Six months had transformed Volantis from a conquered city into the beating heart of an empire that spanned half the known world.
The Imperium of Man—as I had named my growing domain—now stretched from the Rhoyne to Dragons Bay, encompassing not just the former slave cities but a dozen lesser settlements that had bent the knee rather than face dragonfire. Each city had been restructured according to the same principles: efficient administration, industrial production, and absolute loyalty to the God-Emperor's will.
Standing on the harbor's edge, I surveyed the fruits of those months of relentless organization. The God-Emperor's Armada stretched across the water like a forest of masts and sails—over five hundred warships of every conceivable design. Massive galleons with reinforced hulls dominated the center, their decks bristling with scorpions and catapults. Swift longships darted between the larger vessels like hunting wolves, while converted merchant ships heavy with supplies formed the fleet's backbone.
"Magnificent," Daenerys breathed beside me, her violet eyes reflecting the morning sun as it caught the dragon banners flying from every masthead. She had grown even more beautiful during our time ruling together, her silver-gold hair now worn in the intricate braids crowned with a circlet of Valyrian steel. "Father would weep to see such a fleet sailing under Targaryen colors."
"And he would weep for entirely different reasons once he learned where we're taking it," Rhaenys added from my other side. As Hand of the God-Emperor—a title I'd created to match my new imperial ambitions—she wore the black and gold of our house with the authority of absolute command. The months had been kind to her as well, transforming her from a bitter exile into a woman worthy of the Targaryen name.
Three hundred thousand soldiers waited on those ships. Unsullied with their bronze-capped discipline, former slaves burning with revolutionary fervor, Gondorian knights in steel plate that gleamed like mirrors, and the elite Adeptus Custodes whose crimson armor marked them as the God-Emperor's chosen. Each man had been tested in the fires of conquest, forged into an instrument of divine will.
"The dragons have grown well," I observed, tilting my head skyward.
Overhead, three shapes circled in lazy spirals—no longer the eggs we'd fled Pentos with, but creatures of terrible beauty and power. Aserion, my black beast, had grown to rival Caraxes in his prime, his obsidian scales drinking in sunlight like liquid night. Viserion, cream and gold, rode the thermals with Daenerys's practiced guidance, while Rhaegal, green as summer grass, responded to Rhaenys's commands with the precision of a living weapon.
They were as large as they had been in the show's final seasons—massive, world-shaking creatures that could melt castles and incinerate armies. The sight of them filled me with a satisfaction deeper than any crown or title.
"Three dragons, three riders," I murmured, more to myself than my companions. "The three heads of the dragon, just as the prophecy foretold."
"Do you think they're ready?" Daenerys asked, her hand finding mine. "The dragons, I mean. They've never faced true battle."
"They've faced rebellions and executions," I reminded her. "They've tasted blood and fire. And they have something Aegon's dragons never possessed—riders who understand modern warfare. We won't just be burning castles at random. We'll be conducting surgical strikes against key targets while our armies move with coordinated precision."
The harbor erupted in orchestrated activity as the final preparations began. Soldiers marched up gangplanks in perfect formation, their boots thundering against wood and steel. Supplies disappeared into cargo holds with mechanical efficiency. Officers barked orders in a dozen languages, but every command served the same purpose: preparing for the conquest that would reshape the world.
"Your Grace," Ser Jorah Mormont approached, his new crimson armor marking him as one of the Adeptus Custodes. The enhancement had been good to him—his shoulders broader, his movements more fluid, his eyes sharp with predatory intelligence. "The final companies are boarding. We'll be ready to sail within the hour."
I nodded approvingly. Jorah had adapted well to his new role, his natural loyalty enhanced by the subtle indoctrination of the Red Priests. Not that I doubted his devotion—but absolute power required absolute certainty.
"Signal the fleet," I commanded. "All ships prepare for departure. We sail for Westeros with the morning tide."
As trumpets sounded across the harbor, I felt the familiar thrill of approaching conquest. This was different from the slave cities—this was personal. The Iron Throne waited across the Narrow Sea, and with it, the validation of everything I'd built since that fatal car accident in another life.
The Imperium of Man was about to become the Imperium of the World.
⸻
King's Landing – The Red Keep
The throne room of the Iron Throne had never felt smaller to Tywin Lannister than it did at this moment, facing the implications of the report in his hands. Around him, the great and powerful of the Seven Kingdoms waited with barely concealed anxiety as he finished reading the intelligence that had arrived that morning.
"Well?" King Joffrey demanded from his position atop the throne of swords, his voice cracking with adolescent impatience. "What news from the east? Has some sellsword company finally put down this pretender?"
Tywin looked up from the parchment, his green eyes calculating as they swept across the assembled court. Lords Tyrion, Cersei, Grand Maester Pycelle, Varys, and a dozen other powerful figures watched him with varying degrees of concern and curiosity.
"The reports are… troubling, Your Grace," he said carefully. "The individual calling himself the God-Emperor has departed Volantis with a fleet estimated at over five hundred warships. His army numbers in the hundreds of thousands, possibly three hundred thousand strong. And he possesses three dragons, each with a rider."
The throne room erupted in whispers and gasps. Cersei's face went pale, while Tyrion's expression sharpened with genuine interest. Varys, as always, maintained his bland smile, though his eyes glittered with hidden knowledge.
"Dragons?" Joffrey's voice rose to a near-shriek. "That's impossible! Dragons are extinct!"
"Apparently not, Your Grace," Tywin replied dryly. "The intelligence comes from multiple sources, all confirming the same facts. This Viserys Targaryen has somehow acquired and raised three dragons to maturity. Worse, he's proven capable of conquering and governing—his so-called Imperium of Man spans from Slaver's Bay to the Rhoyne River."
"Impossible," Cersei snapped. "The boy beggar king we knew was a pathetic wretch who couldn't command a brothel, let alone an empire."
"People change, sister," Tyrion observed mildly. "Especially when they have incentives like not starving to death or being murdered by Dothraki. Perhaps exile was exactly what young Viserys needed to find his spine."
"This is a disaster," Grand Maester Pycelle wheezed. "The realm is already torn apart by war. We have the Stark boy in the north, Stannis Baratheon brooding on Dragonstone, and now this Targaryen pretender approaches with dragons and a foreign army. The crown cannot possibly—"
"The crown will do what it must," Tywin interrupted coldly. "We have the Tyrells' support now that His Grace is betrothed to Margaery. Their forces, combined with our own and whatever remains of the royal fleet, should be sufficient to—"
"To what?" Varys interjected softly. "To face three dragons and three hundred thousand soldiers? My lord, even if we could unite every army in Westeros under a single banner, we would still be outnumbered. And dragons… dragons change everything."
The weight of those words settled over the throne room like a burial shroud. For the first time since the War of the Five Kings began, the assembled lords and ladies were contemplating not just defeat, but complete destruction.
"What do you counsel, Lord Varys?" Tywin asked, though his tone suggested he already suspected the answer.
"Negotiation," the Spider replied immediately. "The young man may call himself a god-emperor, but he was born a Targaryen prince. Perhaps he can be reasoned with, offered terms that would prevent unnecessary bloodshed."
"He's a usurper!" Joffrey screeched. "I am the rightful king! I'll not negotiate with pretenders and their pet lizards!"
"Your Grace," Tywin said with infinite patience, "if this Viserys Targaryen truly commands the forces described in these reports, then titles and birthrights become academic questions. What matters is survival, and the preservation of whatever we can salvage from this situation."
"We still have Robb Stark to deal with," Cersei pointed out. "And Stannis hasn't given up his claim. Even if this Targaryen invasion succeeds, they'll be fighting on multiple fronts."
"Unless," Tyrion said thoughtfully, "our enemies decide to unite against the common threat. Nothing brings rivals together quite like mutual extinction."
The throne room fell silent as the implications sank in. The War of the Five Kings had become something far more dangerous—a contest for survival against a force that could reshape the very foundations of Westeros.
"How long do we have?" Tywin asked.
"The reports suggest they sailed from Volantis five days ago," Varys replied. "Depending on weather and their chosen landing point, perhaps a fortnight, maybe less."
"Then we have work to do," Tywin declared. "Send ravens to every major house, ally and enemy alike. They need to understand what's coming. And send word to Robb Stark and Stannis Baratheon—if they have any sense, they'll realize this changes everything."
As the throne room began to empty, each lord and lady rushing to prepare for the storm approaching from the east, Tywin remained behind to study the reports once more. Somewhere across the Narrow Sea, a young man who should have died in exile was bringing fire and blood to the Seven Kingdoms.
The game of thrones had just become a game of survival. And Tywin Lannister wasn't entirely certain anyone would win.
⸻
Aboard the Flagship
The sea stretched endlessly in all directions, broken only by the countless sails of the God-Emperor's Armada. From the deck of my flagship, I could see the ordered formations of our fleet extending to the horizon—a sight that filled me with satisfaction deeper than any crown or title.
"Magnificent, isn't it?" I said to Daenerys as she joined me at the rail. The sea wind whipped her silver hair around her face, and her violet eyes reflected the afternoon sun like captured starlight.
"It's everything we dreamed of," she agreed, her hand finding mine. "All those nights in exile, all those years of running and hiding—it led to this."
"And this is only the beginning," I replied, squeezing her fingers gently. "When we take the Iron Throne, we'll have the resources to expand even further. The Summer Isles, the Free Cities that still resist us, maybe even the lands beyond the Sunset Sea. The entire world will know the rule of dragons."
"Do you think they're ready for us?" she asked, nodding toward the western horizon where Westeros lay hidden beyond the curve of the world.
I smiled, remembering the intelligence reports the High Inquisitor had sent through his network of spies. "They're fighting each other like wolves in a pit, too busy tearing each other apart to notice the dragon approaching from the east. By the time they realize what's happening, it will be too late."
"And if they unite against us?"
"Then we'll face them united," I said simply. "But they won't—not in time. Joffrey's too arrogant, Robb Stark's too honorable, and Stannis is too rigid. They'll try to use us against each other, thinking they can benefit from the chaos. They'll learn too late that dragons don't play by the rules of men."
Above us, the three dragons circled in lazy spirals, their massive forms casting shadows across the deck. The sight of them never failed to inspire awe—creatures of legend made flesh, instruments of divine will given form.
"How does it feel?" Daenerys asked quietly. "Being so close to home after all these years?"
I considered the question, surprised by the complexity of emotions it stirred. "Like destiny," I said finally. "Like everything that happened—the exile, the wandering, the struggles—was preparing us for this moment. We're not just reclaiming our birthright. We're fulfilling our purpose."
"Fire and blood," she murmured, the ancient words of our house carrying new weight on the sea air.
"Fire and blood," I agreed. "For the Seven Kingdoms, for the Imperium, for the future we're going to build together."
The wind picked up, filling our sails and carrying us ever closer to the coast of Westeros. Somewhere ahead lay the Iron Throne, the symbol of everything we'd lost and everything we were going to reclaim.
The Dragon God was coming home. And the world would never be the same.