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36: Dragonborn Conqueror, Let It Be Known to All pt.2
🕑 Added 2025-08-15 10:35:37 +0000 UTCThe Storm Princess
“I don’t believe it…no, it’s too fantastical,” Maria Estermont said, pacing the length of the chamber, skirts swishing about her ankles.
Argella leaned back in her chair, watching her friend with the same mild patience she always reserved for Maria’s fits of disbelief. Of their little circle, Maria was the skeptic, the one who needed every tale nailed down with proof.
“Maria,” Elena Fell sighed, “you don’t have to explain away everything. Cass’s own cousin saw what the Dragonborn could do.”
Cassandra nodded sharply. “Yes, and Cedric is not one to make up fanciful tales. How else could the riverlords have won their rebellion so quickly? Harrenhal is the greatest castle ever built.”
Argella made a noise of disapproval. “Greatest castle ever built?” she teased.
Cassandra rolled her eyes. “After Storm’s End, of course. But still, the stories from the Riverlands are too many to ignore.”
Maria folded her arms and looked to Argella. “The man claims to be chosen of the gods, Princess. It’s heresy. More likely he’s some vile sorcerer, perhaps from Asshai, who’s bewitched the minds of the riverlords with shadow-magic and blood rites.”
Elena leaned forward on the table. “Do you believe that over him being a true divine warrior sent to save the rivermen?”
“It’s Heartmen now,” Cassandra corrected with a smirk.
They all looked at her. “What? Since they’re calling the kingdom the Heartlands, we can’t keep calling them rivermen, can we?”
Argella let them argue while she turned to the darkening sea beyond the window. Shipbreaker Bay was roiling with an incoming storm, but her thoughts were on the man whose name seemed to be on the lips of every lord and king, even smallfolk in the Seven Kingdoms: Harald Stormcrown.
The rumors about him had become a game among the courts, each one more absurd than the last. Some said he was a sorcerer from Asshai, wrapped in flesh that wasn’t his own. Others whispered he was a beast in human form, with claws and teeth hidden beneath his gauntlets. One maid swore he drank the blood of virgins to keep his unnatural strength, while another claimed he was not a man at all, but one of the gods walking the earth to claim a mortal kingdom. More ridiculous still, one tale said he’d fathered a hundred children in a single night.
Argella knew better than to believe such nonsense. But one truth stood out like a lighthouse in the fog: the entire Riverlands save for House Mooton had bent the knee to him without quarrel. In a land famous for bickering lords, such unity was… remarkable.
And dangerous.
“Heart lords,” Cassandra said suddenly, snapping Argella’s attention back to the present. “It sounds romantic.”
Argella allowed herself the smallest of smiles before rising to her feet, the motion drawing every eye in the chamber. “Father will be holding court soon. Let’s prepare. Find my blue gown, the one I wore last moon.”
Her handmaidens bustled around her at once, fetching silks, arranging her hair, fastening the golden stag brooch at her shoulder. Soon enough, the three of them were walking through the high-arched corridors toward the throne room, the familiar hum of voices growing louder.
Argella took her place to the right of her father, where the Storm King’s heir always sat when court was in session. The position of heir was one many had coveted and some had quietly plotted to take from her. She knew the schemes of ambitious lords who dreamed of wedding her to their sons to rule through her, and of lesser Durrandons who dreamed of being king; but Argella preferred them to think she was ignorant of them and when the time comes she would deal with them all and then ascend to the throne when her father’s reign ends.
The court moved in its usual rhythm petitioner after petitioner stepping forward, bowing low, and stating their grievances or requests. Some were as dull as seawater, but Argella’s eyes were sharp, noting every name, every face, storing away the ones that might prove useful.
One merchant, thin as a ship’s mast and smelling faintly of tar, stepped forward and bowed deeply. “Your Grace, I come to speak of the Blackwater. Since the lords there declared their independence from the fallen Hoare kingdom, their port tolls have risen. Our profits shrink with every voyage.”
A ripple of irritation passed through the court.
Argilac’s deep voice cut through it. “They will be part of our realm soon enough,” he said, his hand resting lazily on the arm of the throne. “Their tolls will vanish when their banners fly beneath the crowned stag once more.”
That drew a cheer from several lords and courtiers. Argella noted the gleam of eagerness in their eyes it was the same mood that had gripped Storm’s End since the news of Harren the Black’s fall reached them and, with it, the proclamation of a new realm: the Kingdom of the Heartlands, ruled by King Harald Stormcrown.
Many, her father foremost among them, saw the chance to march north and reclaim the Riverlands, erasing the shame of losing them to the ironborn a century ago.
After her father finished holding court, Argella followed him toward his solar. Marshal Lord Swann, Lord Dondarrion, Lord Caron, and Lord Estermont, the most trusted of Argilac’s councillors, fell in step behind them.
“My king, we should strike at Blackwater Bay now,” Lord Dondarrion said the moment they were away from the court.
“Just Blackwater Bay?” Marshal Swann scoffed. “No…we should invade the Riverlands entirely.”
“Heartlands, my lord,” Argella corrected, her voice calm but firm. “They call it the Heartlands now.”
Swann’s lip curled. “Princess, with all due respect, I care not what some heretic sorcerer has decided to call it. The Riverlands are ours.”
Argella bit back the retort that rose to her tongue. She disliked Swann, but she knew the weight of his influence. Instead, she looked to her father, who had been strangely silent.
They entered the king’s solar. A servant was ordered to pour wine. Argilac took a long swallow, then turned to face them.
“The heartland of all Westeros,” he said, a hint of mockery in his tone. “That’s what this new king calls his realm: the ‘true Heartlands,’ where the gods themselves have chosen a new ruler.” He laughed dryly. “We will march into these ‘Heartlands’ and take them for ourselves. I have made my decision. Send out the ravens. Raise the armies. We march to conquer.”
“Father, if I may.”
Argilac’s eyes narrowed slightly. “You disagree, daughter?”
“Yes,” Argella said without hesitation. “I believe we should first strike only at the Blackwater lords. Take them quickly, secure the coast, and stop there. We can watch and measure this new kingdom from the safety of strong borders. If even a fraction of the tales about this Dragonborn are true, then we could be marching into far greater trouble than you imagine.”
Swann frowned, but Argella pressed on.
“An invasion of the Blackwater would show our strength. It would remind the new king of the power of the storm without committing us to a costly war. And the Riverlands—Heartlands—must be nearing famine after their rebellion. Their people are bled and hungry. If the smallfolk turn on him, this king might kneel without a single battle fought, crawling to Storm’s End to beg for aid. We could win a kingdom without losing a single man.”
Her words hung in the air, and all eyes turned to Argilac to see whether the Storm King would favor caution or conquest.
Argilac’s laughter rang out, sharp and booming. “That’s why she is my heir!” he barked, looking to his lords with a grin. “Ha! Ha! Ha! Yes, daughter, we will do as you say.”
Lord Caron shifted his weight. “My king… what of the dragons? If they claim the Blackwater for themselves well, they already own most of—”
“Dragons?” Argilac cut in, his voice dripping contempt. “They will do nothing. Just as they have done nothing for a century since setting foot on their dreary island. The sister-fuckers, I hear, are planning an expedition east. Maybe they’ll leave and never come back.”
Argella gave a small nod. “It’s true. The Targaryens have shown no interest in the mainland. Lord Aegon is said to be going to Volantis to aid the city. They’ll be no trouble to us.”
But Lord Dondarrion’s voice cut into the ease of the conversation. “My king… what if the claims are true?”
Argilac frowned. “What claims?”
“That this Stormcrown is what he says—a chosen warrior of the gods. That his powers are real, and divinely given.”
Dondarrion went on, slowly. “If it’s proven true… perhaps there’s another way to bring the Riverlands into our kingdom.”
Argilac’s eyes narrowed. “What way?”
Even Argella leaned in slightly, curious.
Dondarrion’s gaze moved from her father to her. “Offer him the princess’s hand in marriage.”
Argella’s eyes widened though not entirely with horror.
The king’s face flushed red. Caron looked stunned. Lord Swann’s jaw tightened like a drawn bowstring. Estermont remained a silent watcher, as he always did.
Dondarrion pressed on. “The princess must marry eventually, and you yourself made the law that all her children will be Durrandons. If she weds King Harald, their children will bear your name and will inherit both kingdoms thereby unifying them forever. And if his divine nature is true, then the Durrandon line gains the favor of the gods themselves.”
Argilac exploded. “No! I’ll have your tongue for such words. I will not marry my daughter to a charlatan—a sorcerer! … My line is that of Durran Godsgrief and Elenei; we already have the divine in our blood.” He turned on his heel and stormed from the chamber, the lords following after especially lord Dondarrion who seeked forgiveness for his words.
But Argella remained where she was. Dondarrion’s words stayed in her mind, coiling there like a serpent. She did not find the idea repulsive—not at all.
She wondered what kind of man Harald Stormcrown was. Did he look like the dark sorcerers her septa told her about as a child, or was he a handsome warrior truly blessed by the gods?
As she finally left the chamber, her thoughts were already turning toward the problem.
She needed to meet Harald Stormcrown.
.
.
.
The Last of the Dragonlords
Aegon sat with the parchment still in his hand, the same one every lord and king in Westeros had received days ago. Beside him sat Rhaenys, her eyes lingering on the parchment in his hands.
“This changes things,” she said at last.
“This changes nothing,” Aegon replied, his tone firm. “The Kingdom of the Isles and Rivers has merely changed its name and its king—that’s all.”
Rhaenys turned to him with that familiar pout, the annoyed expression he always loved. “Aegon, this needs to be taken seriously. We are now certain this man is a sorcerer. And considering one of his titles—‘the Dragonborn’—he could be Valyrian as well.”
Aegon scoffed. “Even the mightiest sorcerers of Valyria found it difficult to kill a dragon. We have three—and one of them is Balerion. This sorcerer, if that’s what you believe him to be, will either kneel or be burned.”
She did not look convinced. He didn’t understand why. He and his sisters were dragonlords, blood of Old Valyria. They possessed the most powerful weapon in the known world. But his sisters had always treated matters of magic with more gravity. They were the ones who had pushed him to take the Dream of Ice and Fire seriously, interpreting it for him.
Aegon had never needed prophecy to fuel his ambitions; he had dreamed of conquering Westeros since he was a boy. The prophecy merely served as another spark, a divine confirmation that the gods themselves wanted his family to rule all Seven Kingdoms.
“I’m sure Vis will agree with me,” Rhaenys said.
As if summoned by the words, Visenya entered the chamber but she did not carry her usual force of presence. Her skin looked paler than usual, the fire in her violet eyes dimmed. Dark shadows pooled beneath them, giving her a gaunt, restless look. Her posture was tense, and she looked as though she had not slept in days.
“Vis, you look—” Aegon began, but his voice trailed off as he took in the full measure of her pale, drawn face.
“I’m fine,” Visenya interrupted, her tone clipped as she sank into the cushioned seat. “Everything is prepared for Volantis.”
Rhaenys frowned, concern creasing her features. “Sister… have you been performing the blood rites again?”
Aegon’s eyes darkened. “I forbade you from performing blood magic, sister. You’ve disobeyed me.”
Visenya turned her cold glare toward him. “I know what I’m doing, brother. I had to. Something’s happening…something I don’t understand. Magic… it’s growing stronger. It’s thicker in the air, like the world is changing beneath our feet.”
Rhaenys looked between them, then quietly said, “And that’s why you haven’t been sleeping? You haven’t joined us in bed for a few days.”
Visenya shook her head slowly. “No. That’s something else.”
“What is it?” Aegon asked, the edge in his voice dulled now by curiosity. Rhaenys leaned closer, her worry deepening.
Visenya’s hands folded tightly in her lap. “I’ve been having strange dreams.”
“What kind of dreams?” Aegon asked, wondering if his sister was having dragon dreams of her own.
“I find myself alone in some chamber vast and black as pitch. There’s a doorway, far off, and in it stands a… thing. A creature. Skull-faced, with great horns and eyes like burning coals. It stares at me. I wake feeling its gaze on me. I can’t even describe it…its…its..”
A silence fell. Even Aegon didn’t speak right away.
“That is troubling,” he finally said, the words quiet.
Rhaenys murmured, “Perhaps the Dragonborn is connected to it somehow. The rumors of his feats shouting castles apart, able to command fire and lightning fighting armies on his own…”
Visenya nodded. “Yes. I believe he is. We need to meet him speak to him. I need to know what he is. He could pose a danger to our plans, brother.”
“No,” Aegon said, standing. “We will do no such thing.”
“Aegon,” Rhaenys said gently, “what if we could sway him? If he is indeed of Valyrian origin as we suspect him to be, perhaps he will serve the dragonlords if asked. He could become a great and powerful ally in our plans.”
Visenya looked up. “If there is even a chance he can be turned to our side, we must take it. Why waste a sorcerer as powerful as he is? I know he will be nothing against our dragons, but…”
Aegon’s jaw tightened. He hated the idea but he knew when to compromise.
“Fine,” he said. “I’ll send Orys to the new kingdom. Let him see the man for himself. Speak to him. Let Orys assess how dangerous he is and if he is a danger…” He trailed off as he walked to the window and looked eastward, where the sky smoldered with the last hues of dusk. “Then, when the time comes,” he said, “he’ll have to die. I won’t allow anyone, man or sorcerer to live who could threaten the future I plan to build for our family.”
A heavy silence settled once more as his sisters left the chamber.
But Aegon remained, eyes fixed on the horizon.
He was not worried.
When the time came, the Dragonborn would kneel…
Or he would burn.
Comments
Illusiveone
Yes that was Bal.
John
Thank you for this awesome update!! I think the way this will go down will be with Harold invading and annexing the Crownlands, with him getting into conflict with Argalic, after one battle and Argalic seeing he can’t beat Harold he will try to do the same in canon by trying to offer his daughter to Aegon which will lead the same events as before. Was that Molag Bal that Visenya was seeing?
Tyler Karp
Thank you for the chapter
