Chapter 20: The Dragon's Due and the Tigers' Defiance
The Iron Edicts of King Baelon I Targaryen fell upon the Seven Kingdoms like a winter blizzard, smothering the already embers of dissent under a suffocating blanket of royal decree. Fear, once a sharp, acute pain, settled into a chronic, aching chill. The Legions of the Iron Throne were no longer a mere pronouncement; recruitment officers, handpicked by Baelon for their ruthlessness and unwavering loyalty (their minds subtly fortified by whispers of Valyrian suggestion when they were first commissioned), spread throughout the realm. They were accompanied by royal tax collectors, equally grim-faced, to ensure the 'direct tithe' for the army's upkeep flowed uninterrupted into the Crown's coffers. Lordlings who had once commanded their own levies now watched as their best fighting men were conscripted into a force that answered only to the ageless King in King's Landing.
The most contentious decree, however, was the forfeiture of all dragon eggs to the Crown. Dragons were the soul of Targaryen power, the ultimate symbol of Valyrian heritage, and even houses with distant dragonlord blood, like the Velaryons, guarded their potential for hatching new mounts with a fierce, almost religious jealousy.
Word of this edict reached Princess Rhaenyra on Dragonstone like a personal affront. She, the King's half-sister, Princess of Dragonstone, mother to a growing brood of young dragonriders, felt the cold steel of Baelon's ambition press directly against the future of her own line. Her sons – Jacaerys on Vermax, Lucerys on Arrax, and young Joffrey bonded to Tyraxes – were secure for now, their dragons hatched before the edict. But what of the future? What of her younger sons, Aegon and Viserys, still in their infancy? What of any daughters she might bear? Would they be denied the birthright of their Valyrian blood?
Lord Corlys Velaryon, the Sea Snake, arrived on Dragonstone from Driftmark with the fury of a winter storm. Now an old man, his silver hair like a lion's mane, his spirit remained unbent. "This is tyranny, Rhaenyra!" he boomed, his voice echoing through the ancient stone halls of the Targaryen ancestral seat. "He seeks to make us all powerless, to strip us of our heritage! Your father, King Viserys, would never have countenanced such a thing. Baelon is not just a king; he is a devourer of his own kin's strength!"
Rhaenyra, her face pale but resolute, listened to her father-in-law's tirade. She had felt the same initial surge of outrage. But she had also felt the chilling touch of Baelon's will in their last encounters, seen the unnatural fire in his ageless eyes. Open defiance, she knew, was tantamount to suicide for her and her sons.
"Lord Corlys," she said, her voice carefully measured, "Baelon is King. His power is absolute, as he has… demonstrated. We must tread carefully."
"Carefully?" Corlys scoffed. "While he plucks the future from our children's cradles? Laenor may be… accepting… of this, but I am not! We have fleets, we have dragons, we have wealth! We must…"
"We must what, my lord?" Rhaenyra interrupted, her own Targaryen fire flaring. "Challenge him? You saw what happened to Otto Hightower. You heard the tales from the Reach. Do you wish Dragonstone to become another Harrenhal, its towers melted by a fire that burns hotter and darker than any we have known?" She took a deep breath. "I will go to King's Landing. I will speak with my brother. I will seek an understanding, an assurance for my sons. But I will not declare war on a king who commands shadows and whispers with the dead."
Her journey to King's Landing was swift, Syrax carrying her across the Blackwater Bay. She found Baelon in the nearly completed Obsidian Amphitheater within his new Citadel, overseeing the installation of vast, obsidian braziers that glowed with an internal, smokeless violet flame – a Valyrian artifice that lent the already oppressive space an even more arcane and terrifying atmosphere.
"Sister," Baelon greeted her, his voice echoing strangely in the black hall. He did not rise from the simple, throne-like chair of carved obsidian upon which he sat observing the work. "To what do I owe this… unexpected visit?"
"Your Grace," Rhaenyra began, offering the requisite curtsey, "I come to discuss your recent edict concerning the dragons of our House."
"Ah, yes. The Dragon's Due," Baelon said, a faint smile playing on his lips. "A necessary measure to ensure the strength of the Iron Throne, and to prevent… unfortunate rivalries… such as those my father so dearly wished to avoid."
"My sons are Targaryens, Baelon," Rhaenyra said, her voice tight with emotion. "Dragonriders. It is their birthright to see their own lines continue with dragons. To deny them future eggs is to…"
"To ensure that all dragons serve the Crown, and only the Crown," Baelon finished for her, his ageless eyes pinning her. "Your current sons and their mounts are, of course, acknowledged. They are assets to the realm. But future hatchlings, Rhaenyra, will be bound to individuals of my choosing. Individuals whose loyalty is not to their own ambitions, or the ambitions of their grandsires, but to the eternal prosperity and unyielding authority of the Iron Throne under House Targaryen – under my leadership."
He rose then, descending the few steps from his obsidian seat, his presence suddenly overwhelming in its intensity. "Do you question my wisdom in this, sister? Do you believe, perhaps, that Dragonstone should be exempt from the King's law?"
Rhaenyra felt a chill crawl up her spine. This was not the brother she had known, however cold and strange he had been. This was something else, something ancient and implacable. "I seek only to understand your… vision, Your Grace. And to ensure the future of my children within it."
"Their future, Rhaenyra," Baelon said, his voice dropping to a near whisper, "like the future of all subjects of this realm, depends entirely upon their unwavering loyalty and utility to me. Provide me with loyal dragonriders from your line, and they shall have their place. Breed dissent, or harbor ambition that runs counter to mine, and you will find that even the blood of the dragon can be… diluted. Permanently." He let the threat hang in the air, as cold and sharp as a shard of dragonglass.
Rhaenyra, her heart pounding, bowed her head. "I understand, Your Grace. My sons and I serve the Iron Throne." She had her answer. There would be no concessions. Only obedience, or annihilation.
While Rhaenyra grappled with this chilling new reality, Prince Aemond 'One-Eye' was delivering Baelon's ultimatum to the Free Cities with a ferocity that made even hardened sellswords tremble. Astride Vhagar, the colossal bronze she-dragon a living mountain of destruction, he had descended upon the ruling councils of Myr, Lys, and Tyrosh. The message was simple: swear fealty to King Baelon I Targaryen, pay substantial annual tribute for the 'privilege' of secure trade through the Stepstones (now firmly under Aemond's iron grip), or face Vhagar's fire.
Myr, famed for its intricate lenses and glassware, saw its magnificent glass-domed council chamber shattered by Vhagar's roar alone, before its Magisters hastily offered chests of silver and groveling promises of obedience. Lys, the city of pleasure and poison, attempted a subtle defense, offering Aemond a bevy of their most beautiful courtesans and whispers of alliances against their rivals. Aemond, bound by Baelon's will and driven by his own cold fury, had Vhagar burn their perfumed gardens and demand double the tribute, his one eye glinting with satisfaction as the Lyseni caved. Tyrosh, known for its dyes and its quarrelsome Archon, attempted a show of defiance, loosing a volley of scorpions from its walls. Vhagar had contemptuously melted the siege engines and a significant portion of the Tyroshi fleet before the Archon himself, his colorful silks singed, had rowed out to offer his city's abject surrender.
Volantis, however, was a different matter. The oldest and proudest of the Free Cities, with its Black Walls built by the Valyrians themselves, its Triarchs still dreaming of a restored Valyrian Empire under their own banner, received Baelon's demands with haughty disdain. Aemond, landing Vhagar before the Palace of the Triarchs, had delivered the ultimatum to a council of grim-faced nobles and warrior-priests of R'hllor.
"King Baelon of Westeros, styling himself heir to Valyria, demands your fealty and tribute," Aemond had declared, his voice amplified by Vhagar's menacing presence. "Refuse, and this city will share the fate of Old Ghis."
The answer, when it came, was delivered not by a trembling envoy, but by a formal delegation that sailed to King's Landing under a flag of parley. They were ushered into the Obsidian Amphitheater, before King Baelon on his throne, Umbraxys a near-invisible but suffocating pressure in the black hall.
The Volantene spokesman, a Triarch named Horonno, a man of stern Valyrian features and unyielding pride, did not bow. "King Baelon Targaryen," he began, his voice ringing with defiance, "Volantis is the First Daughter of Valyria. We bow to no Westerosi pretender. We reject your insolent demands. Your 'Warden of the Narrow Sea' and his ancient beast have terrorized our sister cities, but Volantis does not yield to threats. We have fleets. We have armies. We have allies. And we have our own gods, who do not smile upon upstart tyrants." He paused, his eyes locking with Baelon's. "If you seek war, King Baelon, Volantis will give it to you."
A stunned silence filled the amphitheater. This was open, unequivocal defiance, a direct challenge to Baelon's new world order. Larys Strong's lips curved into a subtle smile. Lord Lyonel looked aghast.
King Baelon, however, remained perfectly still, his ageless face unreadable. Then, he began to laugh. It was not a sound of mirth, but a cold, chilling susurrus, like wind through a field of bones. "Brave words, Triarch Horonno. Brave, and exquisitely foolish." He rose from the throne, descending the steps, his presence seeming to grow with each movement. "You speak of fleets? I command the waves themselves. You speak of armies? My Legions are forged in iron and fear, their loyalty absolute. You speak of allies? Your 'allies' are jackals, squabbling over scraps, who will abandon you the moment my dragons cast their shadow upon your Black Walls."
He stopped before the Volantene delegation. "You speak of gods?" His eyes now blazed with the internal fire of the Valyrian crystals, the power of Umbraxys a palpable aura around him. "I am King Baelon Targaryen, child of Old Valyria, Master of the Shadow Wyrm, He Who Commands the Undying Flame. Your R'hllor, your Stone Cows, your weeping ladies – they are naught but fading embers before the inferno I am about to unleash."
He raised a hand, and a single, black flame, shot through with violet light – Umbraxys's shadowfire, channeled through his own being – erupted in his palm, consuming no fuel, yet radiating an unnatural, soul-deep cold that made the Volantenes recoil in terror.
"Return to your city, Triarch," Baelon hissed, the black flame dancing in his eyes. "Tell your fellow fools that King Baelon accepts their declaration of war. Tell them their First Daughter is about to become Valyria's final funeral pyre. Tell them the true heir to the Fourteen Flames has come to collect his due, in fire, and in blood, and in the utter annihilation of all who dare defy him."
He made a dismissive gesture. "Remove them, Lord Larys. Let them carry my message back to their doomed city."
As the terrified Volantenes were escorted out, Baelon turned to his council. "My Lords," he declared, his voice now calm but infused with an immutable will, "the time for consolidation is over. The time for expansion has begun. Prepare the Legions. Alert Prince Aemond. Muster the fleets. We sail for Volantis. Westeros is secure. Essos now awaits its true master."
Within the Obsidian Citadel, the Royal Academy redoubled its efforts, searching for Valyrian battle magics, for ways to control storms, to shatter walls, to demoralize armies. Baelon himself spent hours with Umbraxys, their minds linked, strategizing, refining their combined powers, preparing to unleash a war the likes of which the world had not seen since the fall of Valyria itself.
In Maegor's Holdfast, Helaena Targaryen was heard to murmur, as she watched a line of ants march towards a fallen crumb, "The black tide rises from the west. The tigers roar, the elephants trumpet, but the shadow consumes all. Oh, the blood, the blood that will paint the Black Walls red…"
King Baelon I Targaryen, the Ageless Serpent, stood poised on the brink of his first great imperial war. Volantis had defied him. They would be the first example. The first stepping stone in his conquest of Essos, the next stage in his relentless, eternal pursuit of absolute, global dominion. The game of gods was indeed in play, and he intended to be its only victor.