Dragonstone - Stannis Baratheon's Solar
The candle flames flickered in the drafty chamber as Stannis Baratheon stared at the raven scroll in his weathered hands, his jaw clenched so tightly the muscles stood out like iron cables. The defeat at the Blackwater still burned in his memory—so close to the throne, only to be repelled by wildfire and Tyrell reinforcements.
And now this.
"You're certain of these reports?" he asked without looking up, his voice grinding like millstones.
Ser Davos Seaworth stood before him, his own face grim with worry. "Aye, Your Grace. Three different sources, all saying the same thing. The boy they called the Beggar King has built himself an empire across the Narrow Sea. Dragons, Your Grace. Three of them, full-grown."
Stannis finally raised his eyes from the parchment, his blue gaze as cold as winter steel. "Viserys Targaryen. I remember him—a sniveling wretch who sold his mother's crown just to eat. Now my spies tell me he commands three hundred thousand soldiers and calls himself a god."
"The Red Woman has been... agitated since the news arrived," Davos said carefully. "She's been burning offerings and staring into her flames for hours at a time."
As if summoned by her name, Melisandre swept into the solar, her red silks rustling like flames. Her ruby choker caught the candlelight, pulsing like a heartbeat.
"The flames speak of great change coming, Your Grace," she said, her voice carrying that otherworldly cadence that always made Stannis' teeth ache. "The Lord of Light shows me visions of dragons in the sky and fire consuming the realm."
"You told me I was Azor Ahai," Stannis said flatly. "You said I would bring the dawn. Was that a lie?"
Melisandre's perfect features remained serene, though something flickered behind her red eyes. "The flames... the flames show many possibilities, Your Grace. You are the king who cares, the rightful ruler who would sacrifice everything for duty. But this... Viserys Targaryen... entire nations worship him as the reborn god. Millions believe he is R'hllor made flesh."
"Belief doesn't make truth," Stannis ground out.
"Doesn't it?" Melisandre asked softly. "When millions pray to a man as their god, when dragons answer his call, when he breaks chains and topples kingdoms in the name of divine justice... what is the difference between godhood and the appearance of it?"
Before Stannis could respond, another raven arrived, this one bearing the seal of King's Landing. Davos broke it open and read quickly, his face darkening.
"Tywin Lannister requests a truce, Your Grace. Until the 'foreign threat' is dealt with, he suggests we put aside our differences and unite against the Targaryen invasion."
Stannis barked a laugh—a harsh, humorless sound. "A truce? With the usurpers who murdered my brother and put that incest-born bastard on my throne? I'd sooner make peace with the Others."
"Your Grace," Davos said carefully, "three hundred thousand men and three dragons... perhaps we should consider—"
"No." Stannis rose from his chair, towering over them both. "I am the rightful king of the Seven Kingdoms. I will not bow to Lannister gold or Targaryen fire. If this god-emperor wants my crown, he can try to take it. But I'll not hand it to him wrapped in Tywin Lannister's pretty words."
He walked to the window, staring out at the black waters surrounding Dragonstone. "Send word to our remaining lords. Tell them Stannis Baratheon bends the knee to no false king—whether he wears gold or calls himself a god."
---
Riverrun - Robb Stark's War Tent
The Northern king sat hunched over his campaign table, maps of the Seven Kingdoms spread before him like prophecies of doom. Reports from across the realm painted an increasingly dire picture—and now this news from across the Narrow Sea threatened to shatter everything he'd fought for.
"Three hundred thousand soldiers," he muttered, running his fingers through his auburn curls. "The size of all our armies combined, and then some."
Grey Wind lifted his massive head from where he'd been sleeping by the tent flap, yellow eyes alert to his master's distress. The direwolf had grown even larger during the campaign, now standing nearly as tall as a horse at the shoulder.
"They say he's the world's greatest swordsman," Robb continued, more to himself than to his advisors. "That he wields sorcery like other men wield swords. That he killed Khal Drogo in single combat and rides a dragon black as night."
The tent flap opened, and Catelyn Stark entered with several other Northern lords trailing behind her. Her face was drawn with worry, aging her beyond her years.
"Another raven from King's Landing," she said, holding up a scroll. "Tywin Lannister offers terms for a truce until this Targaryen threat passes."
"A truce," Robb spat. "They murder my father, hold my sisters hostage, and now they want my help because dragons frighten them?"
"The offer does include the return of Sansa and Arya," Catelyn said quietly.
For a moment, Robb's resolve wavered. His sisters—his little sisters, trapped in that nest of vipers...
"No," he said finally. "It's a trick. They've lied before, and they'll lie again. Besides, even if we allied with them, what could we accomplish? This Viserys Targaryen has conquered half of Essos. What chance do we have against him?"
The tent flap stirred again, and Talisa entered—Robb's wife, though their marriage had been kept secret from all but his closest advisors. Her olive skin marked her foreign birth, and her intelligent dark eyes held knowledge that the Northern lords lacked.
"You're discussing the God-Emperor's invasion," she said, not bothering with pleasantries.
"You know of him?" Catelyn asked, suspicious of anything that reminded her of her son's foolish marriage.
Talisa nodded slowly. "I know him personally. Viserys Targaryen... he helped me escape to Westeros."
The tent fell silent except for the crackling of braziers. Every eye turned to the young woman who'd captured the King in the North's heart.
"Explain," Robb commanded.
Talisa moved to stand beside him, her hand finding his shoulder. "My father was Triarch Malaquo Maegyr of Volantis. One of the most powerful men in the Free Cities—and one of the cruelest. He dealt in slaves, in human misery, in everything I despised about the old ways."
She paused, gathering herself. "When Viserys came to Volantis, I was little more than a prisoner in my father's palace. He offered me a chance to flee, to start a new life in Westeros. I thought him just another exile looking for advantage, but..."
"But?" Robb prompted.
"He was different. Even then, you could see it in his eyes—a fire that burned for justice, for freedom. He spoke of breaking chains, of ending the suffering of the innocent. I thought it was just words until..."
"Until what?"
"Until he conquered my home city six months later. My father—the man who owned thousands of slaves, who built his fortune on human suffering—Viserys overthrew him. Freed every slave in Volantis. They called it the greatest slave rebellion in history, but it wasn't a rebellion. It was liberation, handed down by divine will."
The Northern lords exchanged glances. This was not what they'd expected to hear.
"He's a good man," Talisa continued. "Ruthless when he needs to be, yes. But good at his core. He doesn't conquer for gold or glory—he conquers to free the oppressed, to build something better than what came before."
"That doesn't change the fact that he's invading with enough soldiers to conquer all of Westeros," Catelyn pointed out.
"No," Talisa agreed. "But it means we might be able to reason with him. Viserys isn't like Joffrey or Tywin Lannister. He can be negotiated with, if you approach him with honor."
Robb stared down at his maps, weighing impossible choices. Alliance with the Lannisters was out of the question—they'd killed his father and held his sisters. But this Targaryen invasion threatened everything he'd fought to protect.
"We'll wait," he decided finally. "See how this plays out. Maybe this god-emperor will solve our Lannister problem for us."
---
Sunspear - The Harbor
The God-Emperor's Armada spread across Dorne's waters like a second sea, five hundred warships bristling with soldiers and siege weapons. The sight was magnificent and terrifying in equal measure—the largest fleet anyone alive had ever seen, flying the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen from every mast.
But it was the dragons that truly took the breath away.
Three massive beasts circled overhead, their shadows racing across the water like storm clouds. The black dragon—Aserion—was the largest, its obsidian scales drinking in the morning sun. The cream and gold dragon, Viserion, moved with liquid grace, while the green Rhaegal seemed to crackle with barely contained violence.
From the deck of his flagship, I watched as a small Dornish vessel approached under a flag of parley. The Sunspear navy had sailed out to meet us, but not to fight—their ships formed an honor guard rather than a battle line.
"They're smart," Daenerys observed, standing beside me in a gown of silver silk that caught the sea breeze. "They know they can't fight dragons."
"Dorne has always been practical," I replied, adjusting Blackfyre at my side. The Valyrian steel blade hummed with anticipation—it had tasted blood in conquest across Essos, and it hungered for Westerosi steel.
The Dornish galley pulled alongside our flagship, and figures climbed aboard with practiced nautical grace. Prince Doran Martell led them—his wheelchair had been replaced with a specially designed chair for sea travel—followed by Prince Oberyn, his daughters, and various guards and advisors.
And there, surprising me despite my foreknowledge, was Myrcella Baratheon. The golden-haired girl who should have been safe in King's Landing was here in Dorne, her green eyes wide with a mixture of fear and fascination as she stared up at the dragons overhead.
"Your Grace," Prince Doran said formally, inclining his head with exactly the right degree of respect—not quite acknowledging my imperial title, but not dismissing it either. "Welcome to Dornish waters. Though I confess, your... arrival was unexpected."
"Prince Doran," I replied with equal courtesy. "Forgive the lack of advance notice, but dragons don't announce themselves with ravens."
Oberyn stepped forward, his dark eyes bright with curiosity and barely contained violence. "You're not what I expected, God-Emperor. The last time I saw a Targaryen, it was your father's corpse on the Iron Throne."
Before I could respond, footsteps echoed across the deck, and I heard a sharp intake of breath from the Dornish delegation.
"I apologize for my lateness," Rhaenys said as she emerged from the ship's interior, resplendent in the black and silver of House Targaryen. "I was... preparing myself for this moment."
The silence that followed was profound. Prince Oberyn's face went through a series of expressions—shock, disbelief, wonder, and finally, overwhelming joy. His famous composure cracked entirely as he stared at the young woman he'd last seen as a babe in arms.
"Rhaenys?" he whispered.
She smiled—the first truly radiant expression I'd seen from her since we'd met. "Hello, Uncle."
Oberyn crossed the distance between them in three quick strides and swept her into his arms, spinning her around like she was still the infant he'd been forced to leave behind. When he set her down, there were tears in his eyes.
"We thought... we heard..." he struggled for words.
"That I was dead?" Rhaenys finished. "I would have been, if not for loyal friends who spirited me away to Essos. I've been in exile ever since, but now... now I've come home."
Prince Doran wheeled his chair closer, his own eyes bright with unshed tears. "You have your mother's face," he said softly. "Elia would be so proud to see what you've become."
"She would be proud of what we're going to become," Rhaenys corrected, her violet eyes hardening with purpose. "Uncle, you must bend the knee to Viserys. He is the rightful king, the Dragon Reborn, the one who will help us get our revenge."
"Revenge?" Oberyn's voice took on a dangerous edge.
"For my mother," Rhaenys said simply. "For my brother Aegon. For what the Lannisters did, what Gregor Clegane did, for everything. Viserys has the power to give us justice, Uncle. But only if Dorne stands with him."
The Dornish delegation exchanged glances, and I could see the wheels turning in their minds. They'd dreamed of revenge against the Lannisters for years, but had lacked the power to achieve it. Now, suddenly, that power stood before them.
"Perhaps," Prince Doran said carefully, "we should continue this conversation somewhere more... comfortable."
---
Sunspear - The Water Gardens
The ancient seat of House Martell had been transformed overnight into a base of operations for the God-Emperor's forces. My army—three hundred thousand strong—had established a massive war camp outside the city walls, their black and red banners snapping in the desert wind. The harbor groaned under the weight of my fleet, while overhead, the three dragons patrolled in lazy circles that served as both protection and promise.
I sat in the Water Gardens' great hall, the same chamber where Oberyn Martell had once planned rebellion against the Iron Throne. Now, it hosted a different kind of revolution—the beginning of the Dragon God's conquest of Westeros.
"The Dornish army will be incorporated into the Army of the Dragon God," I explained to the assembled Martell court. "Under the supervision of Supreme Commander Boromir and General Grey Worm. Your soldiers will be retrained in our tactics and equipped with our weapons."
Prince Doran nodded slowly. "And our fleet?"
"Will join the Imperial Navy," I replied. "Your shipwrights are among the finest in the world—we'll need their skills for what comes next."
Oberyn leaned forward in his chair, his dark eyes glittering. "And in exchange?"
"In exchange, Dorne gets what it's wanted for twenty years—justice for Princess Elia and her children. When we take King's Landing, Gregor Clegane dies by dragonfire. Tywin Lannister answers for his crimes. And House Martell takes its rightful place as one of the great powers of Westeros."
The room buzzed with whispered conversations as the Dornish lords absorbed this. Everything they'd dreamed of, handed to them by the dragons they'd once served.
"There is... one more matter," Oberyn said, his voice taking on a sly note. "To better solidify our alliance, perhaps a marriage would be in order?"
I felt Daenerys stiffen beside me, though her expression remained perfectly composed. "I already have a bride, Prince Oberyn. My sister and I will be wed once we take the Iron Throne."
"Of course," Oberyn smiled. "But you are a god, are you not? The rules that bind mortal men need not apply to you. And it wouldn't be the first time a Targaryen king took multiple wives."
"Who do you propose?" I asked, though I suspected I already knew.
"Rhaenys," he said simply. "She is half-Martell, half-Targaryen. Our blood united with yours, symbolically and literally."
I glanced at Rhaenys, who was watching the exchange with carefully hidden emotions. Beside me, Daenerys had gone very still, her violet eyes flashing with something that might have been jealousy.
"I will... consider it," I said finally. "Such matters require careful thought."
"Of course," Oberyn agreed. "But perhaps you could give us your answer soon? The sooner our alliance is sealed, the sooner we can begin planning your conquest."
The meeting continued for another hour, covering logistics and strategy, but my mind was elsewhere. The political advantages of marrying Rhaenys were obvious—it would bind Dorne to my cause permanently and give me a stronger claim to the Iron Throne. But it would also complicate my relationship with Daenerys in ways I wasn't sure I was prepared for.
As the gathering broke up, I noticed young Myrcella Baratheon watching everything with intelligent green eyes. The girl was older than in the show—perhaps fifteen now—and clearly trying to understand her place in this new world order.
"Prince Doran," I called out as the Dornish lord prepared to leave. "The girl—Myrcella. She's betrothed to your son, is she not?"
"She is," Doran confirmed. "Though given recent... developments..."
"I have no quarrel with her," I said firmly. "She's done nothing to earn dragonfire, and innocent blood serves no purpose. The betrothal can stand, if that's what you both wish."
Relief flickered across Doran's features. "You are... merciful, Your Grace."
"I am just," I corrected. "There's a difference."
---
That Night - The God-Emperor's Chambers
The chambers Prince Doran had provided were sumptuous even by imperial standards—silk hangings, marble floors, and windows that opened onto gardens where fountains played beneath the stars. But I barely noticed the luxury as I sat on the edge of the great bed, my mind churning with the day's events.
Daenerys emerged from the adjoining chamber, having changed from her formal gown into a simple shift of Myrish silk. Even in such simple clothing, she was breathtaking—silver-gold hair cascading over her shoulders, violet eyes bright with unspoken emotions.
"You're thinking about Oberyn's proposal," she said without preamble, settling beside me on the bed.
"I am," I admitted. There was no point in lying to her—she knew me too well for that.
"And?"
I turned to face her fully, seeing my own conflict reflected in her eyes. "The political advantages are obvious. Binding Dorne to our cause, strengthening our claim, showing the realm that the dragons have returned in full. But..."
"But?" she prompted, though her voice was carefully neutral.
"But I don't want you to think I'm replacing you. Or that what we have means less to me than political expediency."
Daenerys was quiet for a long moment, her fingers tracing patterns on the silk coverlet. When she spoke, her voice was soft but firm.
"I've known this day would come," she said. "You're going to be king—more than king. Emperors and gods don't limit themselves to single wives, especially when those marriages serve the realm."
"That doesn't answer my question."
She looked up at me, and I saw steel beneath the softness. "I love you. I've loved you since we fled the Dothraki together, since you saved me from Drogo. Nothing will change that—not Rhaenys, not politics, not the demands of empire."
"But?"
A smile tugged at her lips. "But I'm still a dragon. And dragons don't share easily. If you marry her, you'll have to deal with two wives who both have Targaryen tempers and dragons of their own."
Despite everything, I found myself laughing. "Is that a threat, my queen?"
"It's a promise, my king," she replied, and then her lips were on mine.
What followed was a claiming—fierce and desperate and full of all the emotions we couldn't speak aloud. When we finally broke apart, breathless and wanting, I knew my decision had been made.
"I'll accept Oberyn's proposal," I whispered against her neck. "But you're my first queen, Daenerys. That will never change."
"I know," she breathed, her hands tangling in my hair. "Now show me how much I mean to you before you have to share yourself with another."
And I did.
---
The Next Morning - The Practice Yard
The sun was barely above the horizon when I made my way to Sunspear's practice yard, where a crowd had already gathered. Word of the coming demonstration had spread quickly through both my army and the Dornish court—the God-Emperor was going to spar with the Red Viper of Dorne.
Oberyn was already waiting, stripped to the waist and spinning his famous spear with casual grace. The weapon was a thing of beauty—ash wood shaft with a steel point, perfectly balanced for his fighting style. He moved like a dancer, all fluid motion and deadly precision.
"Your Grace," he called out as I approached. "I was beginning to think you'd changed your mind."
"I gave my word," I replied, beginning to remove my armor. The enhanced physique the Super Soldier Serum had given me drew appreciative murmurs from the crowd—I looked like a statue of some ancient war god come to life.
"And my proposal?" Oberyn asked, his dark eyes glittering with amusement.
"Accepted," I said simply. "I'll marry both Daenerys and Rhaenys. Here in Dorne, before we sail for King's Landing."
The crowd erupted in cheers and applause. A royal wedding—two royal weddings—would be quite the celebration, especially with dragons to provide the ceremony.
"Excellent!" Oberyn grinned, twirling his spear. "Then let's see if the God-Emperor can back up his divine claims with steel."
I drew Blackfyre, the Valyrian steel blade singing as it cleared its sheath. The rippled metal seemed to drink in the morning light, and I heard several gasps from the watching Dornish nobles. They knew what Valyrian steel meant—this was a blade worthy of kings.
"Standard rules?" I asked.
"First blood," Oberyn confirmed. "Though given your... enhancements... perhaps you should take it easy on an old man."
I smiled coldly. "I'll try not to embarrass you too badly."
The crowd fell silent as we took our positions. Even the dragons seemed to sense the significance of the moment—Aserion let out a low rumble from his perch atop the palace towers.
Then Oberyn moved.
The Red Viper was everything his reputation claimed—fast as striking snake, graceful as a dancer, deadly as poison. His spear blurred through the air in complex patterns, the steel point seeking gaps in my defense with mechanical precision.
But I was faster.
The Super Soldier Serum had enhanced me beyond even Captain America's level—stronger, quicker, with reflexes that bordered on precognitive. I flowed around Oberyn's attacks like water, Blackfyre moving in economical arcs that turned aside his spear thrusts with contemptuous ease.
"Impressive," Oberyn panted, switching tactics to try a series of sweeping attacks meant to tangle my blade.
I didn't reply—words were a distraction in true combat. Instead, I pressed forward, forcing him to give ground with a series of precise cuts that came within inches of marking him. The crowd gasped as Blackfyre traced silver lines through the air, each stroke placed with surgical accuracy.
Oberyn was good—possibly the finest warrior I'd faced since arriving in this world. But he was still mortal, still limited by human reflexes and endurance. I could see him beginning to tire, see the slight tremor in his spear arm that spoke of muscles pushed beyond their limits.
The end came suddenly. Oberyn committed to a thrust aimed at my heart, putting all his remaining strength behind the blow. I sidestepped at the last possible second, letting the spear point pass harmlessly past my ribs, then brought Blackfyre around in a perfect arc.
The Valyrian steel stopped just short of his throat, the blade's edge close enough that he could feel its cold kiss.
Silence. Then, slowly, Oberyn began to smile.
"I yield," he said formally. "The God-Emperor's reputation is well-deserved."
I stepped back, lowering Blackfyre with a respectful nod. "You fight well, Prince Oberyn. I can see why the realm fears your spear."
"Not as much as they'll fear your sword," he replied, massaging his wrist where my last parry had nearly disarmed him. "That was... educational."
The crowd erupted in cheers and applause. They'd witnessed something extraordinary—their prince, one of the finest fighters in Westeros, defeated by a man who'd barely broken a sweat.
"When do we begin planning the wedding?" Oberyn asked as we walked from the practice yard.
"Immediately," I replied. "The sooner Dorne is bound to our cause, the sooner we can turn our attention to King's Landing."
And as the dragons roared overhead, I knew that the conquest of Westeros had truly begun.