Chapter 43: A Game of Mirrors
Aegon Targaryen was a conqueror, a visionary, and a king. But he was, in the end, a mortal man playing a game of continents with a map made of wood and paint. He could not comprehend that his opponent was the board itself, a divine consciousness who saw every piece, every feint, and every intended move before it was made. Aegon's clever counter-gambit, the exchange of ambassadors, was, from the god's perspective, a predictable and welcome development. The Targaryen king, believing he was inserting a spy into a fearful rival's court, was in fact unknowingly delivering a perfect vessel through which the Theocracy could project its true message.
The god did not fear Aegon's spy. A spy is only useful if the reality he observes is the true reality. The Theocracy had spent a century mastering the art of deception, of crafting narratives, of managing perception. They would not hide from Aegon's envoy. They would build for him a beautiful, terrifying, and utterly convincing cage of curated truth. He would be given a tour of the house, but it would be a house of mirrors, where every reflection showed a facet of their strength, magnified and angled to create an impression of unassailable, alien power. The envoy would leave not with secrets, but with a holy terror so profound it would poison the well of Targaryen ambition for a generation.
The divine whisper came to Kaelen not as a strategy, but as a philosophy for the coming encounter. He saw a vision of the Targaryen envoy, a man walking through a grand hall lined with mirrors. In each mirror, he saw a different reflection of the Theocracy—its wealth, its army, its faith—but each reflection was subtly altered, its scale immense, its nature divine. The man, unable to perceive the true form behind the reflections, could only fall to his knees in awe and confusion.
Your rival has sent an eye to peer into your house, the god's thought settled into Kaelen's mind. Do not blind it. Instead, build for it a maze of mirrors. Let it see a thousand reflections of your strength, each one true, yet none of them the whole truth. Let him leave not with secrets, but with an unshakable sense of awe and dread.
The arrival of the Targaryen ambassador was the greatest political event in Lysaro's history. The man Aegon had chosen was, as Lyra's intelligence had predicted, his best. Ser Corlys Velaryon, the Sea Snake, was a lord from a house as ancient and Valyrian as the Targaryens themselves. He was a famed explorer, a shrewd diplomat, and a man whose loyalty to Aegon was absolute. He arrived on a swift war galley flying the three-headed dragon, a stark and lonely symbol in a harbour now dominated by the golden wyrm.
He was greeted with the full honors befitting an envoy from a fellow dragon power. The five Prophet-Regents met him at the docks, their immortal, un-aged faces a subtle and immediate display of the unnatural power at the heart of their empire. They were dressed in the simple, elegant robes of their faith, a stark contrast to the velvets and silks of the Westerosi court.
"Lord Corlys," Kaelen said, his voice calm and welcoming. "The Golden Dragon Theocracy welcomes you. We are pleased that King Aegon has agreed to this exchange. Open dialogue is the foundation of lasting peace."
"Prophet-Prince Kaelen," Corlys replied, his eyes sharp and observant, taking in every detail. "King Aegon shares your sentiment. He is eager to foster a bond of understanding between the last two houses of the Valyrian legacy."
The verbal dance had begun, a game of immense politeness layered over a core of pure, strategic threat assessment.
The tour they gave Corlys over the next week was the first act in their grand play. It was a carefully managed procession through their "hall of mirrors."
Hesh, the Prophet of the Hand, showed him their infrastructure. Corlys saw not just the great Wyrm's Roads, but the aqueducts that provided fresh water to every citizen, the complex sewer systems that kept the cities clean, and the great port of Lysaro, its cranes and docks operating with a mechanical efficiency that rivaled the legendary shipyards of Braavos.
"The Principle of Craft teaches us that a city is a great machine," Hesh explained, his voice the low rumble of a master builder. "Every part must be well-made and work in harmony. Our god finds his greatest glory not in prayers, but in a well-built wall, a true axle, a clean channel. Our public works are our liturgy."
Corlys, accustomed to the muddy, chaotic squalor of King's Landing, was stunned by the sheer, brilliant functionality of it all. This was not just a city; it was a perfectly engineered system.
Elara, the Prophetess of the Heart, showed him their society. He was taken to the great public hospitals, where healers from the Covenant Corps treated the sick regardless of their station. He saw the academies where children, even those of the lowest birth, were taught to read, write, and debate the tenets of the Covenant. He saw the vast, clean halls where the city's poor were fed, not with charity, but as a fulfillment of the state's duty to its citizens.
"The Principle of Community is simple," Elara told him, her gentle voice carrying an unshakeable conviction. "A nation is a body. To allow one part to sicken or starve is to invite rot into the whole. We care for our weakest not out of pity, but because it is a strategic investment in our collective strength."
Corlys saw a society with a level of social cohesion and public health that made the Seven Kingdoms look like a collection of squabbling, plague-ridden villages. This was not the nation of ex-slaves he had been led to expect. This was a civilization.
Jorah, the Prophet of the Shield, showed him their army. He took Corlys to the great training fields outside Lysaro to witness the Legions of the Wyrm. Corlys saw ten thousand soldiers moving as one. He saw the Stormcrows, the former Unsullied, their eyes now burning with a cold, zealous fire. He saw their Saris-forged golden steel, armor and weapons of a quality that made even the finest castle-forged plate of Westeros look like crude iron.
"We drill our soldiers in the Principle of Strength," Jorah said, his voice booming across the field. "Their strength does not belong to them. It belongs to the community they protect. They do not fight for gold. They fight for the Covenant. They do not fear death, for they serve a god who has already granted them new life."
Corlys saw an army whose discipline was absolute and whose morale was terrifyingly unbreakable. They were not sellswords or levies. They were crusaders.
In three days, the council had shown him reflections of a society that was more advanced, more unified, and more zealous than his own. He was impressed, and he was deeply unnerved. But he knew these were just the trappings of power. His true mission was to assess the source of that power: the dragons.
"You have shown me the works of your nation, and they are impressive," Corlys said to Kaelen during a private dinner. "But my king is a Targaryen. He wishes to understand your relationship with your… guardians."
"Of course," Kaelen replied with a serene smile. "It would be our honor to present them to you. They are eager to meet a son of Old Valyria."
The demonstration was held on a high, windswept cliff overlooking the open sea. The thirteen original dragons, now ancient and immense, were present, along with a dozen of their younger, more agile offspring. Their riders, the elite Wyrmguard, stood beside them. Corlys Velaryon stood with the five Prophets on a specially prepared viewing platform. The sheer scale of the gathering was a hammer blow to his senses. He had seen Balerion the Black Dread up close. The largest of these beasts, the golden Aurorion, was its equal in size, and there were twenty-four others.
Corlys expected a display of fire and fury, like the one his spies had reported. He was shown something far more terrifying.
Kaelen stepped forward. He did not shout a command. He spoke a single, quiet word in the resonant Dragon Tongue. "Lok, Vah Koor." (Sky, Summer, Tribute.)
He was not giving an order. He was making a request.
Rhaela, the lead rider, nodded and placed a hand on Aurorion's neck. There was no verbal command. She simply relayed the request through their mental bond. The great golden dragon let out a low, rumbling hum of agreement. Then, he turned his massive head toward the sapphire-blue dragon beside him and spoke.
"Vahriin," Aurorion rumbled, his voice like an avalanche. (Swoop/Sweep.)
The blue dragon, Vorion's mount, responded with a series of sharp, intelligent clicks and whistles. It was a conversation. Corlys felt the blood drain from his face. These were not beasts. They were sentient.
At an unseen signal, the twenty-five dragons took to the air. But they did not form a simple V. They wove into a complex, tri-layered aerial formation, a flying fortress of scales and wings. Then, the demonstration of their power began, and it was a display of chilling precision and alien intellect.
A flight of five smaller dragons, led by Valerius on his black-iron mount, dove towards the sea. One of them spoke a single word: "Yol!" (Fire!). A thin, focused lance of white-hot fire shot out and struck a small, rocky islet a league away, melting a ten-foot circle of stone into glass without scorching the surrounding rock. It was not a gout of flame; it was a surgical strike.
Another dragon beside it shouted, "Fo!" (Frost!). A cone of absolute cold erupted from its maw, flash-freezing a section of the sea into a miniature iceberg. The Targaryen dragons breathed only fire. These creatures commanded the very elements.
The true terror came last. The golden Aurorion soared high above the rest, Rhaela on his back. Kaelen looked up and spoke a final command, a test for their guest. "Lingrah, Pahlok!" (Long, Foe!)
Aurorion's great chest swelled. But he did not unleash fire. He unleashed the Thu'um.
"ZUN HAAL VIK!" (Weapon, Hand, Defeat!)
The three words of power slammed into the sea like an invisible meteor. Corlys watched in disbelief as a massive waterspout, a hundred feet high, was torn from the surface of the ocean, swirling with impossible energy before crashing back down. It was a display of raw, focused power that had nothing to do with fire or claws. It was magic. It was the Voice of a god.
The demonstration concluded. The dragons returned to their perches on the cliffs, their movements calm and deliberate. Aurorion the Golden landed directly before the viewing platform. He lowered his immense head, his eye, a pool of molten gold larger than a man's shield, fixed directly on Corlys Velaryon.
Corlys was a brave man. He had sailed to the ends of the earth. He had faced krakens and corsairs. But in that moment, under the gaze of the golden dragon, he felt an ancient, primordial terror that froze the marrow in his bones. He was not being looked at by an animal. He was being seen, judged, and dismissed by an intelligence far older and greater than his own. He felt the dragon's mind brush against his, a brief, terrifying probe that sifted through his thoughts, his loyalties, his fears. Then, it was gone. Aurorion let out a soft puff of warm, ozone-scented air and turned away.
That night, at his final dinner with the High Council, Ser Corlys Velaryon was a changed man. The easy confidence of the seasoned diplomat was gone, replaced by a deep, thoughtful sobriety.
"King Aegon is a great man," Kaelen said politely, pouring him a cup of wine. "He seeks to build a great kingdom, to bring order to a chaotic land. It is a noble goal."
"He is the blood of the dragon," Corlys said, his voice quiet. "As are you, it would seem. But… your dragons… they are different. They… think. They speak."
"They are the children of our god," Elara said softly. "They are not our pets or our weapons. They are our partners. Our guardians. Each one holds a spark of his divine mind."
Corlys looked at the five immortal faces around the table, at Kaelen's serene authority, at Lyra's chilling intellect, at Jorah's unbreakable strength, at Hesh's quiet creativity, at Elara's profound compassion. He had come here to probe the weaknesses of a rival power, to assess a potential threat. He now knew he had made a catastrophic miscalculation.
Weeks later, Ser Corlys Velaryon stood once more in the raw, windy throne room of the Aegonfort. He delivered his report to Aegon and a silent, grim-faced Visenya.
"Your Grace," he began, his voice heavy with the weight of his message. "The things I have seen… The city of Lysaro is a marvel of engineering and social order that rivals Valyria at its height. Their army is not a collection of sellswords; it is a brotherhood of fanatics, loyal to their god and their Prophet-Princes. Their wealth is boundless."
He paused, gathering himself. "But these are the least of their strengths. I have seen their dragons."
He described the aerial formations, the elemental fire and ice, the terrifying power of the Thu'um. He described the sentient intelligence in their eyes, the brief, terrifying moment of mental contact with the golden alpha.
"We believed we were dealing with a rival house, another family of dragonlords," Corlys said, his voice dropping to a near whisper. "We were mistaken. We are dealing with a true and terrible new god, and an empire built in his image. Their dragons are not beasts to be commanded. They are priests with wings of gold and iron."
He looked his king in the eye. "You asked me to find their weaknesses, to assess their threat. I have done so. My counsel, Your Grace, is this. We must leave them alone. We must finish your conquest, build our walls as high as we can, and pray to all seven gods that the Golden Wyrm remains content with the East. For I have looked into the eyes of their power, and I tell you now, it is a power we cannot hope to match. Not now. Not ever."
Aegon Targaryen received the report without a word, his face an unreadable mask of stone. His clever plan, his gambit to expose a fearful rival, had backfired in the most spectacular way possible. He had sent a spy to find a weakness and had instead received a declaration of divine superiority. The Great Game had changed. He was no longer playing against a rival king. He was playing against a god, and he had just been shown, with terrifying courtesy, a glimpse of his opponent's true power.