Chapter 15: Salax

Was there anything more life-changing, more undoing, more endearing than sons?

Jon Arryn's pale eyes rested on the parchment before him, but his thoughts had already wandered far from the ink. Blood. Names. They weren’t what truly made family. Family wasn’t bound by the simple happenstance of shared blood. Sometimes, it was the ones who didn’t share that bond who truly became yours. His lips curved in a rueful smile at the thought, old memories flooding his mind. He, Jon Arryn, had three sons. The world may think otherwise, but it was false. He knew it as truth in his heart, a truth as real as the mountains of the Vale that he loved so dearly. Robin Arryn, Eddard Stark, Robert Baratheon—three sons, though only one bore his name.

It was because of them that he was in King’s Landing. He had never wanted this city, its stench of rot barely hidden beneath the scent of perfume, the labyrinth of power games played in every corridor. No, he had wanted the Vale, his home, where the air was crisp, and the mountains stood sentinel. But the Vale was far behind him, a dream out of reach. His place was here now, because of his sons.

The world called it Robert’s Rebellion, but Jon knew better. It was he who had struck the first blow against the Targaryen dynasty. He, Jon Arryn, who had called his banners when Aerys Targaryen demanded the heads of his foster sons. He had lost Egbert, his nephew and heir, to the Mad King’s cruelty. He would lose no more. The day Aerys asked for the heads of Eddard Stark and Robert Baratheon was the day Jon Arryn stood up and said, "Enough."

The Targaryens, closer to gods than men, had ruled for centuries, but even gods could bleed. He had not realized then what the fall of the dragonlords would mean. Replacing the Targaryens was necessary to keep the Seven Kingdoms from splintering into chaos, but in doing so, Robert had paid the price. He had watched as his foster son lost more than just a war—he had lost his parents to Aerys’s ambitions, and the woman he loved, Lyanna Stark, to Rhaegar’s abduction. The Robert he had raised, the one who dreamed of freedom and glory, had been forged into something harder, something darker. The boy who had loved the clash of swords and the thrill of battle was now a king who drowned his sorrows in wine and women.

Jon had known Robert better than anyone. He had raised him from a boy into a man, and like any parent, he understood his son’s heart. Robert had never wanted to be king. He preferred tourneys to councils, feasts to ruling, the wild joy of battle over the burden of a crown. Jon had seen it in his eyes the day the crown was placed on his brow—something had broken in him. Robert had become a man wearing chains he couldn’t see, but that weighed down every step he took. Jon could have returned to the Vale then, could have finished his days in peace. But how could he? To leave Robert in this viper’s nest, with the likes of Tywin Lannister watching from the shadows, would have been a betrayal. So he stayed, cursing Aerys Targaryen, whose madness had stolen their future.

If not for Aerys, Ned would have been free to marry Ashara Dayne, the woman he had loved, rather than Catelyn Tully. Ned had been forced into a marriage of duty, just as Robert had been thrust into kingship. If not for Aerys, Ned would not have had to bear the burden of a bastard son, born out of guilt and honor. If not for Aerys, Robert would not have become what he was now, a shadow of the man he had been. Jon had thought they were free from the Mad King’s shadow, but how wrong he had been.

A dark chuckle escaped him, bitter as poison. No, they were not free at all. He had read the letter over Robert’s shoulder, a missive filled with dangerous whispers—Cersei Lannister, a bastard of Aerys Targaryen, conceived in secret upon Lady Joanna Lannister. He had dismissed it at first as nonsense, a ploy to weaken Robert’s rule or to enrage him, for everyone knew Robert’s hatred of the Targaryens burned hotter than the summer sun. Yet when Robert stormed toward his queen’s chambers in a rage, Jon had followed, fearing what might happen.

What they found... Jon’s hand shook as he recalled the sight. Cersei Lannister, locked in an embrace with her twin brother, Jaime, in a way no siblings should ever be. Her gown was loose, her lips too close to his. It was the way lovers should be, not kin. He had felt as though the world had spun off its axis in that moment, his mind reeling as Robert lunged toward them, the demon of the Trident reborn, the same man who had shattered Rhaegar’s chest with a hammer. Robert had almost killed them both with his bare hands.

Jon had been forced to intervene, to beg his son to see reason. For a moment, he thought Robert might strike him in his fury, but then the king’s rage turned into something else—hurt, raw and deep. But Robert had listened, had taken Jon’s words to heart. Cersei was imprisoned in her chambers, Jaime Lannister thrown into the black cells by the Kingsguard, their disgust evident on their faces. That had been enough to give Jon pause, enough to make him wonder if there was more truth to the letter than he had first believed.

What if Cersei and Jaime were indeed bastards of Aerys Targaryen, born of the Mad King’s cruelty? If so, it would mean the Baratheon dynasty was built on a lie, and Westeros could not afford to fracture now. Rumors of the letter had already spread, whispers traveling faster than ravens. Varys had confirmed it—copies had been sent to lords and ladies across the realm. Soon enough, Tywin Lannister would hear of it, and Jon knew the man would not take kindly to being branded a cuckold. The Lannister pride was a dangerous thing to wound.

But it wasn’t just Tywin who worried Jon. It was Robert. The king was drowning himself in wine and whores, but once his rage returned—and it would—it would be fierce, unforgiving. What would Robert do to his children? Would he disown them, declare them bastards? Jon shuddered at the thought, though a part of him wondered if it would be the right thing.

Jon traced a finger over the worn page of an old book, a tome on the great houses of Westeros. Steffon Baratheon, son of Ormund Baratheon and Rhaelle Targaryen, had black hair and blue eyes. Steffon and Cassana Estermont, with her light brown hair and green eyes, had produced three sons—Robert, Stannis, and Renly—all with the unmistakable Baratheon look: blue eyes and dark hair. Even Jocelyn Baratheon, daughter of Alissa Velaryon, had inherited her Baratheon father’s black hair and eyes. The only exception had been Rhaenys Targaryen the queen who never was with her purple eyes, a mark of her Velaryon blood, but even she had borne the signature Baratheon traits.

So why, of all people, did Robert have no legitimate children who looked like him?

Jon’s thoughts wandered to Robert’s bastards. He had made inquiries, discreetly. Every one of them had the Baratheon look, black of hair, and more than a few with Robert’s striking blue eyes. The thought gnawed at him, something dark and terrible taking root in his mind. What if Robert’s children were not his?

He looked again at the Lannister children. He saw no trace of Robert in them. He saw only Cersei, and—gods help him—Jaime Lannister. Jon gasped, his heart hammering in his chest. If Robert’s children were not his, if they were bastards... the implications were too terrible to consider.

He closed his eyes, pressing a hand to his forehead as a wave of exhaustion swept over him. If he had learned that Robin, his only trueborn son, was not his... it would have broken him. He thanked the gods that Lysa was a dutiful wife, that this was not a fear he had to face.

But what now? Jon stared at the ceiling, wondering if things could possibly get worse. In his heart, he knew the answer.

*scene*

Was there anything worse than having everything and losing everything? Viserys Targaryen asked himself, a question that had come to haunt him for as long as he could remember. He’d had it all once—everything that mattered. Once, he was Viserys of House Targaryen, prince of all Westeros, heir to the Iron Throne. His mother had been loving, soft, and gentle in a way he still ached for, even if her face blurred in his mind as the years passed. His brother, Rhaegar, was more than a brother—he had been a beacon of light, a warrior, and a man of great honor. Rhaegar had been everything that Viserys wanted to be. He had a best friend in his niece, Rhaenys, who followed him around the Red Keep like a shadow, giggling as they played. She had been his joy, and her little brother, Aegon, though but a babe, had been someone he adored in his own quiet way. And his father… his father was a king. A kingly father, mad or not, who ruled a kingdom that stretched from the North to Dorne. He had been a Targaryen, born with blood that could unite the realm, his house proud and ancient.

Now, there was nothing. All of it, swept away like dust in the wind.

His brother Rhaegar had fallen first, at the hands of the usurpers. Dead, they said. His chest caved in by Robert Baratheon’s war hammer at the Trident. Viserys had not seen the body but could picture it all too well. Rhaegar, with his silver hair matted in blood, his armor twisted and broken, lifeless and cold. His father had followed next, stabbed in the back by Jaime Lannister. One of the Kingsguard, someone who was supposed to die for the king, had instead been the cause of his death. A golden lion had sunk its teeth into the last Targaryen king. The thought of Jaime still made Viserys clench his fists, his nails digging into his palms until they drew blood.

But it was Rhaenys that made his throat tighten and his eyes sting with the threat of tears. His sweet niece, his best friend, had been butchered, stabbed at least half a hundred times. A little girl no older than four, her life snuffed out in a torrent of violence and cruelty. Her brother, Aegon, a mere babe, his head bashed against a wall. Viserys had heard the stories—how their bodies had been presented before Robert Baratheon, how the usurper had laughed, had been joyful in their deaths. Elia Martell, Rhaegar’s wife, had not fared better. She had been raped, killed, her blood staining the halls of the Red Keep.

His father, dead. His brother, dead. His niece, his nephew, his sister-in-law, all dead. Viserys had been left with nothing. Except Daenerys.

His mother had been pregnant with her at the time, heavy with child as the storm clouds gathered over their house. Daenerys, his last remaining family. Daenerys, who had survived the birth that had taken their mother’s life. It had been too much—too much for his mother to bear. The complications of childbirth, the stress of seeing her dynasty crumble, knowing that enemies surrounded them on all sides… It had killed her, and Daenerys had lived. Viserys had been just seven years old when it all happened, a child still reeling from the loss of everything he had ever known. He was the legitimate king of Westeros, but Westeros wanted nothing of him. Westeros had only ever taken from him and his family, taken and taken until there was nothing left.

They had fled to Essos after that. Fleeing in disgrace, escaping to a foreign land where no one cared that he was a Targaryen. For a time, it had been bearable. Ser Willem Darry had taken care of them, had given them shelter, food, and a semblance of stability. But even that hadn’t lasted. Ser Willem had fallen ill, and when he died, everything fell apart. The servants had stolen what little they had left, taking their money and jewels, leaving Viserys and Daenerys impoverished and alone.

Soon after, they had been thrown out of the house in Braavos. He could still remember that day—the cold, the rain, the feeling of the world collapsing around him once more. It had only been him and Daenerys then. Two penniless orphans in a city that cared nothing for them. The last remnants of House Targaryen, reduced to begging in the streets.

Life in the streets had been nothing but merciless. Viserys had still been a child, but that didn’t matter. The world wasn’t kind to children, especially not children of fallen kings. They had to survive somehow. He had sold the remaining possessions that hadn’t been stolen, and when that wasn’t enough, he had become a beggar. Viserys Targaryen, the rightful king of Westeros, had begged for scraps of bread, for coins, for anything that could keep him and Daenerys alive. He had endured the mockery, the cruelty of strangers, the beatings that left him bloody and bruised. They had looked at him as if he were worse than dog dung, as if his very existence was a sin that needed to be stamped out. Sometimes, their disgust turned to violence. They would beat him, kick him, spit on him, and he could still remember the taste of blood in his mouth, the way it made him feel as if his life meant nothing.

There had been nights when he cried himself to sleep, when he wanted to give up, to stop fighting, to let the world swallow him whole. But he couldn’t. He couldn’t because of Daenerys. Daenerys, the sister he hated and loved in equal measure. Daenerys, who had taken their mother from him, who had been the cause of their mother’s death. Daenerys, who was the only family he had left. Daenerys, who depended on him for everything. He had sold his mother’s crown, the last thing he had of her, to feed Daenerys. There were weeks when he didn’t eat so that she could. There were times when he had to kill to protect her.

She was his everything, and she was the reason he had to endure. She was the reason he couldn’t give up. But he wasn’t perfect. He knew that. He had given everything for her, but sometimes the way she looked at him—like he was a monster, like he was a disappointment—it cut deeper than any blade. How could she not see that everything he did was for them? For her?

The world called him the Beggar King. They looked at him and saw a jest, a boy who clung to dreams of a throne he would never sit on. He had begged for the support of magisters, wealthy men and women, triarchs, even slavers. He had done things no child, no king, no man should ever be forced to do, all in the hope of regaining their throne, of making Daenerys a queen. And yet, there were days when he couldn’t help but hate her for it.

It had been in those desperate days that he had entered into talks with Illyrio Mopatis, a magister in Pentos. The talks had seemed promising. It was then that he had heard of the revolt in Astapor. A boy, they said, had risen from the dead to bring down the Good Masters. Viserys had dismissed it as nonsense at first. The fall of the Good Masters was believable, but a boy risen from the dead? It was the stuff of tavern tales. Still, something gnawed at him. The boy was said to be a pleasure slave, a former whore turned liberator. The usurper, Robert Baratheon, had put a ludicrous bounty on the boy’s head, believing him to be Rhaegar’s son, whisked away from the Red Keep all those years ago.

Could it be? Could this boy be Aegon, his nephew? The thought gripped him. Could there be another Targaryen in the world, another remnant of their family? The idea that they weren’t alone, that there was someone else with Targaryen blood, was too powerful to ignore.

Maybe it was wrong. Maybe the usurper had made an error. But if there was a chance—any chance—that they weren’t alone, he had to see for himself. Viserys was a king, the rightful king of Westeros. But more than that, he had been a son, a brother, and if the gods were kind, he might still be an uncle.

Fate was shifting. The last remnants of the Targaryens would go to Astapor, not just for a throne, but for something far more precious—family

*scene*

The world moved in cycles. Life itself was nothing but an endless loop of birth, growth, decay, and death, each phase feeding into the next. If there was one thing that life had taught me—one eternal truth that time had imprinted upon me—it was that change, in all its forms, was inevitable. It was the only constant, the only thing I could rely on in this shifting world. Even the strongest empires crumbled to dust, their glory forgotten, their power diminished. The dragon itself—the monstrosity that had devoured the souls of countless thousands—had learned this truth too late.

I could still recall the disdain in its voice, the casual arrogance with which it dismissed humanity. To it, humans were nothing more than insects to be crushed beneath its talons. We were weak, fragile, deserving of the suffering it had brought upon us, simply because we could not oppose its strength. It reveled in its power, believing that might made right. The souls it had consumed were, in its eyes, nothing more than the natural order of things. But that cruelty, that sense of superiority, had given me an idea—a way to punish it in a manner far more fitting than mere death.

Before I found myself in this body—before I awoke as a child slave—I had known of gods, of their hubris, of their punishments. My grandfather had filled my young mind with the myths of Greece, stories of Olympus and Tartarus, of Zeus's fury and Hades' unyielding grip on the underworld. I had learned to respect the lessons buried in those tales: that no one, no matter how powerful, was beyond punishment, that even gods could fall when they overstepped their bounds. It was from these stories that I took my cue. The dragon had seen itself as a god, above humanity, above justice. But like those ancient deities, it too could be brought low.

The dragon saw humanity as nothing but tools, toys to be discarded when broken. It took pride in its domination, its contempt for the weak, but I saw a far more fitting punishment. Its strength, its very essence, would be turned against it. I had taken the souls it had consumed—souls of the innocent, of the Lhazareen butchered by the Dothraki, of the slaves offered as sacrifices—and used them to fuel a miracle, a resurrection. I brought back those who had suffered unjustly, those who had known the whip, the sword, the flame, and gave them life anew. Even among the Dothraki, there had been innocents—children, women who had scorned the cruelty of their kin in silence. I resurrected them as well, giving them the chance to live free of the chains that had bound them.

But I did not stop there. No, the dragon's punishment needed to be complete. I could have killed it—could have erased its existence from the world—but that would have been too easy. Death was a release, an end to suffering. It deserved worse. So, I scattered its consciousness, broke its mind into a million pieces, and buried each fragment in the earth, in the plants, in the grass that now bloomed where the Dothraki Sea once stretched. It would watch—forever unable to act—as life thrived around it, as those it had sought to destroy flourished. Its essence, once so proud and mighty, was now nothing but a helpless observer, a powerless remnant of its former self. It could hate, it could seethe, but it could not touch the world it had once sought to control.

Some would call this vengeance, and perhaps it was. But justice and vengeance are not always so different. Justice demands balance, and what better balance than to force the dragon to witness the world it had tried to burn rise from its ashes, stronger than before? It would watch as the Dothraki, who had once ridden free across the endless grasslands, became nothing more than a memory, their empire erased, their lands transformed into a new Eden. A sea of green stretched before me, rivers and lakes winding through the landscape like veins of life. Flowers bloomed in every hue—vivid reds, deep purples, bright yellows, colors so brilliant they seemed to belong to another world. Each bloom carried meaning—rebirth, new beginnings, future joy. This land, once a desert of death, was now a paradise, a testament to what could be born from suffering.

The dragon had been reduced to nothing more than a silent witness to this transformation. Its ego, once vast and consuming, had been torn to shreds, leaving behind only a pathetic remnant, a dredge of what it once was. It could no longer influence, could no longer harm. Its punishment was to see its own legacy undone, to watch as the world thrived without it, despite it.

There was a certain cruelty in this, I knew. It was a torture of its own kind, forcing the creature to witness the triumph of those it had scorned. But cruelty, in this case, was not without justice. I had seen in my past life that even the greatest monsters among men could change, could be redeemed. Perhaps, in time, even this broken remnant of the dragon could learn, could see the error of its ways. But if it did not—if it remained as hateful, as spiteful as it had been—then its suffering would be nothing more than what it deserved.

Yet, a part of me felt unsatisfied. The Dothraki were gone, their cruelty extinguished, but the world was still filled with slavers, with those who profited from the suffering of others. Could I truly stop here, knowing that so many still lived in chains? Was I not just as guilty as those who held the whip if I did nothing to stop them? My soldiers, the ones I had resurrected, would follow me without question. They had died for me once, believing in my dream, and they would do so again if I asked it of them. They believed in me as the faithful believe in their gods, and if I led them into the fires of hell itself, they would march willingly at my side.

Even the Lhazareen, peaceful by nature, would pick up blades if I asked it of them. I knew this without reading their minds, without needing to speak a word. They would follow me because they believed in the world I promised to create—a world where the weak were not subjugated but strengthened by the strong, where cruelty and power did not reign supreme, but dreams and will.

And if they did not come, I could go alone. In a way, I was already a god to the people of this world. If I wished it, I could make fire rain from the heavens, as the God of the Old Testament had done to Sodom and Gomorrah. I could summon terrors from the depths of nightmares, horrors that would slaughter everything in their path. I had fought the dragon, and though it had been stronger, older, more powerful than I, I had emerged victorious. That battle had changed me—my magic was stronger now, sharper, more potent. I could feel it coursing through me like a river, a force of nature that could reshape the world if I so desired.

This was not a question of whether I could win, but of how I would. Of how I should.

The dragon had not been entirely wrong. Power was what allowed me to turn the impossible into the inevitable. Power had allowed me to heal and feed the slaves I had freed, to turn odds that should have crushed me into odds that favored me. And it was power that would allow me to break the chains of every slave in this cursed land.

But power alone was not enough. I had promised myself, when I awoke in the body of that dead child, that I would not become like the monsters I fought. I would appeal to reason, to human common sense. And if that failed, I would appeal to their fear—the fear of what I could bring upon them if they refused to change. The slavers of Slaver’s Bay, the merchants, the free men who profited from the suffering of others—they had heard of me by now. They knew that I had eradicated the Dothraki, something no one in Essos had ever achieved. Even if they did not believe in the magic they heard spoken of in whispers, they would believe in the facts. They would believe that I was capable of doing the impossible.

Change, real change, had always come through violence. It was a hard truth, one that I had learned long ago. History had shown me that the threat of violence, or violence itself, was often the only way to reshape society. But I did not want to kill more than was necessary. I had seen enough death, heard enough screams to last a thousand lifetimes. And more than that, I was tired—mentally, if not physically.

I missed Astapor. I missed Nileyah.

But before I returned to the city I had freed, I would send letters—letters to the slavers of Slaver’s Bay, to the cities of Essos that still practiced the vile trade. I would offer them a choice. They could end their practices willingly, or they could face the consequences. I would return to Astapor with my soldiers, and we would celebrate our victory over the Dothraki. We would feast, we would rest, and then we would wait. If those cities chose to resist, if they chose to test my resolve, I would show them what a true monster looked like.

I would give them the chance to avoid bloodshed. But if they forced my hand, I would shatter their chains, their cities, their lives. And when I did, it would be without regret.

Let them think me a demon. Let them call me a monster. If that was the price of freeing the world, then so be it.

*scene*

To the Cities of Essos that Trade in Flesh,

You have built your wealth on the broken backs of the enslaved, your power drawn from suffering and shackles. For too long, your walls have stood high, your markets filled with the voices of those you have bound, voices I can hear. That time has ended.

I am Aegor of Astapor. My name has reached your ears, and you know or will learn soon enough of what I did to the Dothraki. Now hear this: your trade in slaves is to end. Cease your wicked commerce, free those you have bound, or face the same fate as those who dared defy me before.

You are given one choice: break your chains, or I will break them for you. Burn your markets, release your captives, or prepare for the storm that comes. Your armies will crumble, your cities will fall, and you will know what it means to be powerless before the wrath of the free.

This is not a negotiation, nor a plea. It is your only warning.

Your time is running out.

Aegor of Astapor

A man who once was a slave