The air above the House of the Undying, that den of gilded lies and powdered death, still shimmered with residual magic, a faint echo of utter annihilation. Where once its sickly ochre walls had stood, now yawned a crater, a raw wound in the earth, hundred meters deep. And at its edge, before two beings of impossible grace and terrifying power, knelt Jaenera Tagaros.
Silver hair, usually a wild torrent, was smoothed back by the desert wind, framing a face etched with a devotion so profound it bordered on the divine. Her violet eyes, accustomed to the cynicism of Essos, now held a light of absolute, unshakeable faith. Here they were, the new gods. Not the faceless, forgotten idols of Valyria, nor the distant, demanding R’hllor, but beings of flesh and spirit, tangible and terrifyingly real.
Queen Ame no Uzume, the Wings Goddess, stood impossibly tall, her form shimmering with an ethereal light. She was a silent testament to the pillar of brilliance that had scourged the warlocks and their tower from existence. It hadn't merely destroyed; it had unmade, leaving behind only the memory of dust. Beside her, King Daedalus, the Artificer, the God of Magic, observed Qarth with eyes that held the secrets of every stolen whisper, every ambitious dream, every forgotten spell woven into the very fabric of the city. He knew Qarth, not just its streets and its merchants but its very soul, a feat no living man or ancient lore could ever hope to achieve.
Jaenera, the estranged daughter of Volantis, leader of the Dragon’s Fang, known affectionately as Nera by the few siblings who could tolerate her, felt a tremor run through her very bones. This was it. This was the truth she had unknowingly yearned for, the destination her restless soul had sought through years of mercenary work and dusty scrolls. Her soul, she knew then and there, was theirs. The beings of unfathomable might, who had simply arrived and effortlessly rewritten reality.
She had knelt before them, her voice trembling, not from fear, but from an earnestness born of profound faith. “I offer my service,” she’d pleaded, her words catching in her throat, “my devotion, my very life.” King Daedalus, his ruby eyes piercing and ancient, had simply inclined his head, a gesture of silent acceptance that spoke volumes. Queen Ame no Uzume had offered a smile, a radiant warmth that flowed into Jaenera’s very soul, banishing the chill of a thousand cynical years. They agreed.
And their first task for her, proof of her loyalty, a testament to her newfound purpose: the cleansing of the corruption of Qarth.
Jaenera had not hesitated. The Tourmaline Brotherhood, a collection of pirate lords draped in silk and masquerading as merchant princes, had been marked. Not because of their illicit trade routes or their habit of preying on weaker vessels—those were just business, after all—but because they had dared to harbor impure thoughts of her goddess. Impure thoughts! It was a crime beyond measure, an unforgivable blasphemy.
She rode at the head of the Dragon’s Fang, her purple eyes alight with a fervor that would have terrified any lesser man. The fortress gate of the Brotherhood was old, but not old enough to withstand the righteous fury of a goddess’s chosen hand. They shattered it, and Jaenera led the charge, a whirlwind of steel and divine wrath. She slaughtered them to the last; their pleas for mercy dissolving into gurgles as her blade sang a hymn of destruction. The scent of blood mingled with the metallic tang of divine judgment, and Jaenera breathed it in like perfume.
Her brother, Vorgoryr, her second-in-command, had been fearful. And so had many of their men. He’d tried, oh, how he’d tried, to reign in her ‘fanaticism,’ as he so tactlessly called it. He’d pleaded with her to be cautious, to remember their earthly obligations, to consider the dangers of offending such powerful...beings. His words, however, fell on deaf ears, much to his chagrin.
“Nera, think!”
He’d hissed that night, using the childhood name she now only tolerated from him. His own similar features were pinched with worry.
“These… beings… they appear from nowhere, lay waste to the most powerful sorcerers in Qarth, and you drop to your knees? What of our contracts? Our earthly obligations? This is not a game!”
His words had been like rain on stone.
“Earthly obligations?”
She had countered, her voice a low, fervent whisper.
“They have redefined what ‘earthly’ means, Vogarro. They have shown us that the world is vaster and more terrible than we ever dreamed. Our obligation is to the truth. And they are truth.”
“They will see the light, Vorgoryr."
She’d told him, her eyes alight with an unshakeable belief that brooked no argument.
“They will see the glory, just as I have."
She paused, a glint in her eye.
“Or they’ll be unmade by a pillar of light. Either way, they’ll learn."
Vorgoryr had simply sighed, rubbing a hand across his face, muttering something about her having always been ‘a bit too much,’ even before the gods arrived.
The next days passed in a blur of divine wonder and earthly chaos. Jaenera was there, kneeling amongst the throng of Pureborns, merchant princes, and newly freed slaves when King Daedalus extended a hand. From thin air, where once the House of the Undying had cast its long, ominous shadow, he summoned forth a tower.
It wasn't merely a building; it was a marvel of architectural arrogance. It rose two hundred meters above the hundred-meter crater, a jagged crown of black stone that defied gravity and reason.
A testament to a power that even the old Valyrian Freehold, with all their dragon-wrought wonders, could not have hoped to achieve.
Hexarch Bastion, as it was declared by the Lord, was the ultimate proof of their godhood and King Daedalus’s status as the god of magic. The nobles of Qarth, their pompous pride shattered; their warlocks scattered like ash, were all but submitted to the mighty pair. If Queen Ame no Uzume, the winged goddess, was the spear of destruction, King Daedalus was the architect of the impossible, the sculptor of reality itself.
Vorgoryr’s expression during this spectacle was one of utter incomprehension, as if the world he had lived in until now was not merely altered but proven to be a complete fabrication. His jaw hung slack, his eyes wide, a silent scream of philosophical crisis playing out across his face. Then, Queen Ame no Uzume, with that same soul-warming smile, offered him the job of training the new city guard, something she called 'police.'
“Vorgoryr Tagaros,” the goddess said.
“You have a practical mind working as quartermaster and second-in-command of the Dragon’s Fang. You see the world for what it is, even if you fear what it could be. I require a force to maintain the peace of this city. A ‘police force.' You will lead them. You will train them in the methods we provide.”
Vorgoryr blinked. "The... po...lice? Is that an ancient Valyrian word for 'people who get stabbed a lot'?"
"It is a word for those who uphold the law. Think of them as city guards but with a more defined duty and clearer boundary," the goddess replied. Her smile widened just enough to show teeth that were a bit too white, a bit too perfect.
Jaenera shifted her grip on her sword, her eyes narrowing. She loved her brother, but if he insulted the goddess, she would have him in the dungeons before the words left his lips. She would beat some sense into him. Better a broken brother than a dead heretic.
Vorgoryr seemed to feel the weight of his sister’s gaze—and the overwhelming aura of the Winged Goddess. He swallowed hard and bowed low.
"I... I would be honored, Your Majesty," he stammered. "I will... build this 'police' for you."
"Good," she smiled. "Succeed and you shall be richly rewarded."
In the tavern that had become the temporary headquarters of the Dragon’s Fang, the air hung thick with the smell of cheap ale and simmering discontent. Borin, the jovial, red-faced captain of the second company, had been vocal.
"Demons! Abominations!"
He’d bellowed, his voice slurred with drink and righteous indignation.
"They aren't gods! R'hllor, the Lord of Light, he’s the one true God!"
He'd tried to rile up the Dragon’s Fang, to turn them against their new, terrifying patrons. He never had a chance.
Jaenera, like a lightning bolt, drew her longsword. It glittered for a bare instant before it descended in a single, fluid motion. Borin’s head, still spewing prophecies of fire and brimstone, separated from his shoulders with a wet thud, rolling across the rough wooden floor before coming to rest at the feet of a shocked recruit.
Silence, thick and absolute, crushed the tavern. Jaenera, her purple eyes alight with cold fury and divine conviction, wiped the blade clean on Borin’s now headless chest.
She proclaimed, her voice ringing with steel:
"The Dragon’s Fang now follows the true gods: the Winged Goddess and the God of Magic. Anyone who doesn’t agree is free to go. Leave Qarth. But mark my words."
She paused, her gaze sweeping over every terrified face,
"Should we one day meet opposing my gods, I will show you no mercy. None."
No one left after that. Whether they realized the tangible benefits of having literal gods as patrons or whether a few, like her, had become true believers, Jaenera cared not. As long as they served, that was enough.
One day, a week later, the summons came.
“King Daedalus wishes to see you. In the study room. On the eleventh floor.”
The words were spoken by Mata, one of Daedalus’s own Agents, her voice a low, melodic hum that vibrated with an unseen energy. Never in her wildest dreams would Jaenera have imagined that King Daedalus, a literal god, would take such a personal interest in her. But he did. He had sent for her. And he hadn't sent a messenger or a page. He had sent an agent.
Mata was a woman of striking presence, with sleek, black hair that framed a face of unsettling composure. Her eyes, an icy blue, seemed to see through stone, through flesh, straight to the core of a soul. She radiated power, an aura of quiet menace that made Jaenera’s own blood sing, a thrill of recognition.
Jaenera had no doubt that Mata could slaughter half the city before sundown, if she so chose. The thought made her grin, a fierce, almost predatory expression, instead of terror. This was the service she craved, the power she adored.
Jaenera had practically sprinted. She had washed the dust of the training ground from her skin, donned her finest leather brigandine, and smoothed her silver hair until it shone.
The eleventh floor was a place of wonder. The chamber was vast, the walls lined with thousands of books—more than her family's library in Volantis—bound in materials she didn't recognize. Ornate decorative pieces, intricate tapestries, and sculptures that would shame the old blood of Volantis adorned every surface. Gigantic glass windows, so crystal clear and flawlessly crafted that no Irish craftsman could hope to create their like, offered a breathtaking panorama of Qarth, now a mere toy city beneath the colossal shadow of the Hexarch Bastion.
At the center of it all, King Daedalus stood, not in his terrifying obsidian armor, but in an ornate formal attire. A dark blue cape, rich in detail with intricate gold trim along its edges and lapels, draped elegantly over a formal suit of a similar hue. It was a strange yet tasteful and regal attire, far removed from anything seen in Essos, a blend of power and understated elegance.
Jaenera, utterly overwhelmed by the sheer presence of the divine being, instinctively dropped to one knee.
“My Lord,"
Her voice was hoarse with reverence.
“Rise, Jaenera. We have much to discuss.”
He spoke. He was standing by a desk made of dark, polished wood that smelled of ozone and ancient forests.
She stood; her eyes fixed on him with a devotion that was almost frightening.
“Anything, My Lord. The Dragon’s Fang is loyal; all mutinous elements have been disposed of.”
Daedalus offered a small, amused smile. “I have no doubt about your efficacy as a commander. But that is not why I called you here.”
He moved toward her, and Jaenera felt the air hum.
“I have been observing you, Jaenera."
His ruby eyes, ancient and wise, fixed on her.
“Just as I have been observing the inhabitants of this world. Qarth, Lhazar, and even a few Dothraki raiders I have encountered. They are… peculiar. Most of them.”
Jaenera blinked, unsure how to respond to such a cryptic statement.
Daedalus continued, a faint, almost imperceptible smile playing on his lips.
“You see. Magic, true magic, is not simply a trick or a ritual, blood, or sacrifice. It is a force, an energy that binds the cosmos. Some call it Mana. It exists in all things but significantly in living beings, a confluence of the soul, the mind, and the body. Most have none. A great many have a drop, a spark so insignificant it makes no more difference than a single grain of sand on a beach."
A ghost of a smile touched his lips.
“But a few…a very few…have a pool.”
He looked at her, and she felt utterly transparent, as if he were reading the very code of her existence.
“You have a pool, Jaenera. Small. Flickering. Like a single candle flame in vast darkness. But it is there. Inside you.”
Elation, hot and bright, exploded in her chest. It was true. The feeling she’d had her entire life, the pull towards old stones and older stories, the sense of a song just beyond hearing—it had a name. It was real.
“I…I don’t know what to say, Your Majesty.”
She stammered, her voice trembling.
“There is nothing to say. Only to learn. And I will teach you.”
He stated, the cyan in his eyes glowing brilliant and steady.
And so, her training began.
“[Magic Arrow]. The most basic offensive construct. Focus. Visualize the form. Imbue it with intent. Channel your mana through the conduit of your hand and release.”
King Daedalus demonstrated. He didn’t chant, didn’t move. A shimmering arrow of solidified golden light appeared above his palm, hung in the air for a heartbeat with a soft hum, then shot across the room like lightning. It struck a training dummy with a sound like a thunderclap, piercing straight through the iron helmet placed on its head and vaporizing the straw within.
Jaenera was ecstatic. It was one thing to see the Pillar of Light that had heralded Queen Amenouzume's arrival or the Bastion summoned from nothingness. Those were the works of gods. This was a spell. Something her lord believed she could do.
“[Magic Arrow],"
she whispered, shooting her hand out. Nothing.
“[Magic Arrow].”
Her voice was firm. A faint tingle in her fingertips. Wishful thinking.
“[Magic Arrow]!”
She commanded; her voice cracked with strain. Nothing.
She lost count after the fiftieth try. Sweat dampened her silver hair. Frustration, a hot and bitter taste, rose in her throat. She was a commander of men, a scion of Old Valyria. She could wield a sword, navigate the treacherous politics of the Free Cities, and inspire loyalty in cutthroats. Yet, she could not make a spark of light.
“I… am sorry… Your Majesty,
She panted, her face flushed with a shame that was hotter than any fire. She dropped to one knee, unable to meet his glowing gaze.
“I am… a failure.”
King Daedalus was silent for a long moment. He didn’t sound disappointed. Merely… contemplative.
He rose from his chair and walked around the desk.
“Failure is not the end. It tells us what does not work. Perhaps we are approaching this from the wrong angle. You are of the blood of Old Valyria, are you not? "
"I am, Your Majesty."
"Then let us try a different approach."
He raised his palm.
"Observe."
He held out his hand. Above his palm, a new shape coalesced. Not the sharp, disciplined form of an arrow, but a writhing, hungry orb of flame. It crackled and spat, painting his features in shifting shades of orange and red.
[Flare]
And something in Jaenera’s blood sang.
It was a memory that was not her own, a deep, ancestral pull. The heat of the Fourteen Flames, the forge-fires of Valyria that had tamed dragons and shaped the world. The fire was not foreign. It was her birthright.
Daedalus instructed, his ruby eyes watching her closely.
“The principle is the same. Gather, shape, release. But the medium… the medium is different. Guide your mana as you did before. But do not visualize light. Visualize fire. The heat of your own blood. The spark of your own anger. The unquenchable flame of your will.”
He extinguished the flame.
“Now you.”
Jaenera took a deep, steady breath. She closed her eyes. She stopped thinking about arcs of light and magical theory. Instead, she thought of the warmth in her veins, the fire that had always been there, banked and waiting. She thought of her father’s disdain, her half-siblings’ mockery, and her own burning ambition to be more than a bastard from a fallen house.
She funneled it all—every slight, every dream, every ounce of her Valyrian pride—into that small, flickering candle flame inside her. She felt the warm flow beneath her skin, but now it was scalding. She pushed it outward, envisioning a sphere of pure, destructive joy erupting from her palm.
[Flare]
She declared to the world.
There was a woosh, a blast of heat against her face. Her eyes snapped open.
A roiling sphere of fire, the color of a summer sunset, hovered just above her outstretched hand. It wasn’t as stable as the Lord’s, but it was real. It was beautiful. It was terrifying. It was magic, her magic.
A cry of pure, unadulterated joy escaped her lips.
She did it! She—the world tilted.
The fire winked out. A profound weakness crashed over her, as if every ounce of strength had been sucked from her body along with the spell. The last thing she saw was the floor rushing up to meet her before the darkness took her.
She woke up on the silk-covered sofa in the study. Her body felt hollowed out, a drained vessel. The memory returned in a glorious rush: the fire, the heat, the power.
“Your mana pool depleted itself entirely."
King Daedalus’s voice came from his desk. He wasn’t looking at her but at a floating schematic of something complex and geometric.
“A common occurrence for novices. It will restore itself with rest. Do not be concerned.”
Jaenera pushed herself up, her limbs leaden.
“I did it."
She breathed, the words filled with awe.
“You did. The affinity is clear. Your heritage speaks loudly, and we shall listen.”
He confirmed. A note of approval in his tone.
She practically floated back to her quarters. Her brother Vorgoryr was wearing his new 'police' uniform—disturbingly practical black-and-blue brigandine armor. was waiting, his arms crossed, a familiar look of wary skepticism on his face.
“So? Did the god finally tell you you’re as common as the rest of us mortals?"
Wordlessly, too exhausted for a grand speech, Jaenera held out her hand. She reached for that inner flame, so much smaller now but still there. She poured the dregs of her strength into it.
[Flare].
The fireball that sprang to life was smaller than the first, wavering like a candle in a breeze, but it was undeniably, brilliantly real.
Vorgoryr’s eyes bulged so comically she thought they might actually pop out of their sockets. His jaw went slack. All his cynical resolve, his sensible cautions, evaporated in the face of the impossible made manifest. He stared, first at the fire, then at his sister’s triumphant, exhausted face.
“By the fourteen, Nera…"
He whispered, his voice hoarse.
The following weeks were a peculiar form of exquisite agony. Every afternoon, she reported to the eleventh floor. And every afternoon, King Daedalus made her cast [Flare]. Again. And again. And again.
She would push herself until that hollow feeling returned, until the world swam at the edges of her vision, and then she would push further, until the darkness claimed her. She’d wake up on the sofa, her body feeling like it had been trampled by a dozen horses, every muscle screaming in protest.
“It is to expand your capacity. A pool is not static. It can be deepened. Stretched. Like a muscle. The more you drain it, the more it will refill, larger than before.”
Daedalus had explained. His tone was that of a master physician describing a painful but necessary treatment.
And she believed him. Surely, the God of Magic was all-knowing. And soon, she saw the proof. Where once she could manage one mighty flare before collapsing, she could soon manage three. Then five. Then ten. The pain was a badge of honor. Her men in the Dragon’s Fang watched her daily practices in the courtyard with a mixture of awe and terror, giving her a wide berth as spheres of fire bloomed and vanished around her.
After two months, she could cast it fourteen times in succession before her legs would buckle. And then, one afternoon, frustrated with the slow gathering of power the chant required, she simply thought of fire, and a [flare] erupted from her hand, swift and silent.
She’d done it. Silent casting.
When she showed King Daedalus, he actually smiled. It was a small, rare thing, but it felt like a personal victory greater than any battle.
“Excellent progress. Your control is becoming refined. You are ready for a more potent expression of your affinity.”
He led her to the training grounds. He held out his hand. Mana gathered around him, visible as a distortion in the air. He compressed it, and with it, he compressed fire, drawing it from the very air itself into a sphere of such intense, white-hot energy that it hurt to look at. With a casual flick of his wrist, he threw it.
The [Fireball] soared across the field and hit a designated earthen berm. The sound was not a crackle but a deep, concussive THOOM.
Dirt and stone shot fifty feet into the air. When the dust settled, a crater large enough to bury a wagon sat smoking where the berm had been.
Jaenera’s mouth was dry. It was magnificent. It was annihilation. It was a spell that could wipe out a dozen knights in blazing steel.
She had to try. She gathered everything she had, every ounce of her will, her expanded pool of mana. She compressed. She visualized. And she strained. A sphere of fire formed, smaller and angrier than his, spitting crimson and orange. She threw it with a grunt of effort.
It flew, striking the same berm. The explosion was smaller, but still respectably destructive, carving out a significant chunk of earth. The recoil of the spell, the drain, was absolute. It was like being turned inside out.
She was unconscious before the last clod of dirt hit the ground.
She woke up again on the sofa. King Daedalus was nearby.
“Your level is not yet high enough to sustain it. The efficiency is poor. You waste too much mana in the shaping. Continue with [Flare]. Grow stronger."
He simply said.
Then, one day everything changed.
The summons came not just for her but for Vorgoryr as well. They ascended to the eleventh floor in silence, her brother’s skepticism a near-palpable force beside her own buzzing anticipation.
King Daedalus stood before his desk. On its surface sat two eggs.
They were larger than any bird’s egg, scaled, and seemed to drink the light from the room. One was a deep, oceanic blue, almost black, with swirls of silver that shimmered like starlight on a midnight sea. The other was a pearlescent white, streaked with vivid, volcanic red veins. And they were warm. Jaenera could feel the heat from across the room. These were not the stone eggs—expensive curiosities for the rich, cold, and dead. These lived. They breathed.
King Daedalus began.
“You have been loyal. Jaenera, your progress in the art is commendable for a human in this world. Vorgoryr, the 'police,' has brought an order to Qarth that it hasn’t known in three centuries. You have served me and my wife well."
“Dragon eggs."
Vorgoryr whispered, his face pale.
“Your legacy,"
King Daedalus said, his voice softer than usual.
He picked up the dark blue egg and held it out to Jaenera. Her hands were shaking so badly she feared she would drop it. The warmth seeped into her palms, a comforting, rhythmic pulse. It felt like holding her own heartbeat. Vorgoryr, his usual reserve shattered, accepted the white egg with similar reverence.
This was it.
The dream of every Targaryen, every Tagaros, and every bastard with a scrap of Valyrian blood for over a century. She was holding a dragon. Tears welled in her purple eyes. She dropped to her knee, the words of gratitude and eternal fealty forming on her lips.
“My Lord… this is… the legacy of my people. I have no words to thank you.
“This gift… it is beyond measure. But I must ask…why?"
Vorgoryr said, his voice tight with a fear that overrode his awe.
Jaenera froze. She turned to her brother, her eyes flashing with a dangerous purple light.
“Vogarro, shut your mouth and kneel."
But Vorgoryr didn’t kneel. He held the white egg as if it were a bomb.
“Why give us these? You know what they are. You know what a dragon becomes. In a few years, these creatures could drown a fortress on fire. They could challenge cities. Why arm us with the only thing that could potentially…?"
He looked Daedalus in the eye.
“Aren’t you afraid of being betrayed? Or is this just another experiment to see how we’ll burn?"
Jaenera stood up, her hand flying to the hilt of her sword.
“You ungrateful, cynical bastard! He gives us back our heritage, and you ask if he’s afraid. I will cut your tongue out myself! "
“Peace, Jaenera,”
To her shock, the God of Magic was smiling. A faint, intrigued smile played on his lips. He looked at Vorgoryr not as a disobedient subject but as an interesting specimen.
“A pertinent question. Tell me, Vorgoryr Tagaros. Do you truly believe a dragon—even Balerion the Black Dread—could threaten me? Or my wife?"
Daedalus said, leaning back.
He didn’t say it as a boast. It was a simple, clinical query. The image of the Pillar of Light, of a fortress built in a heartbeat, of a fireball that could level a hill, flashed in both their minds. Vorgoryr’s defiance crumbled into simple, logical deduction.
After a long moment, he shook his head, his shoulders slumping.
“No. No, I suppose even a dragon is just a lizard compared to a sun."
“Precisely. I do not give you weapons to use against me. I gave you tools to better serve me. I am a scholar of the arcane above all else. The bond between dragon and rider, the flow of magic between you… it is a field of study I find fascinating. This is a reward for your loyalty. For your competence. And for your intriguing potential."
His glowing eyes settled on Jaenera.
“Now. Your blood. The old rite. It is required."
Understanding dawned. Still trembling, but now with a feverish excitement, Jaenera drew a small dagger from her belt, sliced her thumb, and pressed it against the blue shell. The blood was instantly absorbed, the blue stone glowing with a sudden, internal light. Beside her, Vorgoryr hesitated for a second, sighed, and followed suit.
For a heartbeat, nothing. Then, a sound like cracking ceramics. A web of fissures appeared across the surface of both eggs. A light, the same cyan as Daedalus’s eyes, shone from within the cracks. Then, a piece of shell fell away.
From the blue egg, a small, damp head pushed its way out. It was the color of a deep twilight sky, with eyes that were pools of molten gold. It let out a tiny, rasping chirp, more bat than beast, and looked directly at Jaenera.
From the white egg emerged its twin, its scales like fresh snow, the red veins across its back pulsing softly. It blinked its own golden eyes at Vorgoryr and sneezed a tiny puff of smoke.
Jaenera looked from the miracle in her hands to her lord. His beautiful, unnerving ruby eyes were glowing with that brilliant cyan light, his smile one of genuine collector's joy. He had not just given her magic. He had not just given her a dragon. He had given her a purpose, a truth to worship, and she knew in that moment, with a fanatical certainty, that she would burn the whole world to ash if he ever asked it of her.
The dragons changed everything.
Jaenera named her Vezdriāxys. While Vorgoryr named his Vīzarys.
The hatchling followed them everywhere. Slept curled around her shoulders. Bit mercenaries who approached too suddenly. The Dragon’s Fang became fiercely protective of the creature almost immediately.
Still, Vorgoryr remained anxious.
"They’re growing too fast,"
He muttered while staring at his own dragon, Vīzarys, which was currently busy tearing into a sheep carcass with a savagery that would have made a seasoned mercenary blush.
"That is the point, brother."
Jaenera said, her voice bright, almost melodic. She reached out, running a gloved hand over Vezdriāxys’s snout. The dragon purred—a sound like grinding stones—and leaned into her touch.
"Because of magic."
Vorgoryr countered, his brow furrowed in those perpetual, tedious lines of worry.
"Because of magic."
She echoed, smiling. It was a genuine smile, a sharp, dangerous thing that had only surfaced since the gods had arrived.
He groaned, rubbing his temples.
"That doesn’t help, Nera!"
She laughed. Gods, she laughed more now. That worried him too.
Eventually the summons came again.
This time both siblings were called before Lord Daedalus and Queen Ame no Uzume together.
The divine pair stood within a grand strategy chamber overlooking maps of Essos formed entirely from glowing blue light.
Jaenera didn’t hesitate. She hit the floor in a genuflection so precisely it was practically an art form. She felt the surge of adrenaline, that intoxicating rush of being noticed by the architects of reality. Vorgoryr, predictably, took his time, his movements sluggish with the drag of his own skepticism.
Queen Ame-no-Uzume smiled warmly.
Even after months, her beauty remained almost painful to behold. Ethereal wings of radiant light shimmered behind her, illuminating the chamber with soft gold brilliance.
“Rise,” she said. The word was a soft chime, yet it commanded the marrow in Jaenera’s bones to obey.
They obeyed.
King Daedalus gestured toward the floating map.
“The Lhazareen city of Hesh."
Jaenera watched the map zoom in. She knew Hesh, a dusty, miserable place of sheep herders and stagnant history. But under the light of the gods, it became a strategic artery.
"Hesh has accepted our protection," Daedalus continued. "It will serve as the fulcrum for our expansion into Slaver’s Bay."
Queen Ame no Uzume stepped forward.
“Unfortunately, the surrounding region remains unstable. Dothraki raids continue despite recent deterrence efforts, while Meereen is sniffing around its border."
Jaenera’s expression hardened instantly.
“They threaten your subjects?"
“They threaten order,” Daedalus corrected.
Vorgoryr noticed the distinction immediately.
Jaenera did not.
The God of Magic turned toward them.
"You and your company will relocate to Hesh. Stabilize it. Train the locals. If the Dothraki or the slavers do not learn the shape of our authority, demonstrate it to them in blood and flame."
King Daedalus commanded.
Queen Ame no Uzume smiled softly.
“You have done well in Qarth, Jaenera. Now we require you elsewhere."
The praise nearly overwhelmed her.
"It would be my honor, My Lord! I swear upon my soul and blood, Hesh shall become a mirror, reflecting your brilliance back across the plains."
Beside her, Vorgoryr closed his eyes briefly.
Of course. More responsibility. More expansion. More surrender to the unstoppable current carrying them all. He should have resisted months ago. Now it felt impossible. They had dragons. Magic. A city transformed by literal gods. What exactly was left to oppose?
The queen looked toward him.
“Your police methods proved effective. You will establish similar structures in Hesh."
“As you command."
Vorgoryr managed a tired nod.
“You sound unhappy."
Queen Ame no Uzume tilted her head slightly.
“I am… adjusting, Your Majesty."
He hesitated. Carefully.
Jaenera shot him a warning glance.
But unexpectedly, the Wings Goddess laughed softly.
“That is understandable."
Her expression became gentler.
“You fear losing yourself in all this."
Vorgoryr froze. She had seen directly through him.
"I…"
“You are not wrong to fear change. But stagnation kills civilizations. We intend to build something better."
Daedalus spoke next.
“And whether you fully believe in us or not is ultimately irrelevant. Competence matters more than devotion."
Jaenera looked faintly scandalized by that statement.
Vorgoryr almost laughed. Almost.
Fate had swept him away months ago.
Perhaps there truly was no point resisting anymore.
He bowed deeply.
“I understand, Your Majesties."
Jaenera rose, eyes blazing with fervent purpose.
“When do we depart?"
"Tomorrow,"
King Daedalus answered.
Her smile became almost frightened.
“As you command.”