Chapter 34: The Shape of Peace
Fifteen years. Fifteen years the shadow on the hill had been the silent, unblinking eye of the world. The Dragon's Peace was now the only reality a generation of Westerosi had ever known. It was a peace of full granaries and quiet roads, of merchant ships that sailed without fear of pirates, and of petty lords who settled their ancient disputes with quiet, resentful handshakes rather than sharp steel. It was a peace so absolute, so orderly, that it had become a form of suffocation.
The dragon yards west of King's Landing were the most beautiful and heartbreaking place in the Seven Kingdoms. It was a masterpiece of Valyrian-funded engineering, a sprawling landscape of heated caves, soaring cliffs, and lush meadows, all enclosed by a low, purely symbolic wall. It was a paradise for the creatures within, and a monument to the gilded enslavement of the house that tended them.
An older, harder Prince Jacaerys Velaryon stood on a stone overlook, watching a trio of young dragons—one bronze, one pale green, one the colour of cream—chase each other through a meadow, their jewel-like scales flashing in the sun. Princess Baela stood beside him, her hair now shorter, her face still carrying the fierce beauty of her father, but tempered with a keeper's weary patience.
"The bronze one is almost ready," Baela said, her voice soft. "He has sired two clutches. His fertility is waning." Her words were practical, the assessment of a stockbreeder, but a flicker of pain crossed her face.
Jacaerys didn't reply at first, watching the magnificent creature pounce and play. "He has a good life here. Better than any of the dragons in the pit ever had."
"A good life before the harvest," Baela murmured. She looked at him. "Do you ever allow yourself to forget, Jace? Even for a moment?"
"No," he said, his voice flat. "To forget is a betrayal. To them," he gestured to the dragons below, "and to ourselves. We are wardens of a beautiful tragedy. My son, your daughter, they will grow up in this. They will choose a companion, and they will feel the bond, the joy. And we will have to be the ones to explain the terms of that love to them."
A young boy of ten, Rhaenyra's youngest son Viserys, came running up the path, his face alight with pure, uncomplicated joy. On his shoulder, clinging with tiny, sharp claws, was a small, smoke-grey hatchling no bigger than a cat.
"Jace! Baela! Look!" Viserys cried, beaming. "Stormcloud just breathed his first fire! It wasn't much, just a puff of smoke, but it was hot!"
The little dragon, sensing its master's excitement, let out a tiny plume of grey smoke that smelled faintly of brimstone. Jace looked at the boy's radiant happiness, at the perfect, nascent bond between a Targaryen and his dragon, and the cold stone in his chest twisted painfully. This boy, born into the peace, did not yet understand the full price of that joy. Jace forced a thin smile.
"He is a fine beast, brother. He will be a great dragon one day."
And on that day, the unspoken words hung between him and Baela, he will make a fine meal.
The battle for the soul of Westeros was not being fought with swords, but with prayers. In the Starry Sept of Oldtown, the aging High Septon convened a secret meeting of his most trusted counselors. The reports from the countryside were dire. The 'Hands of the God,' the common-born saints of the new faith, were swaying the hearts of the smallfolk with their miracles.
"It is a tide of heresy," hissed a conservative old septon named Melor. "They offer earthly bread and healed bodies, and the people forsake eternal salvation for a fleeting comfort! We must declare them charlatans, their power a trick of demons!"
A younger, sharper septon named Arthor, a man who had risen through the ranks in the years of the Dragon's Peace, shook his head. "And who would believe us? The mother whose child was saved from the flux by the Weaver's touch? The farmer whose barren field now feeds his village? To call them liars is to call the people fools. That is not how you win back a flock."
"Then what do you propose, Arthor?" the High Septon asked, his voice weary. "We cannot match his miracles. We cannot out-preach a god who can place his sermon in every mind in the kingdom."
"No, Your Holiness," Arthor said, leaning forward, his eyes burning with a new kind of fire. "We cannot fight his power. But we can fight his idea. He has built his faith on a foundation of order, peace, and providence. He has solved the problems of the body. We must, in turn, become the champions of the soul."
He stood and began to pace, his voice growing stronger. "We have spent a century telling them to be quiet, to be obedient, to accept their lot. And now a god has come and enforced that quiet with an iron fist. But the human heart is not a quiet thing! It is a messy, chaotic, glorious storm of love, grief, passion, rage, and free will! These are the things the new god despises. He calls them 'untidy.' So let us become the faith of the untidy."
The other septons stared at him, shocked.
"We will not preach against him," Arthor explained. "That is suicide. We will preach around him. We will preach that the Father's justice includes the justice of a man choosing his own path, even if it is a wrong one. We will preach that the Mother's mercy includes the mercy of forgiving our own messy, human flaws. We will preach that the Warrior's strength is not just in fighting battles, but in the courage to feel, to love, to hate, to make a choice! He offers a perfect cage. We will offer imperfect freedom. We will become the faith of the human spirit, in all its chaotic glory. Let us see which god the people choose in the quiet of their own hearts."
The High Septon looked at the young man, seeing a dangerous, brilliant new path forward. It was a theological war, the only kind they could possibly hope to wage.
In King's Landing, Queen Rhaenyra found her own power being subtly and constantly eroded, not by threats, but by the helpful, ubiquitous presence of Lord Larys Strong. He had become the indispensable man, the interpreter of the god's will, a position that made him more powerful than any Hand of the King had ever been. He came to her private solar under the guise of delivering a report.
"Your Grace," he said with his customary bow, "some excellent news. The tithes arriving from the Free Cities have increased by a third this year. The stability our great benefactor has enforced in the Stepstones has made trade routes safer than ever before. Your kingdom is drowning in wealth."
"And every gold dragon is a reminder of who truly rules this kingdom, Lord Larys," Rhaenyra replied, her voice cool.
"A ruler's strength is in the prosperity of their people, is it not?" Larys said with his faint, infuriating smile. "By that measure, you are the most successful monarch in your family's history." The compliment was a gilded barb, and they both knew it.
He changed the subject, his tone becoming conspiratorial. "On a small, related matter of order… my whisperers have informed me that Lord Borros Baratheon has been secretly communicating with a merchant prince from Myr. A man known to dabble in fire magic. They are studying old texts. Searching for… a weakness."
Rhaenyra felt a chill run down her spine. Larys was not just reporting on a potential threat to the peace; he was demonstrating his own omniscience. He was showing her that he knew the secrets of the great lords, secrets she, as Queen, was not privy to. He was the god's true Master of Whispers.
"I see," Rhaenyra said, choosing her words carefully. "Thank you for bringing this… untidiness… to my attention, my lord. I will have Lord Borros watched."
"Oh, I have no doubt of that, Your Grace," Larys said, his smile never wavering. He had made his point. He was not a threat to her. He was simply a helpful functionary of the true power, ensuring the smooth operation of the realm. And that made him more dangerous than any enemy she had ever faced.
Krosis-Krif was pleased. The faith energy was a steady, nourishing river. The dragon farm was a promising long-term investment. His whisperer, Larys, was proving to be an excellent steward of his own entertainment. But the game was still too simple. The pieces on the board had settled into a predictable pattern of resentful submission. It was time for a new move. A final move to correct the last great imbalance of the old world.
His mind sifted through the memories of Daemon and Aemond, through the bitter rivalry that had defined their lives. The Greens and the Blacks. An untidy, binary opposition that still lingered in the hearts of his subjects, even if they dared not voice it. It was time to merge the codebases.
He did not bother with a subtle summons. He simply commanded it. The entire royal family was to gather in the Great Hall.
Rhaenyra and her sons arrived to find Alicent Hightower and her children already there. Aegon was trembling, Helaena was staring at a thread on the tapestry, and Otto Hightower looked as though he was attending his own funeral. The tension in the hall was thick enough to be a physical presence.
The god's voice filled their minds, a wave of cold, indisputable command.
"THE OLD FEUD BETWEEN YOUR TWO HOUSES STILL LINGERS. A FAINT, BITTER TASTE IN MY KINGDOM. A RESIDUAL ERROR IN THE SYSTEM. THIS IS THE FINAL UNTIDINESS I WILL CORRECT AMONG YOUR BLOODLINE."
Alicent and Rhaenyra glared at each other, a lifetime of hatred ignited by the direct address.
"TO BIND THE WOUNDS, TO MERGE THE STREAMS, TO FINALLY AND PERMANENTLY UNIFY THE BLOOD OF THE DRAGON, A PACT WILL BE MADE. A MARRIAGE."
A collective gasp went through the assembled family.
"THE BOY, VISERYS TARGARYEN, SECOND SON OF RHAENYRA, WILL BE BETROTHED TO THE GIRL, JAEHAERA TARGARYEN, DAUGHTER OF AEGON."
The decree was a political and emotional bombshell. It was a violation of every wound, every loss, every bitter memory the war had created.
"NO!" The cry came from Jacaerys, his face a mask of horrified disbelief. "I will not have my brother marry the daughter of the Usurper! Their line is poison! Her grandfather murdered my brother!"
Alicent was equally aghast, her face white with fury. "My granddaughter will not be a political pawn to legitimize your stolen crown! She is the true king's daughter! She will not be handed over to the son of the woman who destroyed our family!"
The protest was futile. They were arguing with a hurricane.
"YOUR OPINIONS ARE IRRELEVANT," the voice stated, its patience wearing thin. A terrifying pressure built in the hall. "THE BLOOD IS THE SAME. THE LINES WILL BE MERGED. IT IS TIDY. IT IS ORDERLY. IT IS MY WILL."
The god's attention then seemed to focus on the two mothers, its voice taking on a new, chillingly personal tone.
"YOU WILL CELEBRATE THIS JOYOUS UNION. YOU WILL HOST A FEAST. YOU WILL SMILE. YOU WILL EMBRACE. AND YOU WILL LOOK PLEASED WHILE YOU DO IT." A pause. "I FIND THE ENERGY OF GENUINE, WILLING JOY TO BE… PARTICULARLY FLAVORFUL. DO NOT DISAPPOINT ME."
It was the most monstrous command of all. Not just to submit, but to perform happiness. To pretend that their grief and hatred was gone, all to provide a better tasting meal for their god.
The great families of the Dance of the Dragons, the Blacks and the Greens, stood facing each other, their enmity now a shared prison. They were no longer rivals. They were simply two sides of the same broken coin, now being forcibly fused together by a power that saw their history as little more than a poorly written story in need of a tidier ending.
In the center of the hall, young Viserys and the pale, quiet Princess Jaehaera looked at each other with the wide, innocent eyes of children who did not understand the hatreds of their parents. They only knew that a god had just commanded them to be married. Their lives, like the lives of everyone else in this new, peaceful world, had been written for them. They were just the final, tragic sentence in the story of their family's utter and complete subjugation.