I woke to the cold kiss of Valyrian steel against my throat.
The blade was perfectly positioned—one wrong move and it would part my windpipe like silk. My enhanced reflexes from the Super Soldier Serum kicked in immediately, but I forced myself to remain still. Whoever held this knife had gotten past two thousand Gondorians, eight thousand Unsullied, and whatever guards I'd posted outside my chambers. That took either incredible skill or inside knowledge.
Or both.
"Easy," a familiar voice whispered in High Valyrian. "One sound and this blade goes deep."
I opened my eyes slowly, letting them adjust to the pre-dawn darkness filtering through the chamber's high windows. The figure standing beside my bed was cloaked and hooded, but I could see the glint of violet eyes in the shadows.
"Aenys," I said quietly, my voice steady despite the steel at my throat. "Or should I call you something else?"
The blade pressed slightly deeper, drawing a thin line of blood. "Who I am doesn't matter. What matters is what you've done to this city."
"I freed it," I replied. "I broke chains that had bound thousands for generations. I brought justice to those who bought and sold human flesh like cattle."
A bitter laugh escaped from beneath the hood. "Justice? You mean conquest. You mean adding another jewel to your crown of false divinity."
The words stung because they held a grain of truth. But I wasn't about to admit that to someone holding a knife to my throat.
"How did you get past my guards?" I asked instead.
"Your guards are mortal men," she said. "They see what they expect to see. A serving girl carrying wine. A messenger with urgent news. A whore seeking to warm the Dragon God's bed." Her voice dripped with contempt at the title. "They didn't look too closely at faces in the darkness."
Clever. And dangerous. I revised my estimation of this woman—whoever she truly was.
"Who are you?" I demanded, letting steel enter my own voice. "Who are you really? And don't give me any more lies about being from Lys."
The silence stretched between us, broken only by the distant sounds of the city stirring to life below. Finally, she reached up with her free hand and pulled back her hood.
Silver-gold hair spilled free, catching what little light filtered through the windows. Her face was angular, aristocratic, with the unmistakable bone structure of Old Valyria. But it was her eyes that held me—violet as amethysts, burning with a cold fury that spoke of loss beyond measure.
"My name," she said quietly, "is Rhaenys Targaryen. Last remaining daughter of Rhaegar Targaryen. Your niece."
The world seemed to tilt on its axis. In the show, Rhaenys had died as a babe—murdered by Gregor Clegane along with her mother Elia and infant brother Aegon. The Mountain had supposedly dashed her against a wall, her tiny skull crushed like an eggshell.
But here she was, very much alive, very much grown, and very much holding a knife to my throat.
"Impossible," I breathed. "You died. The Mountain killed you. Tywin's men—"
"Tywin's men killed a kitchen servant's child," she interrupted, her voice hard as iron. "A girl with dark hair who was in the wrong place at the wrong time. My mother… she had contingencies. Hidden passages in the Red Keep that even the rats didn't know about."
My mind raced, trying to process this revelation. If Rhaenys had survived, if she'd been hidden away all these years…
"Why the knife?" I asked carefully. "If you're truly my niece, if you're truly Targaryen, why threaten me?"
Her laugh was sharp and bitter. "Because it's the only way you'd believe me. The only way you'd listen without dismissing me as another pretender seeking to use the Targaryen name for gain." The blade pressed deeper. "I have no reason to lie to you, Uncle. I'm not an assassin—if I were, you'd already be dead. But I needed to make sure you understood that I'm not here to kneel and beg for scraps from the Dragon God's table."
She was right. If she'd wanted me dead, she could have slit my throat while I slept. The fact that she'd woken me first suggested she wanted something else entirely.
"What do you want, Rhaenys?"
The fury in her violet eyes blazed brighter. "Revenge," she said simply. "I want to kill every last Lannister. I want to watch Tywin burn while I tell him who I really am. I want to feed Jaime to your dragon piece by piece. And Gregor Clegane…" Her voice dropped to a whisper. "The Mountain dies last. Slowly. For what he did to my mother and brother."
Now we were getting somewhere. Revenge was a motivation I could work with, especially when it aligned with my own goals.
"All of that is possible," I said slowly. "But not with a knife at my throat."
She studied my face for a long moment, then slowly withdrew the blade. The cold steel left my throat with a whisper of metal against skin.
"Tell me more," she said, not quite lowering her guard.
I sat up carefully, keeping my movements slow and non-threatening. "Three Targaryens," I said. "Three dragons. Just like Aegon the Conqueror when he first took Westeros. We could burn every Lannister stronghold from Casterly Rock to King's Landing. We could make the Mountain beg for death before we grant it."
"And what would you want in return?"
"Your loyalty. Your service. Your acknowledgment that I am the rightful king of the Seven Kingdoms." I leaned forward slightly. "I'm not asking you to worship me like the former slaves do. I'm asking you to be family."
Something flickered in her eyes at that last word. Pain, perhaps. Or hope.
"Family," she repeated softly. "I haven't had family since I was three years old."
"You have it now," I said firmly. "The dragon has three heads, as our ancestors said. Rhaegar is dead, but his blood lives on in you. And in me. And in Daenerys."
"Daenerys?" Her eyes sharpened. "The beggar princess? I heard she was sold to the Dothraki."
"She was. And now she has two dragons of her own and commands the respect of the Red Priests in Volantis. She's no beggar anymore."
Rhaenys lowered her knife completely, though she didn't sheath it. "Three dragons for three Targaryens," she mused. "It has a certain poetry to it."
-----
The sun was fully risen by the time we'd finished talking. Rhaenys—my niece, still hard to believe—had told me her story in fragments. How Elia had hidden her in the walls when the bells began ringing. How she'd been smuggled out by loyal servants and taken to Dorne, then Lys, then a dozen other places as those who'd saved her tried to keep her safe from Lannister gold and Baratheon justice.
She'd learned to fight from Dornish spearmen, learned languages from Lysene pillow house madams, learned to kill from Braavosi bravos. All in service of one goal: revenge against those who'd destroyed her family.
"I've been tracking you since Volantis," she admitted as we broke our fast in my private dining chamber. "The Dragon God rises from nowhere, conquers a city, frees slaves, claims divine power… it had to be investigated."
"And what did you conclude?"
She took a sip of wine, studying me over the rim of her goblet. "That you're either genuinely touched by the gods, or you're the most dangerous man in the known world."
"Can't I be both?"
That earned me a small smile—the first genuine expression I'd seen from her.
A knock at the door interrupted us. "Enter," I called.
Boromir stepped inside, his face carefully neutral despite the sight of a strange woman dining with his lord. "Your Grace, the Inquisitor has arrived."
Right on schedule. I'd sent word to Volantis the moment Astapor fell, requesting that one of my spymasters be dispatched to establish a network here.
"Send him in."
The man who entered was tall and lean, with the pale skin and red robes of a R'hllor priest. But his eyes held a sharpness that spoke of intelligence and cunning rather than faith. He knelt smoothly, his movements precise.
"Your Grace," he said in accented Common Tongue. "I am Thoros of Myr, your faithful servant. The High Inquisitor sends his regards and his assurance that the Lord of Light's work will be done."
"Rise, Thoros." I gestured to a chair. "You understand your mission here?"
"Perfectly, Your Grace. Establish a network of informants throughout the city and surrounding regions. Report on political developments, military movements, and any threats to your rule. Serve as advisor to whatever government you establish in your absence."
I nodded approvingly. The Inquisition had been one of my better innovations—a combination of spy network and religious organization that served my interests while maintaining the fiction of divine mandate.
"Good. I'm leaving a garrison of five hundred Unsullied and two hundred Gondorians to maintain order. You'll work with their commander to establish a proper government. Promote the former slaves who show administrative ability, establish schools and training programs, begin construction of proper defenses."
"And the freed slaves who wish to fight?"
"Train them," I said immediately. "Every man who can hold a spear will learn to use it. Every woman who can draw a bow will become an archer. When I return to Astapor, I want to find an army ready to march to the ends of the earth."
Not because I cared about their freedom, of course. That was just propaganda, necessary theater to maintain their loyalty. What I truly cared about was power—the rush of commanding armies, the intoxicating feeling of having thousands worship me as a god. And Daenerys, always Daenerys. Everything I did was ultimately in service of reuniting with her, of proving myself worthy to stand at her side.
The freed slaves were tools, nothing more. Useful, loyal tools who happened to think I'd saved them from bondage. Their devotion was real, which made it valuable, but it wasn't reciprocated. I felt nothing for their suffering except insofar as it could be used to fuel their hatred of my enemies.
But they didn't need to know that.
"It will be done, Your Grace," Thoros said, bowing his head.
"Excellent." I stood, signaling the end of the meeting. "We march on Yunkai within the hour. I want this city secured and productive by the time I return."
As Thoros left to begin his work, I turned to Rhaenys. She'd been silent throughout the exchange, but I could see the wheels turning behind her violet eyes.
"Second thoughts?" I asked.
"No," she said firmly. "But I have a question. Do you actually believe you're a god, or is it all an act for the masses?"
I considered the question carefully. It was a fair one, and she deserved an honest answer.
"I believe I'm becoming something more than human," I said finally. "Whether that makes me divine or just dangerous… I suppose history will decide."
She nodded slowly. "Then I'll follow you, Uncle. But not as a worshiper. As family. As a Targaryen."
"That's all I ask."
-----
The army that marched out of Astapor an hour later was a sight to behold. Eight thousand Unsullied in perfect formation, their bronze caps gleaming in the morning sun. Fifteen hundred Gondorians in their steel plate, marching in disciplined columns. And at the center of it all, the dragon banner of House Targaryen flying alongside the golden tree of Gondor.
Aserion soared overhead, his black wings casting shadows on the red brick road. He'd grown again—now nearly the size of a small horse, with talons that could rend steel and flame hot enough to melt stone. The sight of him had sent every bird for miles fleeing in terror.
I rode at the head of the column on a magnificent black destrier, Rhaenys beside me on a grey mare she'd somehow acquired. She'd traded her concealing cloak for armor—not the elaborate plate of a lord, but the practical leather and mail of a warrior. A sword hung at her hip, and I had no doubt she knew how to use it.
Behind us, the great city of Astapor continued its transformation. Smoke rose from forges where former slaves learned to make weapons. The docks bustled with activity as ships were prepared for future campaigns. And somewhere in the Great Pyramid, Thoros was already beginning the delicate work of turning my conquest into a functioning state.
"Tell me about Yunkai," Rhaenys said as we rode.
"Yellow city," I replied. "Built on trade and trained bed slaves rather than soldiers. They'll have sellsword companies—the Second Sons, the Stormcrows, maybe others. Their walls are tall but thin, built more for show than defense."
"And Meereen?"
"The great pyramid of the old Ghiscari Empire. Fighting pits, slave markets, and noble families that trace their lineage back thousands of years. They'll be the real challenge."
She was quiet for a moment, then asked, "And after that? What happens when all of Slaver's Bay bows to the Dragon God?"
I smiled, thinking of silver hair and violet eyes waiting for me in Volantis. "Then we go home, niece. Then we remind the world what happens when you cross a dragon."
The road stretched out before us, red dust rising from thousands of marching feet. Somewhere ahead lay Yunkai, its yellow walls and pleasure gardens soon to feel the weight of divine judgment. And beyond that, Meereen and its great pyramid, where the last of the old slaver dynasties would make their stand.
But eventually, all roads led back to Volantis. Back to Daenerys.
Back to the woman I loved, who didn't yet know she was about to gain not just a brother, but a husband.
The dragon had three heads, as our ancestors said. Soon, very soon, all three would be united.
Fire and blood were coming to Slaver's Bay. And after that, they were coming to the world.