9

(With a slight alteration in the timeline of births for the story, Rhaenys Targaryen was born in 278 AC, and her brother in 280 AC, during Robert's Rebellion, And since I was playing with some AI, here's a picture of the Targaryen children.)

**Three weeks later**

"How long will it take you, Karl?" My voice cuts through the room's stillness as I sit behind my desk, addressing the man lounging before me. His boots rest lazily on the edge of my desk as he puffs on a cigar, eyes flitting over the documents in his hands.

Though Karl still carries the same rugged look he had in the game, his new responsibilities demand a semblance of professionalism. Yet, here he is, relaxed and aloof, as though the fate of nations wasn't in his grasp.

"With the materials and workforce you've given me, I can finish most of these projects in about a year," he begins, setting down a particular sheet with a subtle thud. "However," he adds, tapping the page for emphasis, "this one will take a bit longer, considering its scale. If I focus on it personally and delegate the rest, we look at three to four years, barring unforeseen interruptions."

"Good. You have full authority. If you need anything, speak to Alfred or me. And the armament?"

"The blueprints have already been handed to the research center. I'll help them out when I can, but as I said, my priority will be this project," he replies, his finger still resting on the same sheet. Then, with a smirk dripping arrogance, he adds, "Unless, of course, you can pull another genius like me out of your magical lottery."

I chuckle at his audacity, but my retort comes smooth, "Maybe. Who knows? Perhaps that 'magical lottery' might even deliver your old noble pals. Or, who knows, even your dear mother might show up." The innocent smile I give him wipes the humor off his face instantly. 

"Tell me you're joking," he says, his complexion paling slightly as I offer only a nonchalant shrug. "Great, now I'll be having nightmares," he mutters before stubbing out his cigar and rising. "Anyway, I'll get back to it. None of this is going to build itself." He collects the plans from the desk, leaving me alone once more with my thoughts and paperwork.

Most of the documents before me are reports from my guards and spies, but one stands out above the rest: Salazar's. He has returned, and with him, a veritable treasure trove: 2,380,000 golden dragons to be precise.

[Status] 

Alexander Harlow 

Age: 15 

Finances: 2,494,940 golden dragons 

Territory status: Stable, ripe for improvement 

Vassal houses: 0 

Population: 75,000

Salazar and the ship crews are currently staying, but they are all eager to set sail again, especially the captain. Adding five ships to the fleet has done wonders for morale. Saying the captain was pleased would be an understatement.

The flapping of wings interrupts my thoughts. A raven lands on the window ledge, its dark feathers catching the dim light. I rise, walking over to my feathered friend, stroking him gently before untying the letter attached to his leg.

The message is brief, but a smile forms on my lips as I read it. "Come in," I call, just as a hesitant knock sounds on the door. Elia steps into the room, her posture a mix of uncertainty and resolve.

"One moment," I say as I quickly pen a response, tying it to the raven's leg before sending it back into the sky. I then turn to Elia, gesturing for her to sit as I do the same.

"I hope you and your children are settling in well," I begin. "You look much better than when you first arrived."

A smile touches her lips at the mention of her recovery. The hospital's treatment had done wonders for her once-fragile health. "So, are you ready for our conversation?" I ask, my voice gentle yet earnest.

She nods slowly. "Yes. I've kept you waiting long enough. Thank you for being patient, Lord–" she catches herself as my eyes narrow. "Alexander," she corrects with a small smile. "Even though the events happened years ago, they are still fresh in my mind."

—

The sounds of battle were drawing closer, the thunderous booms reverberating through the walls of the Red Keep. Elia Martell held her children, Aegon and Rhaenys, close to her in a once-grand chamber, now a scene of ruin. The smell of smoke filled the air, and ash drifted down from cracked ceilings. Outside, chaos reigned, but within, it was the kind of silence that stretched time, thick with impending doom. Elia knew someone was coming. Someone dangerous.

The door crashed open, splintering against the wall. Gregor Clegane, monstrous and towering, filled the doorway. His immense frame seemed to swallow the room, his cruel eyes glinting with savage intent. But beneath that brutality, there was something even darker—a primal hunger that war had unleashed without restraint.

"Elia Martell," he growled, stepping forward. His voice was the chill of death itself. Elia jumped to her feet, instinctively placing her body between the brute and her children. The fear pressing down on her was suffocating, but she would not retreat. Not while there was still the faintest flicker of hope.

Gregor's lips twisted into a grotesque grin. He tossed his sword to the ground with a deafening clang. For what he intended, he didn't need a weapon. His massive hand reached out toward her. "Before you die," he snarled, "you'll know what it's like to be touched by the Mountain."

Elia backed into the wall, memories of the horrors this man had committed flashing through her mind. She knew what he had done to women, the innocents he had brutalized. She realized, at that moment, that death would not come swiftly. The torment before it would be far worse. Her children whimpered behind her, their terror palpable. Elia trembled, but she refused to let them see her break.

Gregor seized her arm, his grip crushing, pulling her toward him. But then, a low rumble filled the room. The entire castle seemed to shake with it. A distant explosion, followed by the sound of stone cracking, echoed through the chamber. Elia looked up just in time to see the ceiling begin to buckle. The structure above them was collapsing.

Gregor threw her aside as the first stones fell. He raised his arms, trying to shield himself, but the weight of the collapse was too much. Stones, burning beams, and debris rained down, burying him in a heap of rubble. Elia was thrown against the wall, half-buried under fallen stone, but still conscious. Heat pressed in from all sides, the air thick with the smell of burning wood. Chaos surrounded her.

Amid the wreckage, there was only the sound of crackling flames. Gregor Clegane lay motionless beneath the debris, his attempts to capture Elia thwarted by the very castle itself. Through the smoke, the Mountain slowly rose, struggling under the weight of the stones. But as he scanned the rubble, his eyes fell on three small, charred bodies, unrecognizable beneath the collapsed structure. He stared at them for a long moment, assuming they were Elia and her children. With a grunt of satisfaction, he believed his grim task complete.

But he was wrong.

The bodies were not those of the Martells. In the chaos, servants and two young orphans had sought refuge in a room on the floor below, only to be mistaken for Elia and her children. The Mountain, seeing no reason to question his assumptions, left without another glance.

Beneath a layer of broken stone and ash, Elia Martell and her children were still alive. Miraculously, a pocket of air had formed around them, shielding them from the worst of the collapse. Elia held her children close, their breaths shallow but steady. The flames raged outside, but they had survived. And in the silence, she recalled a distant memory—Rhaegar's words from years ago. "If anything happens, flee to Skagos." His voice echoed in her mind, clear as day.

Gathering her strength, Elia pulled her children through the rubble, searching for an escape. As King's Landing burned, they slipped away, shadows against the fire-lit ruins, determined to reach Skagos—the one place where no one would think to search for them.

The journey to Skagos was grueling. Elia and her children moved in silence, their hearts pounding with the fear of being discovered. They took to the sea, boarding a small, weathered ship that fought against the violent waves of the Narrow Sea. Every day was a battle—against the elements, against the fear of what lay behind them. Elia clung to her children, whispering promises of safety, even as her hope waned.

After days of treacherous sailing, the jagged outline of Skagos finally appeared on the horizon. The wild island, shrouded in myth and fear, was far from a sanctuary for most. But for Elia, it was the only place that could offer them safety.

They found refuge not in a grand fortress, but in a humble stone house nestled deep within Skagos's wilderness. It was a gift from Lord Andaren Harlow, a somber and silent man with few words. Elia knew he had a debt to Rhaegar, and though the house was modest, it became a sanctuary.

Years passed in quiet isolation. Life on Skagos was harsh, its winters unforgiving, its people as wild as the land itself. Elia and her children learned to survive, to farm, to hunt, and to fear the creatures that prowled the forests. Rhaenys and Aegon, now young adults, barely remembered the splendor of their early years in King's Landing. But every night, by the flickering light of a fire, Elia told them stories: of their father, of the Targaryens, of the legacy they had lost but must never forget.

Despite the safety Skagos offered, a shadow loomed over Elia's heart. Andaren Harlow was growing old, and she knew that his death would bring new dangers. And when that dark day finally came, she feared the protection he had promised would die with him.

Months later, the knock came. Elia's breath caught in her throat, but it was not an enemy who stood on the threshold.

—

"And then, you handed the letter my father gave you to Geralt, and here we are," I say, leaning back in my chair as I meet Elia's gaze. "The question is: what do you want to do now?"

Elia hesitates for only a moment before speaking, her voice soft yet firm. "Honestly, all I want is to go home. I'm done with court, with royalty, with politics. I just want to rest, to see my family again, to watch my children grow. Maybe even find a husband. Let King's Landing burn again, for all I care."

"And continue your passionate nights with Geralt, no doubt," I add with a teasing smile. Her face softens, the weariness momentarily lifting as she laughs quietly.

"You know I'll need to keep him here, right? I need him," I say, the humor fading from my voice, replaced by quiet sincerity. "Don't worry, Elia. The threats against your family will be dealt with. I promise you that."

"Thank you, Alexander," she whispers, her gratitude heavy with emotion. "For everything."