Chapter 44: A Council of Lesser Dragons
The Aegonfort was a place of ghosts. The ghost of a sister, a wife, a queen, haunted its halls, her absence a palpable ache in the heart of the new kingdom. And now, it was haunted by new specters: the ghosts of four thousand men burned alive on the plains of the Reach, and the ghost of a single, silver dragon that had fallen from the sky. Aegon Targaryen, the First of His Name, sat on his simple oak throne, the weight of these ghosts pressing down on him. The conquest was won, six of the seven kingdoms had bent the knee, but the victory felt as hollow and as raw as his new, ugly fortress. The Dragon's Wroth, his punitive war in Dorne, was a grinding, fruitless meat grinder, a monument to his own rage and grief.
It was into this grim court that Ser Corlys Velaryon had returned, bringing with him a tale so fantastic and terrifying it made the war with Dorne seem like a petty border skirmish. For two days, only three people in Westeros knew the full truth: Aegon, his sister Visenya, and Corlys himself. They had closeted themselves in the Chamber of the Painted Table, the chilling report of the Theocracy's power hanging between them like a shroud.
"To tell the lords is to admit weakness," Visenya argued, her voice a blade of ice. She stood ramrod straight, her hand never far from Dark Sister. Her grief had forged her into something hard and unforgiving. "They follow you now out of fear of three dragons. What will they do when they learn there is an empire with fifty? They will see you as a lesser power. Their fear will curdle into contempt. Fear is the only thing that holds this realm together, Aegon. We cannot afford to seem weak."
"And what is the alternative, sister?" Aegon countered, his voice weary. "We keep this a secret? We try to build a kingdom and fight a cold war against a superpower without our vassals even knowing the enemy exists? A lie of that magnitude cannot be maintained. Rumors are already spreading from the sailors who saw their display. It is better they hear the truth from their king than a twisted version from a drunken merchant."
"Corlys is right," he continued, looking at his trusted envoy. "We must control the narrative. We must use this threat not to divide us, but to bind them to us. A common enemy is a powerful thing. Perhaps the only thing that can truly forge these seven disparate kingdoms into one."
Visenya was not convinced, but she bowed to his kingly authority. An emergency Great Council was summoned. Lords from every corner of the newly conquered realm were called to the Aegonfort, their minds filled with dread, assuming they had been summoned to be taxed for the failing war in Dorne. They were to be given a far greater burden to carry.
The Great Hall of the Aegonfort was packed. The air was thick with the smell of wet wool, woodsmoke, and suspicion. Loren Lannister, the Lord of Casterly Rock, stood with the lords of the Westerlands, his face an impassive mask that hid a calculating mind. The new Lord Tyrell of Highgarden, a former steward elevated by Aegon, tried to project an authority he did not yet feel. Orys Baratheon, Aegon's own half-brother and staunchest supporter, stood with the Stormlords, his face a grim thundercloud. Envoys from the Vale and the North stood apart, their expressions cold and watchful. They were a council of resentful, defeated men, bound together only by their shared fear of the man on the throne.
Aegon let a heavy silence hang in the room before he spoke. "My lords," he began, his voice carrying effortlessly. "I have not summoned you here to discuss tithes or the campaign in Dorne. A matter of far greater import has arisen, one that concerns the security of every kingdom, every holdfast, and every soul on this continent."
He gestured to Ser Corlys Velaryon, who stood beside the throne. "Ser Corlys has recently returned from an ambassadorial mission to the east, to the city of Lysaro, the capital of the so-called Golden Dragon Theocracy. He will report his findings to you now. I command you to listen."
Corlys stepped forward. He was a natural orator, his voice calm and clear, which only made the content of his report more terrifying. He began by describing the city of Lysaro, a marvel of order and engineering. He spoke of their unified, zealous populace, their superbly equipped legions, their advanced technology. The lords shifted uncomfortably. They were hearing of a civilization that was, by every measure, superior to their own.
Then, he came to the dragons.
"The reports we had heard," Corlys said, his voice dropping slightly, "were not exaggerations. They were understatements. I stood on a cliff and witnessed a display of their power. I saw twenty-five dragons take to the sky."
A collective gasp went through the hall. Twenty-five. The number was a physical blow.
"They moved not as a flock of beasts, but as a drilled legion, responding to a single word of command from their Prophet-Prince. They are a disciplined, intelligent force. But that is not the most… unsettling part." He paused, choosing his words carefully. "The Targaryen dragons breathe fire. It is a great and terrible power. I witnessed the dragons of the Theocracy breathe fire that could melt stone with surgical precision. I witnessed another breathe a cone of pure frost that froze the sea solid. And I witnessed their alpha, a great golden beast that rivals Balerion in size, unleash a shout, a word of power, that tore a waterspout from the ocean itself. They do not just command fire. They command the elements."
The lords were now staring at him, their faces a mixture of disbelief and dawning horror.
"And finally," Corlys said, delivering the final, soul-crushing blow, "they are not beasts. I stood before the golden dragon. It looked at me. And I felt its mind… touch my own. It was an intelligence, ancient and vast. I have heard from their priests that they are not born of nature, but are children of their god, each possessing a spark of his divine consciousness. They are not animals to be tamed, my lords. They are priests with wings of gold and iron."
He finished and stepped back. The silence that followed was heavier and more profound than any before. He had just described a power that was not merely military; it was supernatural, divine, and utterly alien to their understanding of the world.
The Lord of Duskendale was the first to break, his voice a panicked squeak. "Seven save us! A god of dragons? An army of sorcerous beasts? What is this?"
"It is a lie!" bellowed the young Lord Baratheon. "Tricks! A mummer's farce designed to frighten us! The Dornish proved they can be killed! We must build more scorpions! A thousand scorpions! We will shoot them from the sky!"
It was Loren Lannister who spoke next, his voice cool and cutting, aimed not at Corlys, but directly at the throne. "So, while our sons and brothers were burning in the Reach and dying in the sands of Dorne, Your Grace was engaging in a private correspondence with this… eastern power. You knew of them. You knew of their strength. And now you tell us they pose a threat. One must ask, did you provoke this threat? Does this golden god now look upon Westeros because you have drawn his gaze?"
The accusation was plain. It was a challenge to Aegon's kingship, a suggestion that his actions had endangered the realm he had just conquered.
Visenya's hand tightened on her sword, but Aegon silenced her with a glance. He rose from his throne, his tall frame seeming to command all the light in the room. He descended the dais and walked to the center of the hall, his presence alone silencing the rising tide of panic and accusation.
"Yes, Lord Lannister," Aegon said, his voice calm but filled with a terrifying intensity. "I did know of them. And I have provoked nothing. I have, in fact, been engaged in a quiet war on your behalf since the day I landed on these shores."
He let that sink in. "You are correct, Lord Baratheon. You are a warrior, and you think of weapons. Scorpions. Armies. Walls. You think as a man. You do not yet think like a king. And you, Lord Lannister, you think of coin and quarrels and insults. You see a rival, and you seek to place blame. You do not yet see the board as it truly is."
He turned, addressing the entire hall. "You all see this Theocracy as a threat to me. To House Targaryen. You are mistaken. They are not a threat to my house. They are a threat to this house." He stamped his foot on the stone floor of the hall. "To Westeros. To our way of life. To our gods. To everything from the Wall to the shores of Dorne."
"They are an empire built on a single, unifying idea, backed by a power we cannot match in open war. I have known this. And I have known that a divided Westeros, a patchwork of seven squabbling kingdoms, would be a meal for them, not a rival. This is why I came here. This is why I demanded you bend the knee. Not for my own glory! But for our shared survival!"
He was transforming his conquest from an act of ambition into an act of prescient necessity.
"I did not seek to become your king out of a lust for power," he roared, the fire of his ancestors now blazing in his eyes. "I sought to unite you because I knew, with absolute certainty, that divided, we would all be annihilated by the rising power in the east! I have forced you, I have burned you, I have broken you and your proud houses so that I could forge the pieces into a single, unbreakable shield to defend this continent!"
He pointed a finger at the terrified lords. "You think your petty squabbles matter? Your ancient rivalries? Your pride? They are dust. They are nothing in the face of this. Volantis, the greatest city in the world, humbled itself before them. The Dothraki, who you fear so much, are a nuisance they steer for their own purposes. They are the greatest power this world has seen since the Valyrian Freehold fell, and we are all that stands between them and total dominion."
"So yes, my lords," he concluded, his voice dropping to a low, powerful growl. "We will build scorpions. We will raise armies. We will build fleets. But we will do it together. As one kingdom, under one king. Because the Theocracy sees us as a single target. And we must face them as a single sword. You have a choice. You can continue to be the proud lords of seven broken kingdoms, waiting your turn to be devoured. Or you can be the lords of the seven provinces of a single, great empire, a fortress of men and dragons that can stand against the coming night. Choose."
The speech was a masterpiece. He had taken their greatest fear, the source of his own potential weakness, and had forged it into the very justification for his absolute rule. He had given them a common enemy, a shared purpose, and a king to lead them.
The lords were silent, their faces a mixture of terror and a new, grim resolve. Loren Lannister was the first to act. He knelt, his head bowed. "You are our king, Your Grace," he said, his voice clear. "The west will answer your call."
One by one, the other lords knelt. The Lord of the Stormlands. The Warden of the Reach. The envoy from the Vale. They were no longer conquered vassals. They were partners in a great and terrifying struggle for survival.
Later that night, Aegon stood with Visenya on the highest balcony of the Aegonfort, looking out over the flickering lights of his new, raw city.
"You gave them a dragon to fear more than our own," Visenya said, a note of true admiration in her voice.
"It was necessary," Aegon replied, his gaze fixed on the dark sea to the east. "They needed a purpose beyond their own petty grievances. Now they have one."
"The offer the envoy made," Visenya mused. "To hunt down the knowledge of how to kill dragons. You believe my theory was right? That they are afraid?"
"I do," Aegon said. "I felt it. His courtesy was a mask for a deep and profound fear. They know they can die now. But their proposal of an alliance, and my counter-offer of ambassadors… that is a game for another day. A long game of whispers and spies."
He turned his gaze west, towards the vast, dark continent he had yet to fully tame. "For now, we have a different task. We must finish the war in Dorne. We must truly unify this realm. We must build our fleet, forge our armies, and raise our castles. We must make Westeros into the fortress I promised them."
His grief for Rhaenys had not lessened, but it now had a purpose. It was the fire that fueled his new, grander ambition. The conquest of Westeros was no longer the end goal. It was merely the first move in a much larger game, a global game against a rival power that was guided by a god and commanded a legion of divine dragons. He was outmatched, outnumbered, and on the defensive. But he was a Targaryen. He was the blood of the dragon. And he would not yield. He would forge this continent into a sword, and he would one day see it pointed at the heart of the golden empire in the east. The age of conquest was over. The age of the cold war had begun.