Fire and Blood

Chapter 112: A Thousand Eyes, and Two

Red Keep ― Throne room...

Aeonar sat upon the Iron Throne, his hands firmly gripping the pommel of the multitude of swords that formed the very structure of the throne itself that seemed to pulse with a life of their own, a reminder of the countless battles and victories that had led House Targaryen to reach the pinnacle of power in this strange, new land once foreign to the last dragonlords of Old Valyria. The throne symbolized their authority, a testament to their ability to conquer and rule. The Iron Throne, comprised of the blades of Aegon's defeated enemies and forged in the fiery breath of Balerion the Black Dread, had been occupied by Targaryen kings of the past - his great-grandfather and father among them.

Now, it belonged to him. The Seven Kingdoms were now under his rule.

But now, the Caltrops' treachery shattered the peace that Aeonar had once sought to continue from his father and great-grandfather's reigns. These vipers had slithered their way into positions of power, whispering poison into the ears of the weak-willed and sowing discord among the noble houses. They dared to enter the dragon's lair to challenge his right to rule. Their actions had sparked the flames of conflict, igniting what would come to be known as the Dance of the Dragons.

« Errors were made in the hours following King Viserys' death. »

Aeonar's head throbbed, and he grimaced, shaking it in frustration. His eyes, the color of deep crimson, concealed his lilac pupils. They seemed to reflect the hue of blood, making him appear more sinister and devilish. The braziers' smoldering embers caused his pupils to gleam, intensifying his ominous presence. His advisor and father-in-law, Otto Hightower, acknowledged the aftermath that came following the death of his father. His words rang through his mind. But it was the death of his youngest son, Prince Daeron Targaryen, at Aemond's hands that proved the catalyst that led to his downward spiral in his ruthless quest for vengeance, demanding blood be spilled for the blood he lost.

« There is no war so hateful to the gods as a war between kin, and no war so bloody as a war between dragons. »

With a clenched jaw and a blazing inferno in his eyes, Aeonar swore to remind the realm of the Targaryen dynasty's might and power. Treason would not be tolerated under his reign. His response would be swift and merciless, reminding everyone that the House of the Dragon was not to be trifled with. Just as Aegon the Conqueror had done in his conquest of Westeros, he would crush anyone who dared to oppose him with an unbridled fury that would shake the very foundations of the Seven Kingdoms to its core. Fire and blood would be his answer to those who dared to challenge him. Dragonfire would scorch the lands, reducing any who stood against him to ashes; rivers would run red with the blood of traitors, a testament to the consequences for those who defy him. Aeonar's grip tightened, his knuckles turning white. The realm would bow before him or be crushed beneath his heel.

The Dance of the Dragons would be a brutal and bloody affair, but Aeonar was prepared to do whatever it took to ensure the survival and supremacy of House Targaryen. The realm would learn that crossing him meant facing the wrath of a dragon and that the flames of Old Valyria could never be extinguished.

"Ah!" Aeonar's face contorted in fury, and he felt a sharp sting as he quickly yanked his hands away from the Iron Throne. The sharp hiss that escaped his lips echoed through the grand hall, a testament to the searing pain that coursed through his veins. Crimson droplets, like miniature rubies, dripped from the deep gashes on his palms, staining the cold, unforgiving metal and the pristine marble floor beneath him. Each drop of blood seemed to mock him, a cruel reminder of the treacherous nature of power and the price one must pay to claim it.