The Son of Ice and Fire (Jon Snow SI)

Neferion roared as he flew in circles above the grassy vale, his mighty wings carving through the smoky sky. Below, Maekar observed the battlefield—the destruction he had wrought. The once formidable host of Aegon, assembled with the promise of victory, now lay in tatters. The chaos was plain to see; Aegon's dream had turned into a waking nightmare.

Directly beneath him, the center of Aegon's army was in ruins. The proud golden rose of Highgarden was no more—replaced now by scorched and blackened earth, the remains of men and horses reduced to charred husks. Nothing lived in the dragon's wake, the smoke curled upward in thick, dark tendrils, seeking to blot out the very sun that had borne witness to the destruction.

Maekar's gaze moved to the rear of the army. There, he saw the banners of Houses Hightower, Redwyne, and Florent advancing. They pushed into the disorganized masses of Aegon's remaining forces, who were struggling to make sense of the utter chaos engulfing them. From the front, Maekar's own army of Crownlanders, Riverlanders, and Stormlanders pressed forward, advancing steadily, tightening the noose on the disarrayed host.

It was a perfect encirclement—Aegon's men were being crushed from both the front and the rear. To his right, Maekar spotted a band of lords and knights desperately trying to rally their men. The Dornish stood defiantly, the sunburst of House Martell fluttering above them in the midst of the chaos.

The Dornish were the only ones who maintained a sense of order; among Aegon's Reachmen, chaos had fully taken hold. Large groups of the Reachmen threw down their weapons, scattering and fleeing across the field in every direction. Many stopped only to glance fearfully at the sky, their eyes wide in terror at the sight of Neferion circling like a vengeful god overhead. Some men, knowing their fate, dropped to their knees in surrender, their arms raised as the soldiers of Maekar's advancing line closed in around them, crying for mercy.

Maekar's gaze returned to the Dornishmen. They still fought as he could see Lords Rykkers, Stauntons, and Mootons' forces battling fiercely against them. Their spears were braced, their shields locked, and their backs straight as they resisted the advance, determined not to break.

He needed to shatter their morale—one last show of force would be enough to ensure a complete rout.

"Neferion!" Maekar called. The dragon's great head twisted in response, his green eyes narrowing as he locked onto the target that Maekar directed him toward.

Neferion descended, his chest expanding as he drew in a deep breath, and then he unleashed a devastating torrent of dragonfire. A searing, hellish blaze erupted from his maw, the flames washing over the ranks of House Wyl and Martell. The air seemed to shimmer, distorting with the sheer heat of the fire, as men screamed in terror and agony, their bodies consumed almost instantly in the white-hot flames.

The effect was immediate and catastrophic. The morale of the Dornish broke like a dam—what little discipline and cohesion they had maintained shattered in an instant as they watched their fellow Dornishmen engulfed in the dragon's fury.

It was now a complete rout.

Maekar guided Neferion to land a fair distance away from the smoldering battlefield. He took a moment to steady himself atop the dragon's broad neck before commanding Neferion to lie down, his large form resting on the ground.

He dismounted carefully, his eyes scanning the battlefield, taking in the scenes of chaos which were slowly being brought to order by his men. He could also see Lyonel leading a group of Varangians toward him. As they approached, Maekar's gaze briefly shifted to the banners of the Hightowers, Florents, and Redwynes, his face breaking into a smile.

Leyton Hightower had been instrumental in this scheme—a man as obsessed with prophecies as Maekar's late father had been. It was during the Greyjoy Rebellion that Maekar had first met Leyton, and what started as an exchange of knowledge grew into a bond that would ultimately prove invaluable. With some involvement from Brynden, Maekar had managed to win Leyton's loyalty, convincing him that he was the only chance they had against the approaching darkness. Neferion existing helped solidify this alliance as well.

It was Leyton who helped secure the loyalty of the Florents. Their price had been simple enough—Highgarden. The Redwynes were a late addition, their loyalty secured only after Neferion had made his first public appearance. It also helped matters that he was friendly with Lord Redwyne, as they worked together in Rhaegar's small council.

Leyton had his own demands as well. He cared little for Mace Tyrell or most of House Tyrell, but he demanded the safety of his grandchildren and his daughter. Margaery had been taken by Leyton's men and was secure within the Hightower, far from the chaos of war. Maekar intended to keep his promise—Leyton would be rewarded, as would the Florents and the Redwynes, though in a different manner.

These rewards, Maekar knew, would splinter the Reach once and for all. It was a fault line that Aegon the Conqueror himself should have split long ago. Maekar grinned at the thought—the Reach would never be the same again.

Lyonel and the Varangians finally reached him, their armor covered in grime and ash, but their eyes alight with the thrill of victory. Lyonel led Maekar's black warhorse forward.

"Your Grace," Lyonel said, offering the reins.

Maekar took them and mounted the horse in one smooth motion. He urged it forward, riding toward the battlefield where everything was winding down.

His victory was now complete; now he would need to deal with the aftermath.

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With the battle over, Maekar wasted no time in securing his victory. He commanded contingents of soldiers to scour the area, searching for any escaped men from Aegon's shattered forces. He did not want them regrouping to cause further trouble—or worse, descending into banditry, a nuisance that would only plague the realm in the future. He gave orders to strip the surrendered peasant levies of their weapons and allow them to leave in peace, but any knights or lords who surrendered were to be taken prisoner. They would await his judgment—whether they were ransomed, released, or sent to the Wall. For some of the more troublesome, experienced commanders, Maekar already had a plan: sending them to the Wall would not only rid him of potential threats but also bolster its defenses against the threat that lay in the future.

Inside a hastily erected tent, Maekar studied a map laid across a wooden table. He allowed himself a rare moment to breathe as he looked over Westeros. He had done it. He had secured the realm. Westeros was his. But victory was only the beginning; now he needed to reshape it into something that could endure—a realm that would not fracture with the passing of a single ruler.

His fingers traced the borders of the Riverlands, moving along the Crownlands and then south to the Stormlands. He considered his ambitions—to annex the Riverlands entirely into the Crownlands, perhaps absorb parts of the Reach and Stormlands as well. If he could centralize power in this new kingdom—a kingdom where the Targaryen kings reigned with unquestionable authority—then in the future there would be less risk of rebellion from the other kingdoms.

The Baratheons were no longer a threat—Stannis was dead, and his son Durran had fallen with him. Shireen was the only one left, a mere girl. The Stormlords, many of whom had supported Aegon, were faced with a choice: either bend the knee to Maekar or face his wrath. They bent quickly after Stannis fell, and he had treated them leniently, gaining their loyalty. He wondered what to do—who would rule the Stormlands now? Perhaps there was another path for them. Perhaps he could absorb the Stormlands entirely, creating one cohesive domain that stretched from the Neck to the Dornish Marches.

An ambitious plan began forming in his mind. It would take careful maneuvering and relentless effort—if it failed, it would be a disaster. But if he succeeded, Westeros would be firmly in Targaryen hands, and none would dare challenge their power again.

His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of someone approaching. Lyonel entered the tent, followed by Lord Hightower, Lord Florent, and Lord Redwyne. They all knelt before him.

"Your Grace," they said in unison.

"Rise, my lords," Maekar replied, gesturing for them to stand.

They rose, and Maekar regarded them with a measured gaze. "You will all be greatly rewarded for your loyalty," he said. "You have helped me win this war, and I do not forget my friends."

Leyton Hightower was the first to speak, his voice solemn. "You have fulfilled all I asked for, Your Grace. My grandchildren live, and you have brought this war to an end. All I hope is that you continue your victories, not only against your earthly foes but against the darkness that rises."

Lord Florent and Lord Redwyne exchanged puzzled glances, not quite understanding Leyton's cryptic words. Maekar merely nodded.

"I hope so too, Lord Hightower. I hope so too," Maekar said, then shifted his attention, a small smile playing on his lips.

"But know this, my lords, your loyalty shall not be without great reward. Lord Hightower, Lord Florent," he turned to them both.

Lord Redwyne, who had so far remained silent, looked at Maekar expectantly upon hearing of rewards.

"Lord Redwyne," Maekar said, fixing his gaze on him, "your defection to my cause was unexpected but welcomed. Know that I have plans for you, my lord, and as I said, I never forget to reward my friends."

The Redwyne lord bowed deeply, a polite smile on his lips. "I am simply happy to serve, Your Grace. Whatever your will may be, I stand ready."

Maekar nodded. "It involves the Stepstones, my lord. But that is a matter for another time. For now, there are more pressing matters to discuss." He turned his gaze back to Lord Hightower and Lord Florent, his tone commanding their full attention.

"Lord Hightower, Lord Florent," Maekar called, his voice changing to one of true authority—a king commanding his vassals.

Lord Hightower and Lord Florent immediately straightened, their expressions attentive. "We are at your service, my king," Lord Florent said, bowing deeply. He sounded almost giddy, his eyes alight with excitement. This was, after all, the most significant political shift the Reach had seen in a long time—perhaps since the Conqueror himself. And Florent had reason to be eager; he was now firmly on the winning side.

Maekar gestured to the map on the table in front of them, and as the lords gathered closer, he let his gaze sweep over each of them. "It is my decision, with royal authority, to divide the Reach in two," he declared.

Gasps escaped from both Florent and Redwyne, while Leyton remained unmoved, his eyes already knowing what was to come.

Maekar turned his eyes to Hightower. "Lord Hightower," he said, "I name you Lord Paramount of the Southern Reach. You shall rule all lands south of the mouth of the Mander."

Leyton Hightower bowed deeply, his expression calm but a flicker of something—perhaps satisfaction—showed in his eyes. "I am honored, Your Grace," he said simply.

Maekar then turned to Lord Florent, whose eyes were bright with anticipation. "Lord Florent, I promised you Highgarden, but I have reconsidered my decision in the interests of the stability of the realm." He paused, letting the weight of his words sink in.

Lord Florent's face fell, confusion and disbelief washing over him. "But Your Grace, my family has held claim to Highgarden for generations."

Maekar held up a hand to silence him. "So have many of the noble houses of the Reach, Lord Florent," he said, his tone firm yet not unkind. "I intend to give you something greater. I name you Lord Paramount of the Mander—all lands north of the mouth of the Mander shall be yours. You shall rule over the northern territories of the Reach, and you will also receive new lands to further bolster your strength."

Florent opened his mouth to speak, but Maekar continued, his tone softening slightly. "In return, Highgarden will remain in my hands as a royal seat. However, you have my word that your family will be elevated—in the future a lady from your house is promised a royal marriage."

Florent hesitated, his thoughts visibly racing. For a moment, it seemed he might protest, but then a dawning understanding crossed his face. To hold Highgarden might be to invite endless challenges. But the rule of the northern Reach, consolidated and recognized by the crown, offered a power no one could dispute. Slowly, he nodded. "As you wish, Your Grace. I am grateful for your generosity."

Maekar then turned his gaze to Lord Redwyne. "Do not worry, Lord Redwyne," Maekar said with a faint smile. "I have a suitable reward in mind for you as well, but as I said, we shall talk later." Further reassuring him, Redwyne bowed, a smile of gratitude touching his lips. "Thank you, Your Grace. I am at your service."

The lords knelt then, all three bowing their heads in reverence.

At that moment, Lyonel entered, his face grave. Maekar turned to him and, with a nod, granted him permission to speak.

"Your Grace, we have found Prince Aegon. He is still alive, though gravely wounded. We have also found Prince Oberyn Martell among the survivors," Lyonel reported. "The surviving lords of Prince Aegon's host await your judgment."

Maekar's eyes narrowed as he considered Lyonel's words. "Will Aegon live?" he asked quietly.

Lyonel shook his head slightly. "He does not have much time, Your Grace."

Maekar nodded, a flicker of something—pity, perhaps—crossing his face before it vanished. "Very well," he said. "I will judge the surviving lords first, and then I will see Aegon."

Turning back to Hightower and Florent, Maekar spoke again. "To make your rule easier, I shall remove those lords who are most likely to resist your authority. What you do after that is up to you," he said, his gaze meeting each of theirs in turn. "I expect the Southern and the Northern Reach to be regions of peace and prosperity under my reign."

Leyton Hightower bowed his head. "You shall not be disappointed, Your Grace," he said.

Florent, though still digesting the news of his altered reward, nodded as well. "Indeed, Your Grace."

Just as Maekar was about to leave, Leyton Hightower cleared his throat. "Your Grace, there is... one other matter of importance."

Maekar turned his head, studying Leyton curiously. "What is it, Lord Hightower?"

Leyton hesitated for the briefest of moments before speaking. "It concerns my granddaughter, Margaery. She is with child."

Maekar's step faltered. He paused, the words striking him like a sudden blow. For a heartbeat, he stared at Hightower, his face an impassive mask. Then, beneath his breath, he muttered a curse.

"That complicates things," Maekar said quietly, exhaling slowly as he gathered his thoughts.

He turned back to Hightower. "Arrange for Lady Margaery to be brought to King's Landing," he commanded. "She will be treated with the utmost care, I assure you."

Leyton Hightower's face was grim, his gaze searching Maekar's for any hint of deception. He nodded slowly, though concern was evident in his eyes. "And what of the child, Your Grace?" he asked carefully.

Maekar's face hardened. "Girl or boy, it can be given to the Faith," he said. He offered no further explanation, turning sharply on his heel and walking away, Lyonel following behind.

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Maekar walked toward where the prisoners were gathered. The sun hung low, casting long shadows across the remnants of the battlefield, and the weary men made way for their king with bows of respect.

"Where are Oberyn and the Dornish lords?" Maekar asked, his eyes glancing over at Lyonel, who was at his side.

"They are kept separately, as you asked, my king," Lyonel replied.

Maekar paused for a moment, his gaze shifting to the gathered prisoners. He turned his head slightly toward Lyonel. "Transport the captured Reach lords to the capital. I will make my judgment there," he commanded.

Lyonel bowed slightly. "It will be done, Your Grace."

Maekar nodded. "Now, lead me to where Oberyn is kept."

Without hesitation, Lyonel led the way through the camp until they reached a small tent standing apart from the others. Two guards stood on either side, and Lyonel nodded for them to step aside. He pulled the tent flap open, allowing Maekar to step inside.

The air in the tent was heavy—a mixture of sweat and ash—and Oberyn Martell sat in chains. Despite the burns marking his hands and body, his spirit was anything but broken. The scars were fresh, pink welts across his skin, yet the fire in his gaze was unmistakable.

"Ah, our great king," Oberyn said, his voice dripping with venom. He looked up, his lips twisting into a mocking smile.

"Prince Oberyn," Maekar responded calmly.

"Dorne will never kneel," Oberyn spat. "Even if you have Rhaenys on your side."

Maekar stepped closer, his eyes never leaving Oberyn's. "Dorne is already mine, dear prince."

Oberyn's lips curled back in a bitter laugh. "My brother would never—"

"But your niece will," Maekar cut in, a smile playing on his lips.

Oberyn laughed again, the sound hollow. He shook his head slowly. "Whatever she has planned, whatever you believe, she will fail. Dorne will not submit."

Maekar's smile remained. "That would not be good for Dorne."

Oberyn sneered. "And what will you do then, usurper? Invade? March into Dorne like so many fools before you?" His eyes narrowed, his tone a challenge. "The Conqueror tried, the Young Dragon tried, and many more—do you think you'll fare any better?"

Maekar leaned in closer, his eyes boring into Oberyn's, a smirk on his lips. "Do you know, Prince Oberyn," he began, his voice low, "the safest and best way to unite a realm behind a ruler?"

Oberyn glared at him, his gaze filled with contempt, but he did not respond.

"An enemy," Maekar said simply, his smile widening. "If Arianne fails, and if Dorne refuses to submit, I won't invade—not immediately." He paused, watching Oberyn's face, noting the way the muscles of his jaw tightened. "I will wait. Slowly, I will turn Dorne into the most hated enemy of the realm. I'll ensure that the blame for every misfortune, every grievance, shifts to Dorne. Perhaps a lord or two will die of poison; perhaps their families... I will make the entire realm itch for war with Dorne."

Oberyn's defiance wavered slightly, his eyes narrowing.

"I will learn from my ancestors' mistakes," Maekar continued, his voice a whisper laced with menace. "I will take all precautions; I will prepare in every way. And then, when the time is right, I will march." He leaned in, his face inches from Oberyn's, his eyes filled with a terrible, quiet determination. "And I will kill every Dornishman I find. Every lord, every knight, every commoner—man, woman, and child. I will burn your homes; I will salt your fields. I will leave Dorne barren and lifeless if I must."

Oberyn stared at him, his eyes wide, his lips parting in shock. "You're mad," he whispered, his voice almost breaking.

Maekar leaned back, his expression softening slightly, almost as if he pitied the man before him. "Perhaps I am," he said quietly. "But the realm will be behind me, and from the ashes of Dorne, I will lay the foundation of something that will last—my children, and their children, will inherit a stable, unified realm."

He paused, watching Oberyn's reaction, then leaned closer once more. "Think of your own children, my lord," he whispered. "Hope and pray—truly pray to any gods—that Arianne succeeds. It's the only way your family survives."

Oberyn's gaze broke, his eyes lowering to the ground. There was no rage in his eyes now—only fear. Fear for his family, for his children.

Maekar turned to leave, making his way to the tent's entrance. He paused, turning back slightly. "You will not stay in Westeros—not even the Wall," Maekar said, his voice carrying the finality of a death sentence. "You are to leave... oh, and you will take Tyene with you."

Oberyn's eyes widened, his head snapping up. "You know," he asked, his voice breaking.

Maekar turned to look at him fully. "The only reason for this mercy is because of Obara and Nymeria. If not, you would already be dead."

Without another word, Maekar walked out of the tent, leaving a broken Oberyn Martell behind.

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Maekar finally made his way to where Aegon lay. He pushed open the tent flap and stepped inside.

A maester knelt beside Aegon, his hands trembling as he tended to the wounds. The old man looked up. "Your Grace, he doesn't have much time."

Maekar nodded, his eyes flickering to his brother. "Leave us," he commanded softly. The maester hesitated for a moment, then bowed and left the tent, leaving the two brothers alone.

Maekar walked closer, his eyes taking in the grotesque sight before him. Aegon lay on a makeshift bed, his body covered in burns. His armor had melted into his flesh, twisted and fused, leaving patches of scorched metal still clinging to his ruined body. His face was charred, unrecognizable except for his eyes, which were red and glassy.

Aegon's breathing was labored, each breath a harsh, grating rasp. His eyes found Maekar's, and he tried to speak, his lips trembling, his burnt face contorting in pain.

"Don't," Maekar said, his voice steady, his eyes holding his brother's. He could see the pain in Aegon's eyes.

Aegon blinked, a tear leaking out. His voice was raw, barely a whisper, each word broken, forced through his pain. "R-rule... well... Maekar," he croaked, his burnt throat barely able to produce sound.

Maekar nodded slowly.

Aegon's eyes blinked again, another tear rolling down. His lips moved, his voice struggling through the pain. "Margaery... please..."

Maekar hesitated, then spoke softly, "She will be treated well."

Aegon's chest shuddered as he breathed, his eyes looking up, distant. He forced the words out, his voice cracking, his breathing growing weaker. "I can't... hear them anymore... the voices." His lips twitched into a faint smile, almost a sigh. "I... am... free... It's so... quiet... so... quiet..."

The words faded away as his eyes lost focus, his breathing stuttering, slowing, until finally, it stopped. The tent was filled with silence, the only sound the distant murmur of the camp.

Maekar took a deep breath, his gaze fixed on his brother's lifeless face. He leaned in, his voice barely a whisper. "Goodbye, brother."

He turned and walked out of the tent, leaving the body behind. As he stepped outside, the cool air greeted him.

He paused when he saw a raven perched nearby, its dark eyes watching him intently. Its feathers glistened, its head cocked as if in question. 'Voices,' Maekar thought, his eyes narrowing. His gaze locked with the bird's.

'Brynden,' he realized. Was he influencing Aegon all along? A shiver of doubt ran down his spine, and Maekar clenched his jaw.

Did it even matter now? A small, quiet part of his mind argued that it didn't. But another, louder part whispered a warning—'What if Brynden is manipulating you as well?'

He would need to speak with that old one-eyed bastard soon.

Maekar turned away from the raven, muttering, "Later."

The raven cawed, as if responding, but Maekar ignored it.

He was now the one and only king.

Now he would reshape Westeros.

Now, he would rule.

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Read up to chapter 105 here :

p.a.t.r.eon.com/Illusiveone (check the chapter summary i have it there as well)