Serra Pov
"Jaehaerys and Saera, I do not know whether I will be able to defeat my cousin Maelys in combat for command of the Golden Company," Father had said one evening, his voice heavy with the weight of destiny. The flickering firelight cast long shadows on his face, illuminating the grim determination in his eyes.
I looked up at him, my own eyes brimming with tears. His words felt like the herald of doom, the kind that foretells an inevitable tragedy but leaves you powerless to stop it.
"If something were to happen to me," he continued, his voice softening, "I need you both to stay together, no matter what."
He smiled, that tender, fleeting smile that spoke of love and regret. He kissed our brows in turn, his lips warm and comforting against my skin, and then pulled us into an embrace.
"Live a peaceful life, my children. The lust for the throne has taken much from our family already."
I could barely speak, but my elder brother, Jaehaerys, stepped forward, his jaw set with determination. "I will take care of Saera, Father," he promised, his voice steady but his eyes betraying the storm within.
That was the last time we saw him alive.
The next morning, Father rode out to face Maelys in single combat, the dawn breaking over the camp of the Golden Company. I stood with Jaehaerys, clutching his hand as we watched our father stride into battle. He had looked so strong, so invincible—but even legends can bleed.
When the battle was over, Maelys stood victorious, holding our father's severed head high for all to see. The cheers of his supporters echoed in my ears, drowning out my own screams. Jaehaerys grabbed my hand, his face a mask of grief and fury, and we fled the camp before Maelys could turn his attention to us.
Hours turned into days, and days into weeks as we wandered, lost and broken. We crossed rivers and forests, slipping away from the reach of Maelys's men. With every step, the world we had known—the world of banners and bloodlines, of glory and ambition—faded into a distant memory.
Eventually, we found ourselves in Myr, penniless and forgotten. We discarded our names, shedding them like a snake's old skin. Jaehaerys became Varys, a name as foreign as the streets we now roamed, and I became Serra. It was a poor disguise, but it was all we had.
The city was unkind to children without coin or connections. We begged on the streets, surviving on scraps and stolen moments of charity. Varys did what he could to keep us alive, but the boy who had once been my proud, protective elder brother was changing. Hunger and hardship hardened him, and I could see the light in his eyes dimming with every passing day.
And then came the day I was taken from him.
The slavers came in the dead of night, dragging me away from the alley where we had sought shelter. I screamed for Varys, clawing at my captors, but he could not save me. I remember the look on his face as he fought to reach me—a mixture of rage, helplessness, and despair.
They took me to Lys, where I was sold to a brothel. The years that followed were a blur of pain and humiliation. I learned quickly to build walls around my heart, to bury my feelings deep where they could not be used against me.
But even in the darkest corners of that wretched place, I held on to one small hope: that one day, I would find Varys again.
That hope seemed foolish until the day Illyrio came into my life. He was a magister from Pentos, wealthy and powerful, and he had come to the brothel to make a purchase. I remember the way he looked at me—not with the leering gaze of the other men, but with something softer, kinder.
He bought me, but not for the reasons I had feared. Over time, I came to see that Illyrio was different. He spoke to me as an equal, listened to my stories, and treated me with a respect I had not known in years.
It was through Illyrio that I learned of Varys's fate. He told me how my brother had risen from the streets of Myr to become a man of influence, a spymaster who dealt in secrets and shadows. When Illyrio arranged for us to meet, I could hardly contain my emotions.
The man who stood before me was not the boy I had lost. Varys was now a eunuch, his body and soul scarred by his experiences. His eyes were cold, calculating, and the warmth of our childhood bond seemed buried beneath layers of ambition and bitterness.
"The Iron Throne is our birthright," he said, his voice devoid of emotion. "As the last of the Blackfyres, it is we who are worthy to rule."
But I no longer cared about thrones or crowns. My heart had found solace in Illyrio, and I wanted only a simple life—a life free from the curses of our bloodline.
Illyrio and I married in a quiet ceremony, and for the first time in years, I felt something akin to happiness. He loved me truly, and I found peace in his arms.
Now, as I sat in our manse in Pentos, the soft light of the moon streaming through the windows, I placed a hand on my stomach, feeling the faint stirrings of new life within me.
I looked up at the night sky, the stars glimmering like tiny beacons of hope, and for the first time in a long time, I allowed myself to dream of a brighter future.
The past was a dark and winding road, full of loss and pain, but I had emerged from it stronger. I had found love, and soon I would hold my child in my arms—a child who would know nothing of war or betrayal, only the love of a mother who had fought to give them a better life.
The darkness of my life had lifted, and in its place, I saw only light.
A faint creak of the door brought me back to the present. I turned to see Illyrio entering, his broad frame silhouetted against the lamplight. His face looked drawn and weary, and I could see the weight of his recent dealings etched into the lines of his cheeks.
"Saera," he said softly, his voice carrying both relief and hesitation. I rose to meet him, wrapping my arms around him in an embrace that spoke of both love and longing.
I kissed him deeply, savoring the comfort his presence brought, but as I pulled back, I couldn't ignore the guilt in his eyes.
"Where were you, Illyrio?" I asked, my voice tinged with concern.
He hesitated, glancing away.
"Please," I said, my tone firmer now, "tell me you weren't with Varys, plotting something against Prince Daemon."
At my words, he looked like a child caught stealing lemon cakes. That guilty, sheepish expression was one I had come to know too well in recent months. Ever since Prince Daemon Targaryen had arrived in Pentos, my brother and my husband had been thick as thieves, scheming and whispering behind closed doors.
"I told you not to trust my brother and his fantastical plans," I continued, my voice rising. "The greed for that blasted throne has already taken everything from my family. Please, Illyrio, think of our future—our family."
To emphasize my plea, I guided his hand gently to my stomach, where new life stirred within me.
For a moment, his guilt melted away, replaced by pure joy. His eyes widened, and a smile broke across his face. "You're with child?"
I nodded, and he laughed, scooping me into his arms and spinning me around.
"This is wonderful news, Saera," he said, his voice filled with genuine happiness. For a brief moment, I felt a glimmer of hope that our life could be simple, that we could escape the shadows of the past.
But happiness, I had learned, was fleeting.
After a while, Illyrio's expression grew serious again. He set me down gently and sat beside me, his hands clasped over mine. "Saera," he began, "I know you want no part of your brother's plans, but trust me when I say that Varys is a genius. His schemes are flawless. With his guidance, our child will receive what they deserve—a legacy, a throne, a future."
I looked at him intently, my heart sinking. "Where is he, husband?" I asked, my voice steady despite the unease building inside me.
Illyrio opened his mouth to reply, but before he could speak, the sound of a horn shattered the night's quiet. My blood ran cold as I turned toward the window.
Outside, chaos erupted. Shadows moved swiftly across the walls of the manse as masked figures slipped through the gates, their weapons gleaming in the moonlight.
"Illyrio," I whispered, fear lacing my voice.
He grabbed my hand, pulling me toward the back of the room. "Stay close," he said urgently, his usual calm replaced by raw panic.
We hurried through the manse as the sound of clashing steel and dying screams filled the air. The Unsullied guards Illyrio had hired were falling like flies, their disciplined ranks no match for the ruthless efficiency of our attackers.
Before we could reach the secret passage that led out of the manse, we were surrounded. Men clad in dark armor blocked our path, their faces hidden behind masks.
A voice rang out from behind them, sharp and commanding. "I've found them, my prince!"
The men parted, and my breath caught in my throat. A figure stepped forward, his dark armor adorned with a golden dragon emblem. A sword hung at his side—a valyrian steel blade I recognized immediately: Dark Sister.
But it was his eyes that froze me in place. One was a deep violet, the other a pale green, mismatched and piercing. They held a predatory glint, like a wolf savoring its prey.
"It seems," the man said, his voice smooth and mocking, "I have the last of the Blackfyres in my grasp."
-----
Daemon Pov
I stood in the courtyard of Illyrio Mopatis's opulent manse, the air heavy with the scent of charred wood and fear. The fires from the breached gates still smoldered behind me, casting long shadows across the polished stone floor. My men moved with practiced precision, dragging prisoners into place, looting valuables, and preparing the pyre I had ordered.
Before me, bound and trembling, sat Illyrio and his wife, the woman who had intrigued me since I first learned of her existence—Serra Blackfyre. The last of her accursed bloodline.
I leaned back against the blackened stone of the archway, a smile etched on my face as I studied them. Illyrio was sweating profusely, his ornate robes now little more than a pitiful attempt at dignity. Serra, however, held herself differently. Her defiance was palpable, even in her fear.
"So," I began, my voice smooth as silk, "here we have Illyrio Mopatis, Magister of Pentos, and Serra Blackfyre, the mother of Aegon Blackfyre. The boy who would one day strut around as the true king of Westeros in a future that will never come to pass."
Illyrio raised his head, attempting to muster some semblance of courage. "You are mistaken, my prince," he said, his voice trembling despite his efforts to sound firm.
He gestured toward Serra. "My wife is no Blackfyre. She was a whore from Lys, nothing more. I purchased her and elevated her to—"
The sound of my gauntleted fist striking his jaw echoed across the courtyard. Illyrio crumpled to the ground, blood pooling at the corner of his mouth.
"I detest liars," I said coldly. Serra screamed and rushed to his side, cradling his head as tears streamed down her face.
"I am a Magister of Pentos!" Illyrio sputtered, struggling to rise. "You will pay for this affront! You will be punished!"
I laughed, a rich, mocking sound that filled the courtyard. "Oh, Illyrio," I said, shaking my head. "Your city's masters have already accepted my terms. Pentos and House Targaryen have struck a most agreeable accord. The enemies of the Targaryens will be brought to justice, and the enemies of Pentos will be dealt with in kind."
I leaned closer, my grin widening. "And, as it happens, the current Prince of Pentos cannot stand the sight of you. Did you really think your schemes could outpace mine?"
My men brought in logs and stacked them meticulously in the center of the courtyard. Nearby, Melisandre stood silently, her red robes swirling in the faint breeze. Her eyes, burning with an almost inhuman intensity, never left the growing pyre.
I turned my attention to Serra, stepping closer to her. Even in her fear, she was beautiful—a beauty steeped in tragedy, with silver-gold hair that framed her pale face and violet eyes that blazed with defiance. She was pure Valyrian blood, and for a moment, I allowed myself to imagine what children we might have had.
"Our children would have been magnificent," I said, reaching out to touch her cheek. She flinched away from my hand, her lips curling in disgust.
"You're the closest thing to pure Valyrian blood outside my own family," I continued, my voice low and thoughtful. "A rare gem, indeed."
She spat at me, the glob of saliva striking my breastplate. My men moved to strike her, but I raised a hand to stop them. I laughed instead, wiping the spit away with a slow, deliberate motion.
"You have spirit," I said. "I like that."
And then I struck her—not with the full force of my fist, but enough to send her sprawling to the ground.
"My fists are for everyone, my lady," I said, my voice laced with dark amusement.
I turned my gaze back to Illyrio, who was watching the scene with wide, horrified eyes. "Enough of these games," I said, my tone sharp. "Where is Blackfyre?"
Illyrio's face went pale. "What do you mean?" he stammered, his voice barely audible.
I motioned to my guards, who yanked Serra to her feet and dragged her toward me. I drew my dragonbone dagger, its blade gleaming wickedly in the firelight.
"Tell me where Blackfyre is, and where the dragon eggs are hidden," I said, my voice cold and unyielding. "Or she loses a finger."
"No! Please—" Illyrio began, but his words were cut off by Serra's scream as I brought the dagger down, severing her thumb in one swift motion.
Blood spattered across the stone, and Serra's cries of pain echoed through the courtyard.
"You monster!" Illyrio shouted, struggling against his bonds. "Leave her alone!"
"Do not make me repeat myself, Magister," I said, my tone dangerously calm.
Melisandre stepped forward, wrapping Serra's bleeding hand in strips of cloth. Her movements were efficient, almost reverent. I could see the flicker of satisfaction in her eyes—she knew as well as I did that Serra's blood was precious.
"I'll tell you," Illyrio gasped, his voice breaking. "I'll tell you everything."
He gave precise directions to the vault where the items were hidden. I sent my men to retrieve them, and within moments, they returned, carrying the treasures I had sought: the sword Blackfyre and three dragon eggs.
Blackfyre gleamed even in the dim light, its Valyrian steel blade a testament to its legacy.
"Wonderful," I said, a genuine smile spreading across my face as I took the items.
"I am grateful to you, Serra Blackfyre," I said, my voice almost gentle. "The Blackfyres have always been a thorn in the Targaryen's side, but your blood will serve a far greater purpose. The world cannot know the truth of what happens here. They will believe the dragons returned thanks to me—but I will remember your valiant sacrifice."
The light of the moon cast a cold, silver glow over the courtyard, where Serra Blackfyre knelt bound and trembling. Her silken hair was disheveled, her violet eyes wide with terror. Beside her, Illyrio Mopatis groaned, blood dripping from his split lip, his fine robes torn and sullied. The once-proud Magister of Pentos now looked as pathetic as a dog groveling at its master's feet.
I stood before them, my hand resting idly on the hilt of Dark Sister, the ancestral sword of House Targaryen. The weight of the blade felt satisfying—a reminder of my lineage, my destiny, and my power.
Illyrio's cries had grown hoarse from pleading. He had begged, bargained, and blustered, but I had no intention of granting mercy.
"She's with child," Illyrio croaked, his voice barely audible over the crackle of the pyre being built behind us. "Please, my prince… spare her. Spare my wife. Spare my son!"
I laughed, a sharp and mirthless sound that echoed through the courtyard. "Your son?" I said mockingly. "A bastard Blackfyre whelp? The gods must have a sense of humor."
Illyrio's face contorted with fury, but he knew better than to rise to my taunts. He had no power here, no allies to call upon, and no hope of escape.
"Melisandre," I called, turning to the Red Priestess who stood nearby. She had been silent throughout the proceedings, her fiery eyes observing everything with an air of detachment.
"Yes, my prince?" she replied, her voice a smooth whisper that carried an undercurrent of power.
"Can we hatch any more of the eggs?" I asked, gesturing toward Serra's rounded belly.
Melisandre's gaze lingered on Serra for a moment before she shook her head. "No, my prince. The blood required is not sufficient"
I sighed theatrically, glancing at Illyrio. "Well, there you have it. Your wife and child will meet the flames together."
Illyrio lunged toward me, his hands bound but his desperation giving him strength. My guards intercepted him easily, shoving him back to his knees.
"You are a monster!" he spat, his voice breaking.
"For the greater good," I replied calmly, gesturing for my men to take him to the pyre.
They dragged him away, kicking and screaming, while Serra sobbed quietly. Her defiance had crumbled in the face of despair, and now she was nothing more than a broken woman awaiting her fate.
I turned my attention to the dragon eggs brought from Volatis cradled in my arms. They were beautiful—treasures of Valyria, long thought lost to the world. One gleamed with the color of molten gold, another burned crimson like blood, and the last was a stormy grey, its surface shimmering like smoke.
"These," I said, holding the eggs aloft, "will be my legacy. My children."
Melisandre approached, her eyes fixed on the eggs. "The flames will awaken them, my prince. Their hatching will herald the return of the dragons—and the dawn of a new age."
I smiled, savoring the weight of those words. "Then let us proceed," I said, handing the eggs to her.
The pyre was massive, its base constructed of thick logs and kindling, with chains securing Illyrio and Serra in place. They were bound back-to-back, their faces pale and streaked with tears. The scent of pitch and woodsmoke filled the air, mingling with the metallic tang of blood.
"Please, no!" Illyrio screamed, struggling against his bonds. "I'll give you anything you want! Gold, ships, men—anything!"
I stepped forward, my expression unreadable. "You've already given me what I want," I said. "Blackfyre and the eggs. The rest is for the good of the realm."
Melisandre began her chant, her voice rising and falling in a language older than Westeros itself. The flames roared to life, licking hungrily at the base of the pyre.
"Varys will kill you for this," Illyrio hissed, his voice thick with venom.
"Let the eunuch try," I said, tossing the torch into the wood.
The fire erupted, consuming the pyre in an instant. Illyrio and Serra screamed, their cries piercing the night. I watched without flinching, my gaze fixed on the writhing figures as the flames danced higher and higher.
The smell of burning flesh filled the air, but I paid it no mind. My focus was on the eggs, now nestled in the heart of the pyre. The heat of the flames caused their surfaces to shimmer and crack, the faint sounds of life stirring within.
Hours passed, and the pyre burned down to embers. The sky was streaked with the first light of dawn when it happened—the eggs split open, one after another, revealing the creatures within.
The first hatchling was golden, its scales glinting like sunlight on water. The second was blood-red, its eyes burning with an inner fire. The third was grey as smoke, its wings dark and menacing.
I approached them slowly, my heart pounding with a mix of awe and triumph. The golden dragon let out a soft chirp, its tiny teeth bared as it regarded me with curiosity.
"Well," I said, a smile spreading across my face. "It seems I'm a father now."
Melisandre stepped forward, her expression one of reverence. "The world will tremble at your name, my prince," she said.
I nodded, my gaze never leaving the dragons. "Let them tremble," I said softly. "The age of dragons has returned."