Mantles of Rule
Thirtieth Day of the Fourth Month 294 AC
As the Dauntless flies west and north for the first time under a veil of clouds, the wheels of the reconquest are well and truly turning. The legions march and air force vessels in their scores cut through the sky in predetermined routes. From the Dornish Marches to Cape Wrath, from Seaaguard to Highgarden, by sorcery and artifice lords by the dozen will be presented with a simple choice, lower their banners and accept imperial rule or refuse and be remanded to the dustbin of history along with the likes of Tywin Lannister. Most will accept, that much you did not need a diviner's art to know.
This is not the first time a Targaryen has swept into the Seven Kingdoms upon the wings of change, and this time there are no kings to oppose you, no ancient crowns that need reforging, no thrones that must be abandoned. Your coming will mark a greater change for Westeros than Aegon's ever was, perhaps the greatest change these lands have seen since the coming of the Andals. You bring not just new laws, new taxes, new faiths, and ways of living, but all of those together, a new age flies towards still slumbering Westeros in the hulls of silver ships and it walks forth in the steady tread of black armored legionaries.
"Do you want to go out?" Dany asks pulling on the sleeve of your robes, "I feel like I might start bouncing around the bridge if we stay in here, and I have been told by reliable sources that can be quite distracting."
Only a handful of officers try to hold back laughter and none manage to resist a smile. Even Ser Richard snorts in amusement at the picture her words paint. Your sister, after all, is neither in her usual mortal form nor even as silvery wyrmling such as could be reasonably expected to bounce around rooms. She instead bears the dream-wrought wings of an angel to complement your own planned entrance.
The fact that once outside the hull she flies closest to Maelor, who makes quite the demonic figure on wings of living darkness, only adds to the incongruity, though the boy had agreed to dismiss the effect when it came time for what he called the 'dog and lizard show'.
Sandor flying ever close to Dany's side had just seemed glad for the anonymity of the armor he wears. Though the First Praetorian has been much more at ease in his own skin since he finally made himself the last of House Clegane, that does not obviate the weariness of being unmoored from the bounds of earth by sorcery for the first time on a journey across the sea. He probably is not as reassured by Lya, floating light as a feather right beside him, as he should be, seeing as she is not also carrying the full weight of a Warden Armor along.
By contrast, Ser Richard flies neither with hesitance nor with the grace of one who has taken the wind into their soul, but with the skill of long experience as familiar with the steel wings of his cloak as he is with Oathkeeper's hilt and there is no doubt a part of him that expects an ambush from some foe or another out of the night.
As to your own worries, they are more aimed to towards the lands behind you than the one in front of you. With so many of the Imperium's assets committed to the pacification of the Seven Kingdoms, anyone of a mind to attack the eastern provinces would have a far freer hand and once the signal had been given there is no hiding that fact from any seer's eye. Still, you have not stripped all the defenses, far from it. There is, after all, a reason why you have waited so long for this day and it is precisely to leave as few gaps as possible for clever foes to slip through.
As the towers of the Red Keep appear on the horizon and then the spires of the Great Sept of Baelor, you wrap yourself in mantles of power sacred and profane. You summon insight and enchantment by wishcraft and spilled blood, and upon your brow the crown of Aegon bursts into golden light that recalls the might and authority of the Heavens ere their breaking. Though you cannot deny there is more aspiration than truth to the attempt, that can be said for most of the tasks of kingship.
"You know you have only yourself to blame if they start falling to their knees and worshiping you when you show up like those Frozen Shore fellows tried doing to me," Maelor notes dryly, eyes half closed against the glare of your presence, arcane as much as luminous. "You're going to make a lot of Red Priests happy."
"How do you figure that?" Dany asks curiously.
"Well they already have a story all made up about how you're Azor Ahai, with the burning sword come to save the world again. Any of those septons who try to jump on the boat will have to make up their story on the fly."
"Then the trees are going to start going up and the Northeners are going to be happy and everyone else is going to be confused," Dany counters. "We aren't exactly shy about how we treat gods."
"Fire proof magic trees. Just you wait, there will be a preacher in front of the Big Sept of Baelor or whatever, shouting to all and sundry that the trees are servants of the Red God," Maelor replies gamely.
"And by the next week there will be someone on the streets who claims R'hllor is just an old Weirwood god who got a name from his worshipers," Lya interjects. She offers you a smile. "I'm sure the people of King's Landing will be more concerned with all the changes to their day to day lives to be mired in talk of gods old or new."
The cheerful theological debate carries your company, veiled in clouds as well as sorcery, all the way to the skies above the Great Sept. By will and wishcraft you work the final spells, and at the touch of your magic Balerion, the Black Dread of old, roars in the skies above King's Landing for the first time in almost two centuries
OOC: We are not quite at the speech and glory part, because I feel that works best in interludes, but we have had a lot of those recently, more than at any other point in the quest, so here's a bit of a bridge update to sort of set the stage. Not yet edited.
