face the crowd, crown gleaming on my brow, sword blazing in my hand.
"HEIL THE GOD-EMPEROR!" someone shouted from the crowd.
The chant was taken up instantly, two million voices raised in perfect unison: "HEIL THE GOD-EMPEROR! HEIL THE GOD-EMPEROR! HEIL THE GOD-EMPEROR!"
Arms rose in salute—not the casual waves of celebration, but rigid gestures of absolute devotion. Bodies pressed to the ground in worship. Voices broke with the strain of expressing inexpressible loyalty.
I had become something more than human in their eyes. I had become the living embodiment of their hopes and dreams, their protector and their destroyer, their god made flesh.
And standing there above them all, crown burning on my head and sword singing in my hand, I felt the intoxicating rush of absolute power.
This was what I lived for. This was what I had been reborn to achieve.
-----
Later That Evening
The war room in the God-Emperor's palace was illuminated by the soft glow of dragonfire contained in crystal braziers—a new innovation that provided light without smoke or heat. Maps covered every surface, marked with troop positions, supply lines, and strategic targets. The greatest military minds in the known world sat around the great table, their attention focused entirely on the figure at its head.
"The Adeptus Custodes," I began, placing my hands flat on the table's surface. "My personal guard, chosen from the ten strongest and most loyal soldiers in our combined armies. They will be more than bodyguards—they will be the living embodiment of divine protection, warriors enhanced beyond mortal limits."
I gestured to a small vial filled with crimson liquid that sat at the center of the table.
"The Super Soldier Serum. It's a potion that enhances those who drink it. It contains my blood—the blood of a god. It makes them stronger than any mortal."
Of course, I was lying. I had bought the serum from the system shop. I gained access to it after obtaining the serum myself. The one I purchased appeared to be the standard version—while the one I took was the perfected serum.
"Who do you have in mind?" Boromir asked.
"That's for you and Grey Worm to decide," I replied. "You know our soldiers better than anyone. I want men who've proven their loyalty beyond question, who've shown tactical brilliance in battle, and who have the mental discipline to handle the enhancement without losing themselves to it."
"And their role beyond protection?" Rhaenys inquired.
"They'll serve as my eyes and ears throughout the empire. Each one will eventually command a region or lead special operations that require both enhanced capability and absolute discretion. Think of them as the perfect fusion of bodyguard, general, and spymaster."
I turned my attention to the great map of Westeros that dominated the eastern wall. "But our immediate concern is the next phase of expansion. The Seven Kingdoms lie across the Narrow Sea, torn apart by civil war and ripe for reunification under Targaryen rule."
"The intelligence from Westeros suggests optimal timing," Jorah reported. "The War of Five Kings has weakened every major house. The North bleeds under Robb Stark's banner, the Riverlands burn, and King's Landing grows more unstable by the day. They're so focused on destroying each other that they won't see our invasion coming until it's too late."
"Numbers?" I asked.
"Conservative estimates suggest we could land with two hundred thousand men," Boromir answered. "The United Cities can provide transport for that many, plus supplies for a sustained campaign. Add three dragons and our enhanced commanders, and we should be able to overwhelm any resistance they can muster."
"The question is where to land," Missandei added, pointing to several coastal positions on the map. "Dragonstone would be symbolically appropriate—the ancient seat of House Targaryen. But militarily, Dorne might offer better strategic advantages."
I studied the map carefully, weighing the options. Dragonstone was tempting—it would announce our return in the most dramatic way possible. But Dorne had always been friendly to Targaryen causes, and their mountain passes would provide natural defenses if we needed to consolidate before advancing north.
"We'll decide based on conditions when we arrive," I said finally. "The beauty of having dragons is that we're not limited to single landing points. We can strike multiple targets simultaneously, forcing our enemies to divide their forces."
"When do we sail?" Daenerys asked, speaking for the first time since the meeting began.
I looked at my sister—my lover, my partner in this grand design—and saw the same fire burning in her violet eyes that had driven me since the day I'd been reborn in this world.
"Six months," I decided. "Time enough to fully integrate Volantis into our empire, train the new recruits, and build the additional ships we'll need. When we cross the Narrow Sea, it won't be as exiles begging for support—it will be as conquerors bringing fire and blood to those who usurped our throne."
I stood and walked to the window, looking out over the city that had become the heart of my growing empire. Lights twinkled in every quarter—not just the palaces of the powerful, but the homes of common people who went to sleep each night knowing they were protected by divine authority.
"The Iron Throne has waited 18 years for the rightful king to claim it," I said softly. "It can wait six months more."
Behind me, I could hear my advisors discussing logistics and strategy, their voices blending into a comfortable murmur of competent planning. But my attention was fixed on the horizon, where somewhere beyond the curve of the world lay the Seven Kingdoms of Westeros.