Third Person POV
298 AC, Castle Black – Afternoon
The Wall loomed above Castle Black, its 700-foot ice face glinting in the pale northern sun, a silent sentinel of ancient magic. Dominic Augustus, Daenerys Targaryen, and Missandei slipped through the castle's gates under Disillusionment Charms, their forms invisible to the black-cloaked brothers patrolling the crumbling fortress. The air was sharp with cold, carrying the scent of pine and frost, and the clatter of training swords echoed from the courtyard.
Dominic, his 6'6" frame cloaked in a commoner's tunic, led the way, his golden eyes scanning with Haki-enhanced precision. Daenerys, her hair black and eyes brown from the rune-etched ring, followed closely, her heart pounding at the thought of meeting her great-grand-uncle. Missandei, her Emma Frost senses alert, kept pace, her presence a quiet comfort.
They navigated the narrow, icy corridors of Castle Black, avoiding stewards hauling firewood and recruits trudging to the mess hall. Reaching the maester's solar, a heavy oak door marked by years of wear, Dominic used his observation haki to confirm only one heartbeat inside. He pushed the door open, revealing Maester Aemon, frail and blind, seated at a cluttered desk, his hands tracing a worn scroll.
Dominic waved his Elder Wand, casting a Notice-Me-Not Charm to ensure no one would disturb them and a silencing charm to trap sound within the room. With another flick, he dispelled their Disillusionment Charms, their forms shimmering into view. The soft creak of their footsteps drew Aemon's attention, his milky eyes turning toward the sound.
"Who's there?" Aemon's voice was thin but steady, laced with the wisdom of a century.
Daenerys stepped forward, her voice soft but clear. "It's Daenerys Targaryen, great-grand-uncle."
Aemon froze, his hands trembling on the scroll. "Daenerys… Targaryen?" His voice cracked, disbelief mingling with hope. "Come closer, child."
She approached, kneeling beside his chair. Aemon's gnarled fingers reached out, tracing her face with delicate care, feeling the contours of her cheeks and brow. Tears welled in his blind eyes, spilling down his weathered cheeks. "Blood of my blood," he whispered, a smile breaking through. "I never thought to see a Targaryen before I die."
Daenerys clasped his hands, her own eyes glistening. "I'm here, uncle. I found you."
Aemon's tears flowed freely, his joy palpable. "How are you here, child, without the Watch noticing? Castle Black is no place for secrets to slip through."
Daenerys glanced at Dominic and Missandei, who stood watchfully nearby. "My husband, Dominic Augustus, king of Uruk, brought me with magic. This is Missandei, my closest companion. We came unseen, by his power."
Aemon's head tilted, curiosity sharpening his tone. "Magic? True magic, like the tales of old?" He chuckled softly. "The world turns strange again. Tell me, Daenerys, how do you fare? And your brother, Viserys?"
Daenerys's smile faltered. "I'm well, thriving in Uruk with Dominic and Missandei. Viserys…" She hesitated, then recounted his descent—his arrogance, his new role as Khal of a vast Dothraki khalasar, and his dangerous obsession with reclaiming the Iron Throne. "He's not the brother I hoped for, but I'm safe from him now."
Aemon nodded, his expression somber. "Viserys carries the fire of Aerys, I fear. And you, child—what do you plan for the future?"
Daenerys's voice grew firm, her brown eyes blazing with resolve. "I've learned of Rhaegar's son, whose mother is Lyanna Stark, Aemon Targaryen, your namesake, now known as Jon Snow. He's alive, raised in Winterfell as a bastard of Eddard Stark. I mean to help him claim the Iron Throne, to restore our house."
Aemon's blind eyes seemed to pierce her soul, a faint smile tugging at his lips. "Aemon Targaryen, son of Rhaegar… . I wish you luck, Daenerys, but the throne is a cursed seat. Be wary."
"I will," she promised, then softened. "Come with us, uncle. When we take King's Landing, you could be Grand Maester. You don't have to stay here."
Aemon shook his head, his voice gentle but unyielding. "I swore my life to the Wall, child. I'll die here, as I've lived—serving, not ruling. Don't fret for me. My time is near, but yours is just beginning."
Daenerys swallowed her protest, respecting his resolve. Aemon's hand patted hers, then he turned slightly toward Dominic. "Young king, would you do an old man a favor? Near the fourth shelf, there's a plank on the floor. Beneath it lies a secret compartment. Fetch what's inside."
Dominic nodded, crossing the room with silent grace. He went towards the fourth shelf, where he pried up a loose plank, revealing a hidden nook. Inside rested a long, narrow box, its wood dark and polished. He lifted it carefully, then placed it on Aemon's desk.
Aemon's fingers brushed the box, a tremor in his touch. "Open it, Daenerys."
She unlatched it, her breath catching as the lid swung back. Inside, nestled in velvet, lay Dark Sister, the ancestral Valyrian steel sword of House Targaryen, its slender blade gleaming with a deadly elegance. "Gods," she whispered, lifting it reverently. "How long have you had this?"
"Brynden Rivers, Bloodraven, gave it to me before he vanished beyond the Wall," Aemon said, his voice heavy with memory. "He bid me keep it safe, for a Targaryen who would need it. Use it, Daenerys, to restore our house to its rightful place."
Daenerys's eyes shone with determination as she hugged Aemon tightly. "I will, Grand uncle. A Targaryen will sit the Iron Throne again. I swear it."
Aemon returned the embrace, his frail frame trembling with emotion. "Go with fire and blood, child, but temper it with mercy."
For two hours, they spoke—of Targaryen history, Aemon's youth in King's Landing, and Daenerys's dreams for Uruk and Westeros. Missandei shared tales of Naath, her gentle wisdom easing Aemon's heart, while Dominic stood sentinel, his Haki ensuring no threats approached. Aemon's laughter, rare and precious, filled the solar as he recounted old jests with his brother Aegon, the Egg of Dunk and Egg tales.
As dusk fell, Dominic touched Daenerys's shoulder. "We should go, Dany. The Watch will stir soon."
She nodded, reluctant, hugging Aemon once more. "I'll come back, Grand uncle. I promise."
Aemon smiled, his blind eyes warm. "I'll hold you to that, dragon."
Dominic recast the Disillusionment Charms, cloaking them in invisibility, and dispelled the room's charms. They slipped out, leaving Aemon alone with his scrolls, a faint smile lingering on his face. The trio navigated Castle Black's corridors, exiting into the biting cold of the courtyard, the Wall's shadow stretching long.
Outside, Daenerys clutched Dark Sister, her voice soft. "I wanted to talk more with him. He's… family."
Dominic wrapped an arm around her, his voice reassuring. "Now that I've been here, I can Apparate back anytime. We'll visit often, Dany."
She nodded, a smile breaking through her melancholy. "Thank you, Dom. We'll come back."
Missandei squeezed her hand. "He's proud of you, Dany. You gave him joy today."
Dominic took their hands, magic surging. With a pop, they Apparated to Uruk, the Wall's chill replaced by jasmine-scented warmth. Dark Sister gleamed, a vow forged in steel, as Uruk's golden walls welcomed them home.
The Beggar King's Wrath
Third Person POV
298 AC, Dothraki Sea – Evening
The endless expanse of the Dothraki Sea stretched under a bruised sky, its swaying grasses whispering secrets of conquest and blood. Viserys Targaryen stood at the edge of his camp, his silver hair glinting in the torchlight, violet eyes burning with a manic fury. His khalasar sprawled behind him—forty thousand Dothraki warriors, their tents dotting the plain like stars, horses snorting in the cool night air. Yet, as he surveyed his army, disgust twisted his features. I should have the power of dragons. I am the Last Dragon, the rightful king! The thought seared his mind, as it did every time he pictured his sister Daenerys and that man—Dominic Augustus, the so-called Golden King of Uruk.
He stole her, my birthright, my dragons! Viserys's fists clenched, his nails biting into his palms. He still believed Dragonite and Charizard, the massive beasts he'd seen in Pentos, were true dragons, not Pokémon. If I kill him, I'll take his city, his dragons, and make my whore of a sister give me an heir. His plan, born of envy and madness, felt flawless in his fevered mind. Uruk's wealth, its women, its grandeur—he'd claim it all.
Ser Jorah Mormont approached, his worn armor clinking softly, his grizzled face etched with caution. "Your Grace," he said, kneeling, "I've received word from King's Landing."
Viserys's head snapped toward him, his sneer barely concealing his impatience. "Well, what is it?" he demanded, noticing two Dothraki warriors nearby glaring at him and Jorah, their braids heavy with bells, their arakhs gleaming at their hips.
Jorah kept his head bowed. "Jon Arryn is dead, and Robert Baratheon is in Winterfell, asking Eddard Stark to become Hand of the King."
Viserys's lips curled into a mocking smile. "So, the Usurper wants his northern dog to replace the old one." He paced, his silk cloak billowing.
"We need to ride to Uruk. With this horde, Dominic's throne will be mine." Viserys said.
Jorah hesitated, his voice steady but wary. "Your Grace, the Dothraki will not attack that city. They call it the City of Death. They fear one man."
A clay cup in Viserys's hand shattered against the ground, wine staining the earth like blood. "They fear one man?" he growled, his voice rising to a shriek. "I am the Last Dragon! I will have that city! I will own those dragons!"
The camp stirred, Dothraki glancing over, their expressions unreadable but tense. The women Viserys had taken as "gifts" cowered in his tent, their screams muffled as he began hurling objects—goblets, furs, a bronze brazier. "I will have it all!" he roared, his face flushed, spittle flying.
"Of course, Your Grace," Jorah said, his tone placating, though his eyes betrayed concern. In the two weeks since joining Viserys, he'd seen this madness flare repeatedly—first toward Daenerys, then the Dothraki for refusing him extra rations, and worst of all, toward the girls forced to serve him. He's becoming his father, Jorah thought grimly. The Mad King's shadow loomed large.
The Dothraki obeyed Viserys only because Dominic had commanded it, a fact that gnawed at Jorah. But their patience was fraying. Whispers of dissent rippled through the camp, and Jorah feared the breaking point was near.
"How close are we to Uruk?" Viserys demanded, huffing from his tantrum, his chest heaving.
Jorah rose, keeping his gaze low. "At a normal pace, two months. If we push, perhaps six weeks, but it's hard to say."
"Six weeks is too long!" Viserys yelled, his voice cracking.
"There's nothing to be done, Your Grace," Jorah said carefully. "Even at that pace, we'd risk killing the horses. The Dothraki would never agree."
Viserys's eyes narrowed, his breathing ragged. "Very well. We ride at dawn." He turned to the two women cowering behind his bedding, their faces bruised, welts visible on their arms. "Leave us!"
"At once, Your Grace," Jorah said, exiting swiftly. As he passed, he heard their whimpers, his stomach churning. Outside, a Dothraki bloodrider, Aggo, leaned against a tent pole, his expression dark. "That man will lead us to our deaths," Aggo muttered to his fellow riders, his bells jingling softly.
Jorah said nothing, but his silence spoke volumes. Viserys's madness was a flame, and the Dothraki Sea was dry tinder. Uruk loomed on the horizon, a city of wonders—and, to the Dothraki, a city of doom.
At dawn, Viserys's khalasar broke camp, the thunder of hooves shaking the earth. Viserys rode at the head, his silk cloak flapping, his eyes fixed on the horizon. Uruk will be mine, he thought, his madness a fire that refused to dim. Jorah rode beside him, his face grim, while Aggo and his bloodriders trailed, their loyalty strained.
The Dothraki whispered of the City of Death, of a king who wielded dragons and magic. Viserys heard none of it, his mind consumed by visions of crowns and conquest. But the sea of grass was vast, and Uruk's golden walls were a fortress of fate, waiting to crush the Beggar King's dreams.