Chapter Text
Her fingers pressed, voracious against the sword in her hand — with such force that it very nearly broke through flesh. Were she human, she would have been shattered by the overflowing, blazing fury, her teeth grinding, her eyes of fire architecting a sordid trap, a trial set before unworthy weaknesses, before the mortal rot of those she abhorred. Allow me to present the fierce and feared Goddess Vhagar — blessed from head to foot by the fire from which each of the gods originated, bearing justice and wisdom in hand, one of the eldest of the goddesses and, without doubt, feared by the people of ancient Valyria.
She was devastatingly beautiful — not so much as Syrax, the incomparable goddess of beauty and love — but her enchantment dwelt in eyes the color of smoke, which she propagated toward her enemies, causing them to confound themselves with her tactics, she always one step ahead, laughing at the foolish failings of men, admiring the wise and rewarding those she deemed worthy.
Among the gods, each of them, upon the great golden pantheon — circular, with gold at every extremity — glory was diluted for one reason that had instilled fury in each of those present, in those who had withstood the fall of those who had practiced their faith: the abandonment of Valyrian customs, traditions, and the worship of the gods. Blood magic weakened them, reduced them to a flame poised to be extinguished alongside the Targaryen bloodline.
They would be dismantled, cast into the pit of the void, into the monumental cycle of oblivion. The Faith of the Seven had impregnated itself into the bowels, into the home of their descendants — an insult to the true tradition of the dragon riders.
— A war is coming, soon — Caraxes, the great God of War announced, amidst all the other gods, his eyes hungering for blood and destruction. — They will be destroyed, reduced to dust as they should have been long ago — but the damned mercy seemed to have poisoned their minds into announcing the great tragedy, toward rebirth.
— Hold your tongue, brother — Tessarion, the Goddess of Prophecy and Arts reproved him, as was customary, acting through reason as she narrowed her gaze, before her brother could unleash chaos. — The Targaryens were our chosen. I sent the dreams only to the worthy, as it should have been.
A laugh resonated among the gods, dissolving from one who was indignant at the posture presented by Caraxes — as ever, with his hunger for blood.
— Furthermore, the absurdities you committed, the atrocities of your champion were far removed from wisdom — Meleys accused. The mother goddess held contempt for the choices made in assassinating a member of the same bloodline.
Although chaos was divine, the mortal rules were different. Attention turned toward the goddess who narrowed her gaze, making no attempt to conceal her distaste for the actions of the mortal so glorified by the God of War as though he were his personal trump card — which he was.
— Inconsequential, impulsive, bloodthirsty without reason, a kinslayer who would suffocate in his own pride.
Caraxes cast a smoldering look.
Vhagar exchanged a brief glance with her father, Aegarax — the great god of gods — who analyzed everything in silence. None of the greater gods, the superiors of boiling blood, dared to speak, parting their lips and awaiting the verdicts of their progeny, as though it were a scene to be observed closely. Or, they were present merely for the solution of the wise Vhagar. Certainly, the latter option was the most correct — immovable.
— Maegor did what was necessary for his house, the only decent one among the lineage of Aegon, a true descendant of Visenya — the true priestess of our names — who, if I am not mistaken, was among the last of the faithful. But out of sheer fear of his bravery, they condemned him to infertility — the god of war shouted, locking his teeth.
He craved the blood, the violent battles of conquest, the times of Maegor, power beneath his hands.
— If Maegor's lineage were here, none of the weak and paltry children of Rhaenys would have survived — an absurd lineage, an offense that allied itself with the Faith of the Seven. A blasphemy that deserves the flames, all of them, bathed in blood. Their souls must be devoured in ways…
— Enough — your words of wrath are sufficient — Vermithor, the God of the Seas grew restless, his authority capable of unnerving even the God of War, who narrowed his eyes. Caraxes abhorred interruptions. — We are all here aware of your position, your bitterness and lamentation surrounding the fate of Visenya Targaryen and her son Maegor — but that is not the reason for which we were convened.
— And what reason would that be, dear uncle? — Syrax, the beautiful goddess of love dared to ask, raising her voice so that her husband, Caraxes, would not dare to cause discord once again. But little good it did, for the interior that clamored for chaos from another god interfered.
— Did Vhagar gather us to regurgitate the insignificance of our existences? Or to announce that a new Dragon has hatched and they happened to remember one of us when naming their little pets, as they so love to classify them? — with a certain irony, Vermax, the god of pathways narrowed his gaze. At his side, Arrax — his twin, god of wines — reciprocated the opinion with an incredulous smile, shaking his head at the recollection.
— We exist in inertia, waiting for the moment they are devoured alive — Meraxes, the Wild Goddess declared. Arms crossed, the divinity locked her jaw, recalling with precision the visions of Tessarion. — No dragon can survive under reins as malformed as these. It is only a matter of time before they dance upon the skies in the names of weak kings from a lineage that is worse still.
— If Maegor had… — Caraxes resumed the point, provoking fury in Tessarion.
— Your speech on that matter is unwelcome, brother — Tessarion breathed deeply. She would sooner drive some mortals to madness than listen to Caraxes and his martyr and his yearning for war at every turn. — The current constancy of the realm is peaceful. But for now, we know what awaits us, what awaits destruction — and it is time we decided what we will do.
— What we will do? Is that what I hear? Interference — Meleys joined her brows together. Somewhat surprised by the proposition. The last time they had acted — granting a child within the womb of Visenya Targaryen, an infertile woman, and yielding Maegor to Caraxes as his champion — chaos had been unleashed. — We do not bind ourselves to the world of mortals, not since we were forgotten, reduced to…
— We will, whether we wish to or not — Aegarax decided, exchanging a look with Vermithor who appeared to assent, in support of his brother. — We are Gods, not mere figures worshipped by the weak. Our priests are warriors. Those who worship us carry violent, glorious blood of power — that will not cease. Our faith shall prosper alongside our power.
— What is the solution, Vhagar? — Balerion, the God of Shadow, of Death and the depths, interrupted. His voice cut through the space, silencing the protests, grumbles and speeches. He, who until then had remained quiet within the shadow of his own warmth and solitude, unnerved them all, offering the floor to the goddess of wisdom. His dark eyes wandered across Vhagar's: — You, above all of us — alongside Tessarion — glimpse what is coming our way. You overflow with dissatisfaction, yet there is a purpose upon your lips.
— A temptation. An offering to a devoted man — to taste of blood and our flesh — she declared to each of them. Casting her gaze across all those present — sibling gods, nephews, even uncles. Returning her vision to Balerion, aware that the God of Death would have to contend with the tragedies in the destined course: — If my gambit fails, you may resort to your own methods. Your decisions will lead the Dance of the Dragons. Otherwise, I myself will exterminate the root of the problem — forge a victor of our flesh, with the fire of our flames, from the rib of our glory. Not a mere human. She will be more.
— She? — Vermithor opposed immediately, promptly supported by Arrax and Vermax. — Though she is the most astute and intelligent among us, I can barely understand what wisdom lies in having architected a situation such as this, dear niece. It may well be easy for a Hightower to fall to temptation — hypocrisy haunts their minds and actions — but a woman? With that blood, it is an outrage. Our victor must not carry the poison in her veins, much less be a woman.
— On the contrary, it is the most sensible of acts — Meleys tasted satisfaction merely at imagining the pain that would be inflicted upon every damned mortal allied to the house that had defied her existence. — She will be the stain, the beginning of the fall. A woman holds more power than any man would care to possess — forged in the right manner, she would destroy men and women alike, give rise to bloodlines worthy of strength, and forge fire and blood.
— Which of them shall it be, my daughter? — Aegarax, the supreme God, asked of Vhagar. In his splendor, every member of the Valyrian pantheon was aware of the weight carried by the goddess's word.
— Otto Hightower — Vhagar announced, a sickly delight in declaring the victim. Or rather, the one responsible for her contemptible acts. — He stands at the center of the game of thrones, so insignificant, amid so many deaths in his quest to sit upon a throne. He will find his end amid the flames upon yielding to a sweet temptation.
— I presume Syrax and Vermax ought to be tasked with this service — Meraxes remarked, about to continue, having joined with her siblings, poised to weave herself into the web of the man's sins and persuade him — before being interrupted. — Somewhat characteristic, if you will allow me, but know that children of gods…
— No — the vehement denial from the Goddess of Wisdom surprised them. She who had remained for so long in the penumbra, in deep orders and speeches, with neutrality, now wished to cast herself into the mortal world — filthy and hateful as it was. — I myself will execute every step. It will be of my own womb. She will inherit the fire of every one of you in the blood that will flow through my flesh when I transmute into human form. It will be my personal punishment upon the dishonor and disdain inflicted against each of us.
— Vengeance.
The word danced upon the air from Balerion. The God of Shadow knew it — he captured within his core the bloodthirsty desire of Vhagar, something that had never occurred before in the just goddess who, despite her furious feelings, abhorred that impulse with every fiber of her being.
— Is that what you desire, Vhagar? — Vermithor inquired, quietly, of his niece. — Vengeance?
— A beautiful word, a beautiful feeling, and nothing wise by my reckoning — Syrax whispered, joining her siblings behind her husband, the God of War, who was pleased by the words — for they signified one thing alone: the Dance of the Dragons would come to pass, bloodier than it might otherwise have been. The only ones to reap would be the gods.
— Valar Morghulis.
Such were her only words before she could vanish from the midst of the pantheon like mist, joining the chaotic spiral. But the God Caraxes — who so deeply smelled of war — exchanged a pleasured look with each of those present, as he always did when announcing the prelude to a catastrophe. Tessarion knew that was precisely what this was.
— Vhagar desires vengeance — Caraxes declared, pride overflowing, dripping in remnants that would afflict unsuspecting mortals. — She will deliver a violent, slow and degrading delight, tempestuous upon the howls of misery. We shall have fire and blood