Third Person POV
299 AC, Uruk – Morning, Council Chamber
The council chamber in Uruk's palace glowed under the morning sun, its obsidian table reflecting the light streaming through arched windows. Dominic Augustus, King of Uruk, lounged in a high-backed chair, his black silk tunic unrumpled, eyes glinting with calculation, a faint grin playing on his lips. Daenerys Targaryen, her silver hair braided, sat to his right, violet eyes sharp, her presence commanding yet tempered by thought. Missandei, quill in hand, sat opposite, her dark eyes scanning parchments. Ser Jorah Mormont stood by the door, hand on sword, his grizzled face set. The air hummed with purpose as the trio weighed the Free Cities' defiance.
Dominic tossed a crumpled letter onto the table, his voice smooth, edged with amusement. "Pentos, Norvos, Qohor, Lorath, Volantis—they've spat on our offer. Sellswords, Dothraki, shadowbinders—they're mustering, thinking they can outmatch Uruk's might. Fools."
Daenerys leaned forward, her voice firm, probing. "They're uniting, Dom. A mistake, but a bold one. Slaver's Bay is ours—Astapor, Yunkai, Meereen under our stewards, soul-bound and loyal. Every man and woman works, every child learns. We've built something strong."
Missandei nodded, her voice calm, precise. "Dany's right, Dom. Our armies are disciplined, our Unsullied unmatched, but the Free Cities' numbers are vast. Pentos is trying to commission Khal Pono's khalasar, Qohor, its shadowbinders. If they combine forces, we'll face a storm."
Dominic's grin widened, his fingers drumming the table. "Let them band together. Let them muster every sword, horse, and spell. We'll crush them in one swoop—burn their fleets, break their walls, free their slaves. We will first attack Volantis; it's too distant from other free cities, too proud. We draw the others out, let them think they're strong, then strike. One battle, one victory, and Essos kneels."
Daenerys's eyes narrowed, a spark of fire in them. "Risky, but I like it. My dragons are growing, their flames hotter. With your power, Dom—Haki, magic, whatever you wield—we can shatter them."
Missandei scribbled a note, her voice soft. "I'll draft orders, Dom. Scouts to track their movements, ravens to our stewards to ready supplies. We'll need every spear sharp, every ship seaworthy."
Dominic nodded, his voice light but firm. "Do it, Missandei. We'll let the Free Cities play their game, then end it. For now, we fortify, we wait, we strike when they're fattest."
Astapor – Next Day, Midday
A raven arrived, its black wings slicing the dawn. Missandei broke the seal—a Titan's mark—and read aloud, her voice steady. "Braavos bends the knee. The Sealord and Iron Bank pledge ten percent tax, accept Uruk's dominion, and keep their self-rule. They swear fealty to the Golden Throne."
Daenerys smiled, her voice warm. "Wise choice. Braavos sees reason where others see pride. One less enemy."
Dominic chuckled, leaning back. "Tycho Nestoris and Ferrego Antaryon aren't fools. They know we'd burn their canals dry. Good. More gold for our coffers, more ships for our fleets."
As they turned to Volantis's defiance, a two-way mirror on the table shimmered, its surface rippling like water. Jon Snow's face appeared, his grey eyes weary but resolute, his black curls dusted with frost. The room brightened with their greetings.
"Jon!" Daenerys exclaimed, her smile genuine. "You look well, despite the cold."
Missandei nodded, her voice warm. "It's good to see you, Jon. Winterfell suits you."
Dominic grinned, his golden eyes glinting. "Well, well, Jon Snow. Or should I say something else? You've got news, don't you?"
Jon's lips twitched, a faint smile. "Aye, Dom. The lords of the North… they've made me their king. Aemon Targaryen, they call me now."
Daenerys's eyes widened, her voice joyful. "King? Jon, that's wonderful! Congratulations, truly. The North chose well."
Missandei smiled softly. "Aemon Targaryen, King in the North. My congratulations, Jon. You'll lead with honor."
Dominic's grin broadened, his voice teasing. "King Aemon, eh, you've got the heart for it. Congrats. But in all seriousness—didn't expect this, did you?"
Jon's expression softened, his voice low. "No, Dom, I didn't. Thought I'd fight for my uncle, for the North, not wear a crown. But the lords… they swore to me, uncle knelt first. I couldn't refuse."
Daenerys tilted her head, curious. "How do you feel, Jon? A Targaryen, a king—it's a heavy mantle."
Jon sighed, his voice honest. "Heavy's the word, Dany. I never wanted this, but I'll do my duty. The North needs a king, and I'll try to be one they deserve."
Dominic's grin didn't fade, his voice warm but knowing. "Knew this was coming, Jon. Well, one possibility, anyway. Remember when we met, I asked if you wanted a crown? You said no, but I saw it in you—a heart for ruling, not just a sword for fighting. A true king rules with his heart, not his crown. You've got that, Aemon. Do your duty, seek no praise. You were born for this."
Jon's eyes narrowed, a hint of protest in his voice. "You knew? Dom, you could've warned me—"
Dominic cut him off, chuckling. "And ruin the surprise? Nah, lad. You needed to find your own path. You're here now, king or not, because you're you. So, Aemon, what's next?"
Jon's voice steadied, grateful. "Thanks, Dom, for the advice… and the faith. Means a lot. How's Ghost doing, by the way?"
Dominic leaned back, his voice light. "Ghost's thriving, romping in Uruk's outer fields with Rapish and Ponyta herd. Big lad's happy, don't worry."
Jon nodded, his voice warm. "Thanks for looking after him. I owe you."
Dominic waved it off, his grin sly. "Never mind that. What's your plan, King Aemon? North's got a war to fight, aye?"
Jon's eyes hardened, his voice firm. "Tomorrow, we march south. Lannisters need answering—Tywin's armies, Cersei's schemes. We'll take the fight to them, free the Riverlands, protect our own."
Daenerys nodded, her voice resolute. "You'll have our support, Jon, when the time comes. Uruk's with you, even from Essos."
Missandei added softly, "Fight well, Jon. The North's strength is yours."
Jon's smile returned, faint but real. "Thank you, all of you. Stay safe, and we'll meet again."
The mirror dimmed, Jon's face fading. Dominic turned back to the map, his grin sharpening. "Volantis next, then. Let's burn their pride and build our empire."
Westeros – Reactions to Aemon Targaryen's Rise
In King's Landing, Joffrey Baratheon's apoplectic rage shook the Red Keep, his voice shrill. "A bastard king? A Targaryen? I'll have his head!" Cersei, seething, hissed, "Ned Stark's lies will cost him. We'll crush this pretender." Varys, in the shadows, frowned, Aemon's rise an obstacle to his plan for Aegon, his webs tangling. Petyr Baelish, ever scheming, began plotting ways to eliminate this new player, his smile sharp.
In Dragonstone, Stannis Baratheon dismissed the news, his voice cold. "A Targaryen boy? My claim stands. Let him try." In Storm's End, Renly scoffed, voice light. "A northern bastard with a fancy name? No threat to me and my armies."
In Highgarden, Olenna Tyrell sipped wine, her voice dry. "A Targaryen in the North? Eddard Stark turned out to be the biggest player in this game, Interesting. We'll see how this plays, Margaery. Options, always options."
In Sunspear, Doran Martell received Dominic's letter, its words clear: I support Aemon Targaryen as king. Consider the North allies. I'll ensure your revenge on the Lannisters. Oberyn, at his side, grinned, voice fierce. "Brother, take the offer. Aemon's no Lannister puppet. We join him, we gut Tywin's house." Doran nodded, his voice calm. "Prepare a raven, Oberyn. Dorne bends to Aemon Targaryen. Muster our levies."