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Chapter Text

After a failed invasion of the continent known as Azeroth, Aegon the Conqueror — a king whose name once inspired both dread and pride — was forced to admit defeat. Contrary to the expectations of his counselors and generals, the forces of Westeros could not overcome the unifying coalition led by the Kingdom of Stormwind. In a gesture of diplomatic humility, Aegon reached out to the King of Stormwind, requesting a ceasefire and formal peace.

The accord was signed, and the red-and-black banners returned to Westeros, bearing silence, mourning, and the bitter need for reconstruction. Disillusioned by failure and humiliated before powers previously unknown, Aegon issued a royal edict: all contact with the so-called “New Peoples” was henceforth forbidden. Although the decree was absolute, everyone at court knew that even a king, mighty as he once was, no longer possessed the strength to enforce his will.

Most lords, knowing this, still abided by the order. But not all.

House Hightower, ever pragmatic and ambitious, secretly maintained trade relations not only with Stormwind, but also with Kul Tiras — the island kingdom that revealed its presence not long after the war’s end. The Proudmoore family, rulers of Kul Tiras, possessed a navy and wealth to rival, even surpass, the maritime might of the Velaryons.

Lord Corlys Velaryon — known as the Sea Snake — could not bear such a rival. He spent years expanding his fleet, establishing new trade routes and founding outposts at the edges of the known world. His fierce rivalry with Lord Admiral Daelin Proudmoore became the subject of whispered gossip in royal courts and salty taverns alike.

King Jaehaerys, aware that more and more houses were openly or secretly breaking Aegon’s decree, formally repealed it. However, he limited initial contact with the peoples of Azeroth to economic matters only. The decision raised eyebrows and speculation: why limit it to trade?

As the reign of King Viserys Targaryen and King Llane Wrynn dawned, something strange appeared in the sky — a green light like the eye of a god, which cracked open and vomited forth a horde.

From the darkness emerged creatures no man of Westeros had ever seen: tall, muscular, green-skinned beasts — orcs.

At first, the world believed this was merely a local problem of Azeroth. Stormwind, aided by the dwarves of Ironforge and the gnomes of Gnomeregan, swiftly organized its defenses. Westeros was not so fortunate. The realm had only two dragons left, and the orcish warlocks — wielders of dark and unnatural magic — neutralized them with ease.

In desperation, King Viserys sent envoys to Stormwind, begging for aid. Llane Wrynn, a man of honor and compassion, answered.

He dispatched an army led by his trusted friend and supreme commander of the Alliance, Sir Anduin Lothar. At his side marched dwarves, gnomes, and the soldiers of Stormwind. They were joined by Prince Daemon Targaryen, who led the armies of Westeros in a series of decisive battles.

Together, the Alliance crushed the orcish hordes on the fields beneath Harrenhal. That victory was etched into the history of both Westeros and Azeroth.

In gratitude, King Viserys formally joined the newly founded Alliance, henceforth known as the Alliance of Stormwind. Llane Wrynn was chosen as its High King. Anduin Lothar assumed the position of Supreme Commander of land forces, with Prince Daemon Targaryen and Prince Than Muradin Bronzebeard of Ironforge as his chief advisors.

When Kul Tiras formally joined the coalition, Lord Daelin Proudmoore — ruler of the island kingdom — took command of the fleet as the Alliance’s Grand Admiral.

Though many across the kingdoms celebrated this union as the dawn of a new golden age, those behind closed doors knew one thing:

What emerged from the green portal was only the beginning. The true invasion was yet to come - Archmaester Gyldayn, Fire and Blood: A History of the Targaryen Kings from Westeros

Chapter Text

***Westeros - Harrenhal***

Viserys opened his eyes and rose, ignoring the ache in his muscles and the weight of fatigue. Today was a grand day. Harrenhal was to host more guests than had ever passed through its blackened halls—lords, mages, generals, merchants, and politicians from nearly every corner of the known world, all gathered to celebrate under his roof, in his kingdom. If all goes according to plan, history will remember me as a king worthy of standing beside my grandfather—and the greatest of our ancestors.

Perhaps even more than them.

He turned his head toward his sleeping wife. There was love and respect between them, but the pain of her many miscarriages had left a scar on their bond. Were it not for Mary’s aid during Baelon’s birth... things might have turned out very differently.

The past is the past. Focus on the present.

He placed a hand gently on Aemma’s cheek. He knew her well—she was a light sleeper and always stirred at his touch. But this time, she merely furrowed her brow and turned to her other side.

“My love,” he said softly, “you know I wouldn’t wake you so early unless today were truly important.”

He gave her shoulder a gentle shake.

“No, no...” she murmured sleepily.

Seeing that she was waking, Viserys summoned the servants to help them prepare for the morning. They were to break their fast with Daemon and his family.

Daemon is probably already awake, training with his sword. Combat has always been his obsession—but ever since the orcs invaded Westeros, that obsession became his religion.

Viserys sighed. Daemon had been on edge lately. Hopefully, that wouldn’t sour the mood of the day.

The king donned a black doublet adorned with twin golden dragon brooches. Aemma chose a flowing gown of soft blue with crimson-gold roses and a sapphire trim along the bodice. Cream Myrish lace draped from her sleeves.

“You could’ve picked something more fitting to match me,” he said in mock protest.

“I’m an Arryn,” Aemma replied with a knowing smile.

As the servants finished their work, Viserys found himself lost in thought. There would be no more children. He had to ensure a future for Baelon and Rhaenyra. Not long ago, he had considered betrothing them to each other—or to Daemon’s children. But that was no longer viable. Political realities demanded more careful maneuvers.

Perhaps the Lord Admiral’s daughter? That would be a strong match: fleet, magic, beauty... our blood would only benefit from such a union.

“Your Grace?”

Viserys blinked, snapped out of his thoughts. The attendants had finished.

“I’ll go speak with Daemon. Help Rhaenyra—she must look radiant today. And Baelon, too.”

“I know, Viserys,” Aemma said, rolling her eyes.

Viserys kissed her cheek and, accompanied by Ser Ryam, made his way to his brother’s chambers. As he walked the halls of Harrenhal, his thoughts drifted to the cost of rebuilding the castle. In a decade, they had turned ruin into a bastion. But the debt to the Iron Bank continued to grow.

Ironforge and Stormwind won’t give us trouble. But the Iron Bank shows no mercy to insolent debtors.

When they reached Daemon’s chambers, the guards opened the door. Inside, a child’s laughter echoed—Alyssa giggling uncontrollably as her father tossed her into the air.

“Brother,” Viserys said, entering the room.

Daemon’s smile faltered.

Are things really that strained between us?

“Uncle!” Alyssa squealed and threw herself into his arms.

Viserys grinned and embraced his niece.

“You’ll soon be taller than me and your father,” he teased, tickling her.

She surrendered to laughter and pleaded for mercy. When he finally relented, she eagerly launched into stories of dragons and adventures.

“My sweet girl, I must speak with your father now,” he said gently. “But if you let me go, I’ll tell you a new story later.”

That promise was enough. She returned to her toys.

Viserys sighed as he sat down.

Perhaps it's for the best we won’t have more children... I don’t have the strength anymore.

He glanced at Daemon, who remained alert—even while playing, the hilt of Dark Sister hung at his side.

“What news?”

Daemon poured them both wine and handed Viserys a goblet. The king drank in one go.

Aemma will kill me if she finds out I’ve started drinking before sunrise.

“Well?” he pressed.

“Just as I feared. Magni admitted they’ve been sending us less steel. And I suspect the quality of what they send to Stormwind is far superior to what we receive. They don’t trust us, Viserys. And they haven’t ruled out another war.”

Daemon shrugged.

Viserys felt his anger rising.

“What do you suggest?”

Brother, more than ever, I need your counsel.

“Nothing,” Daemon replied flatly.

Viserys stared at him, stunned. Daemon walked toward the hearth.

“I don’t blame them for not trusting us. All we share is a common enemy. Viserys, we need to stop relying on others. We’ve started adapting Stormwind’s military model to our own army. But we lack the funds to make it work. There are plenty willing to serve us in King’s Port and Flea Bottom. The problem is—we can’t afford them.”

His last words were tinged with bitterness.

Viserys leapt to his feet.

“Don’t put this on me! I’ve already cut spending to the bone. Your military reforms and the debts are devouring everything! There’s nothing more I can do!” he snapped.

“Then why in the Seven Hells did you take the gold in the first place? Why rebuild that pile of rubble?” Daemon shot back, stepping forward.

“The orcs—” Viserys began, but Daemon cut him off.

“What fool attacks the same place twice, knowing it's where everyone’s expecting them? I’m not saying they won’t come from that direction again—but they’ve already done so once. Now it’s the most fortified stronghold in the world—manned and watched. I assure you, brother, their main strike won’t come from Harrenhal. Not when they’ll have better options. Admit it—you were swayed by a cabal of politicians and bankers, and now we’re all paying the price!” Daemon roared. His voice echoed through the stone chamber.

“What’s going on?” came a woman’s voice.

Both brothers turned. Mara stood at the doorway, worry etched across her features.

“Nothing you need concern yourself with, dear sister,” Viserys said, approaching her and placing a soft kiss on her cheek.

With her fiery curls and piercing green eyes, Mara drew gazes even in the plainest of dresses. But today, clad in a white gown with a square neckline and delicate embroidery on the sleeves, she would surely ignite desire in any man who looked her way.

“I won’t keep you any longer, Your Grace,” Daemon said tightly.

Viserys nodded. Daemon cast him a look brimming with dissatisfaction and frustration before leaving. His words still echoed in the king’s mind.

Perhaps he’s right. Perhaps history won’t remember me as Viserys the Great… but as Viserys the Fool.

Chapter Text

***Westeros - Harrenhal***

Army

That, Rhaenyra thought, was the word that best described what she was looking at. From where she stood, she could clearly see the masses arriving for the tournament — an event meant to celebrate the formation of the Alliance and strengthen the ties between Azeroth and Westeros. Likely, only Harrenhal could accommodate this many beings at once. Stormwind, magnificent as it was with its grandeur and architecture, simply didn’t have the space.

Pity it’s not as good elsewhere.

Stormwind’s cultural norms had taken over Westeros much faster than the reverse. Alicent hadn’t worn a dress that wasn’t inspired by Queen Katrana Prestor’s fashion for quite some time. The Faith of the Seven condemned incest, but the Targaryens were granted exceptions — at least in theory. Rhaenyra doubted the Holy Light was as lenient when it came to that sort of... tradition. Under other circumstances, she’d have been relieved that she didn’t have to marry her brother — if only that relief came from her own beliefs rather than political pragmatism.

You’re overthinking again.

Rhaenyra looked up and saw Jaina, Alicent, and Laena entering the grove. All three were dressed in stunning attire.

Alicent wore a flowing blue gown adorned with subtle white accents. Even without elaborate embellishments, it suited her beautifully, emphasizing her slender waist and delicate features.

Laena’s dress was bolder — a darker shade of blue, it left her shoulders and part of her chest exposed. A silver necklace studded with sapphires rested against her collarbone.

The Sea Snake is really trying to flaunt his wealth. And Laena? She doesn’t seem to mind. Looks like she wants the attention. I remember her bragging that her chest had grown and that it would be a waste not to use it.

But the one who stood out most was Jaina. Her gown — undeniably gorgeous — had nothing in common with Westerosi fashion. The Princess of Kul Tiras wore a dress with a deep neckline and a fully exposed midriff. For a Westerosi woman, such an outfit would be unthinkable.

She still hasn’t said what she did to make her father let her wear that. If I tried to walk out in something like it, mine would probably disown me. I remember when Baelon saw her in it for the first time. He spent more time talking to Jaina’s chest than to Jaina herself. Oh, and Alicent... She nearly fainted. What a lovely day that was.

"The princess of the realm has a great many responsibilities," Rhaenyra said as she rose to her feet.

Jaina shook her head with an indulgent smile. "There’s still time before the tournament begins. What do we want to do?"

"Maybe let’s sit here for a bit," Alicent suggested, heading for a wide tree. She sat gracefully in its shade, arranging her skirts on the grass.

"I don’t want to hear Laenor say again that we’re boring and never do anything fun," Laena added, planting her hands on her hips.

"Maybe we should... fly?" Rhaenyra joked, eyeing their elegant dresses.

All eyes turned to Alicent.

"Do we have to?" she squeaked. "You know I’m scared of heights..."

Rhaenyra gave her a fond smile.

Always so gullible.

"You did enjoy the view from the dragon last time," she reminded her gently.

"No... Well, yes," Alicent admitted with a hesitant grimace.

"The boys are probably training. Maybe we could go watch them?" Jaina suggested. "I could even try to teleport us there."

"Better than sitting here," Laena said.

"Wait... Didn’t you say portals are magic reserved for much older mages?" Alicent asked, watching Jaina’s hands begin to glow with building energy.

Great.

By the time Rhaenyra blinked, they were already standing on the edge of the training grounds. Jaina was doubled over, breathing heavily with her hands on her knees.

"Give me a second... That was the first time," she whispered, wiping her brow.

Rhaenyra was about to reply when the clash of steel and loud cheers interrupted her. The duel must have been something impressive.

"Can you walk and talk yet?" Rhaenyra teased.

Jaina stuck out her tongue.

"Let’s go!" Laena squealed excitedly, pulling them along.

They pushed through the crowd quickly. Once people realized who was coming, they stepped aside. In minutes, the girls reached the inner circle where four fighters dueled.

On one side, Daemon Targaryen fought Anduin Lothar. Nearby, Varian Wrynn sparred with Bolvar Fordragon. Even a novice could tell that Varian and Bolvar were exceptional despite their youth, but it was Daemon and Lothar who drew all the attention. Their combat was like a dance — fluid, dynamic, graceful.

A strike, a parry, a counter — without pause

At last, Lothar disarmed Daemon, knocking Dark Sister from his hands and pressing his royal blade to Daemon’s throat. Silence fell, followed by deafening cheers.

"Sir Anduin is amazing," Rhaenyra said with admiration.

Alicent blushed and lowered her gaze.

"You have to admit, he’s impressive," Laena added, giving the knight an appreciative once-over. "But there is another man I find more attractive..."

Rhaenyra gave her a sharp look. Laena had said it casually, but Jaina immediately perked up.

"Who?! Do we know him?!"

Silence. Rhaenyra, Jaina, and Alicent exchanged glances. Laena looked like she was battling herself.

"You can tell us anything. You know that, right?" Jaina said gently.

Laena bit her lip.

"I... if I’m honest, I’ve had a bit of a thing for your father," she said, looking everywhere except at Jaina.

The silence was immediate. Jaina stared at her, stunned. Her face was a mix of shock and fury.

"Is this a joke?"

She stepped closer, their faces inches apart.

"No, I swear! Please, don’t be mad," Laena pleaded, clutching her hands.

Jaina froze. Her expression was unreadable, but after a long breath, she sighed.

"I’m not mad. We can’t choose who we’re attracted to. But... my father? Seriously?"

"He’s... brave, charming, and ruggedly handsome. We’ve spoken a few times, and I felt something. He’s just different from the boys trying to court me."

Jaina, still stunned, chewed her lower lip. She looked to the side, as if trying to recall conversations that might have hinted at something. Then she sighed again and shrugged.

"I don’t know what to say. I always thought he... well, that he wasn’t interested in anyone since Mom died." She gave Laena a serious look.

"I’m not asking you to play matchmaker," Laena said quickly. "I know it’s complicated. I know it’s weird. But I had to tell you."

Rhaenyra watched both girls, surprised at the turn the conversation had taken.

That was easy. If Alicent ever did something like that to me, I don’t think I’d ever forgive her.

Laena gave a small smile, but her eyes held the kind of relief that comes when you’ve finally said something out loud and weren’t judged for it.

"I just... I don’t know what he thinks of me," she added. "I don’t know if he sees a woman or just a girl who’s friends with his daughter."

"If he’s figured it out and doesn’t feel the same, he’ll start keeping his distance. Subtly, but clearly. But if he doesn’t know... maybe he needs to be surprised."

"Surprised?" Laena raised an eyebrow.

"I’m not saying throw yourself at him," Jaina smirked. "But maybe invite him for a conversation. Just you and him. No crowds, no magic, no politics."

"In Harrenhal?" Rhaenyra asked, skeptical. "Everything here is politics."

"Doesn’t have to be," Alicent said, brushing off her skirts. "If you find the right moment. There’s a feast tonight — maybe then."

Laena looked at them with new resolve. She stood, straightened her back, adjusted her sapphire necklace.

"Alright. I’ll try. Worst case, I embarrass myself."

"Ladies, we noticed you weren’t paying proper attention to our match."

Not him.

Rhaenyra rolled her eyes at Bolvar’s smug tone before turning to him with obvious irritation.

"Cousin, if there was something worth watching, maybe we’d have watched," she replied coolly, as dry as she was cutting.

Bolvar narrowed his eyes. There was a challenge in his gaze.

"Sure. As if you had the faintest idea how to fight," he said, leaning casually against a wall like some pompous knight from a bard’s tale.

Rhaenyra knew no one more insufferable than Bolvar Fordragon.

She gave him a wicked smile. "And how do you know I wasn’t talking about that sword?" she asked, blinking slowly, her tone mockingly flirtatious and openly scornful.

His nostrils flared. Like her uncle Daemon in his youth, Bolvar had a fiery temper. He stepped toward her abruptly, almost growling:

"You’ve got nerve. Insulting me, when you’re as flat as a green boy."

How dare you.

Rhaenyra slapped him hard across the face. The loud crack echoed, and Bolvar looked even more enraged.

"Just because my breasts don’t spill out of my dress like Jaina’s doesn’t mean they don’t exist!"

"Bolvar!"

If the situation had been different, Rhaenyra might have laughed at how fast Bolvar straightened like a recruit before his commander. But she noticed the watching eyes all around them and quickly looked away.

The news will spread. Father will never let this go

"At this hour, you should already be heading to your quarters. The duels begin soon," Daemon said through gritted teeth, glaring at them.

"Yes, father!"

Bolvar nearly saluted. Then Daemon turned to Rhaenyra.

"You too," he said coldly, brushing past her without another word.

Guess playtime is over

Rhaenyra glanced around, looking for Jaina, but couldn’t see her anywhere.

Damn

Chapter Text

***Westeros - Harrenhal***

Tidemother, have mercy.

Daelin sat, barely listening, as Viserys told a story that, in his mind, must have been meant as a joke. The meeting was supposed to be about the Steepstones, and since Kul Tiras maintained a strong presence in the region, the king had invited him to the council. Also present were Corlys Velaryon and Otto Hightower. They had gathered in the spacious chamber atop the tallest tower of Harrenhal.

If all councils are like this, no wonder decisions are so damn slow around here.

Daelin cast a glance toward Corlys, who was barely restraining his contempt.

At least you’re enjoying this as little as I am, you slippery eel.

“With all due respect, why are we here?” Daelin finally spoke, fixing Viserys with a cold stare. “The safety of the trade routes falls under the jurisdiction of my fleet, which has been doing a damn fine job. Piracy is almost nonexistent. The lanes are safe, and people are getting richer. In other words—everyone’s happy.”

Viserys raised his hands in a defensive gesture and began mumbling something awkwardly.

Predictable. Another spineless jellyfish.

“No one’s questioning Kul Tiras’s contribution to safeguarding trade,” the king replied, “but some are concerned about your fleet’s continued presence in a region traditionally within our sphere of influence. There are also reports that your sailors have harassed ships from Westeros.”

“That’s the first I’m hearing of it,” Daelin said dryly.

He shot a quick glance at the Master of Driftmark.

Really? You’re stooping to forgery and bribery now?

“Do these incidents involve various ships, or is this about one specific captain?” the Lord Admiral asked, feigning interest.

Viserys opened his mouth to answer, but Corlys beat him to it.

“Various, though it’s true that most involve my own sailors.”

Of course they do.

“I’ll look into it. If the reports and witnesses turn out to be credible, those responsible will be punished, and reparations will be made. But for now, gentlemen, if you’ll excuse me—I’d like to visit my daughter before the tourney.”

Without waiting for a reply, Daelin stood and strode toward Jaina’s chambers. His sea princess was growing up so fast… It was hard not to notice how many men had begun to take an interest in her.

“Wait!”

He sighed, his thoughts interrupted by a voice he neither liked nor missed. Turning, he found the source exactly where he expected.

“What is it, Lord Corlys?”

“I want to bury the hatchet. Start fresh.” The Sea Snake extended a hand.

He has to be joking.

Daelin snorted.

“You seem to think we’re equals,” he said coldly, pointing a finger at Corlys’s chest. “You’re a lord. I’m a king. The second richest man in the world, ruler of the greatest naval power in history. I don’t need to speak to you—and I certainly don’t need anything from you.”

He watched Corlys’s face turn red with fury. He had never seen the man like this before. For a moment, he thought the Sea Snake might lunge at him, but Corlys restrained himself. Barely. His clenched fists trembled. His teeth ground together.

“I should be leading the combined fleet. Kul Tiras may have more ships, but I’m the better sailor. I’ve undertaken more voyages. I know these seas better. The moment you slip, I’ll take your place as Grand Admiral.”

“With that attitude, our alliance seems unnecessary,” Daelin said coldly.

“I was even going to propose a marriage between your daughter and my son, but now...”

Daelin laughed loudly, his expression dripping with disdain.

“Only your family would benefit from such a union. My daughter—the most beautiful woman in the world, heir to a powerful kingdom and a legacy of magic—marrying someone who wouldn’t appreciate her? Knowing you, you’d turn her into a hostage. I’ll never allow it.”

He turned, but Corlys grabbed his arm.

“You wouldn’t dare—”

Daelin didn’t turn his head. Corlys froze, feeling the barrel of a pistol pressed into his ribs.

“You don’t have the courage—”

“Are you certain of that?” Daelin cocked the weapon.

Fear flickered in Corlys’s eyes. Though he tried to maintain composure, Daelin could see him calculating escape routes. When the barrel pressed deeper, he went utterly still.

“Listen carefully, because I won’t repeat this, you slimy—”

“Father!”

Daelin cursed under his breath. The voice of Lady Laena shattered the tension. He quickly holstered the weapon and stepped away from Corlys. The girl approached, her eyes widening at the sight of Daelin standing so close to her father.

“Your Grace,” she said with a deep curtsy.

At least someone in this family knows respect.

“Lady Laena, always a pleasure to see you. I was just finishing a conversation with your father. Would you care to accompany me to my daughter’s chambers? I still get lost in this damned fortress.”

He offered his arm, which she accepted with a visible blush. She glanced back at her father as if seeking permission, but he turned and walked away.

“Father?!”

“Forgive him. Seems our conversation struck a nerve.”

Laena nodded, though her gaze lingered down the hallway where Corlys had vanished. Daelin studied her closely for a moment. At ten and six, she had grown into a lovely young woman—with long, silvery locks and lilac eyes. He also noted how she dressed more boldly whenever he visited.

Perhaps she’s more taken with me than I thought.

Too long had passed since he’d been with a woman, if it was this hard to look away from Laena’s profile.

Slow down, you fool. She’s your daughter’s age.

Their eyes met, and Laena blushed even deeper, quickly looking away. But Daelin could have sworn he saw the faintest smile on her lips.

Perhaps this day won’t be so bad after all.

Chapter Text

***Eastern Kingdoms - Silvermoon***

Kael’thas gazed in awe at the golden spires of Silvermoon, stretching nearly into the heavens. Though the architecture of Dalaran had inspired his kingdom’s capital, nothing could compare to home.
The familiar sight, after so long away, stirred both joy and sorrow within him.

I've been gone too long. A shame I return only for a moment.

When the elven prince arrived at Sunfury Spire, he paused, inhaled deeply, then waved his hand—and in an instant, he stood in the Sun Court. The guards, stoic as ever, straightened and offered deep bows. Entering the grand hall, he saw his father, presiding over courtly matters. The room teemed with judges, nobles, and dignitaries of every rank.

As Kael was noticed—and as Anasterian caught sight of him—the High King dismissed the assembly with a single wave. Moments later, only the two of them remained.

"Is it true?" the king asked coolly.

I expected a cold welcome. Maybe that’s for the best. At least I know nothing has changed.

"Yes, Father," Kael’thas replied, matching his tone.

His father had always held resentment for his divided loyalty between Dalaran and Silvermoon—forgetting, perhaps, that it had been Anasterian Sunstrider himself who first chose to end the elves' isolation. After the cataclysm that had consumed much of the continent, everyone felt a renewed urgency to forge bonds—and to understand what had happened. How to fix it. Or, if it could not be undone, how to ensure it never happened again.

"With Lord Malygos’s support, we’ll be able to open a portal—briefly—into a region that roughly corresponds with the lost lands. Based on similarities in energy lines, we’ve determined—" Kael began.

He stopped when his father raised a hand to silence him.

"Spare me the details. That’s what court magi are for," Anasterian snapped bitterly.

Kael’thas narrowed his eyes.

I f Malygos heard that, there wouldn't be a stone left of this palace.

He straightened as his father continued.

"You are my only heir. Your place is here, in Quel’Thalas," the High King said with emphasis.

"Father, as the future king, it’s my duty to investigate this matter personally—to make sure such a thing never happens again. To protect our people."

Their eyes met in silent defiance. After a long moment, Anasterian looked away and gave a dismissive wave.

"Fine. If you must go—at least you’ll be useful."

Kael’thas noticed his father mutter something under his breath—and in the blink of an eye, they were in another wing of the palace.

Strange. I don't remember ever being here. Judging by the dust, no one has been for centuries.

Anasterian walked ahead, Kael’thas following quietly. Around them lay relics from the early days of the king’s reign, some decaying into dust. Others were even older—remnants of the Troll Wars.

Incredible.

They stopped before a large painting depicting two men standing atop a hill of fallen trolls. Even without Felo’melorn in hand, it was clear one of them was Anasterian.

I don’t know what surprises me more—that Father was so young, or that he could smile back then. Not sarcastically, not cynically… but with genuine joy.

The second man was human—a powerful warrior clad in archaic armor. He had a stern face, yet a noble bearing. One hand rested on Anasterian’s shoulder, the other on the hilt of a massive two-handed sword.

This isn't the work of human hands. Not entirely. Some of the runes are elven… but the rest? Older. Much older. Fascinating.

Kael’thas glanced at his father, who stared at the painting with a strange expression. Sadness… but something more.

"Is that…?" the prince asked softly.

"Yes," Anasterian confirmed, placing a hand on the canvas. "Thoradin was the greatest of his kind. A charismatic leader. An unmatched warrior. You should’ve seen how quickly our men began to admire him—and our women desired him." The king chuckled and shook his head. "I still remember Lyandra Windrunner walking out of his tent nearly naked, clutching her clothes… after he refused her advances."

Kael tried to recall whether he’d ever heard his father mention Thoradin before—but he hadn’t. And there had been many chances.

Apparently—like with Mother—it’s one of those subjects we don't speak of.

"You were friends?"

"Yes. We were close. But in the end… we parted ways," Anasterian said slowly.

Kael could almost feel the pain radiating off his father.

"What happened?"

The king turned to him, arms folded.

"Maybe I’ll tell you when you return, son."

Too easy. Far too easy.

Kael raised a brow, but before he could press further, his father spoke again.

"I want you to return something to Thoradin’s descendants, if you meet them."

"You know they may be long dead."

"If they’re anything like their forebear… I sincerely doubt it. Wait here."

Anasterian vanished into the adjoining room. Kael’thas stared at the painting, deep in thought.

It’ll be interesting to see if they truly inherited his nature.

When his father returned, he held a sword—an exact replica of the one in the painting.

"Strom’kar. The blade that forged the future of men and elves," he said with reverence. "You will return it to Thoradin’s heir."

"You have my word, Father."

"Who else will join the expedition?"

"Danath Trollbane and Kurdran Wildhammer. As for the rest—circumstances remain uncertain."

"You’ll take a unit of Rangers, several of our best magi and priests. I assume you have preparations to make. You are dismissed."

"Thank you, Father. I promise—you will not regret this decision."

The prince bowed deeply and teleported to his chambers.

Chapter Text

***Essos - The Dothraki Sea***

Danath scanned the area, one hand resting near the hilt of Trol’kalar. Though he had never seen the lost lands before, every instinct screamed that they didn’t belong here. No forests. Wide-open plains. They were sitting ducks for any would-be attacker. They needed to scout the area as soon as possible—to find out if there was water, food… and what kind of enemies they might face.

"I assume you've all reached the same conclusion I have," he said, approaching the rest of the command team.

"Indeed, Danath," Kael'thas replied without looking up from the map he was studying. "What I can’t understand is how someone like Lord Malygos could have made a mistake. A slight miscalculation, maybe—but this?"

"Don’t even say we’ve landed somewhere that isn’t even part of our continent!" Kurdran growled.

Kael finally lifted his eyes from the parchment. He looked exhausted.

"I don’t know. At this point, I’m not certain of anything. Until we can conduct a full survey, I’ll withhold judgment."

"When we're done setting up camp—which should be a camp, not a ruin—we’ll need to discuss our options," said Trollbane, his voice steady. "Especially if it turns out we’re stuck here."

"I couldn’t agree more," Kurdran said with a grunt.

"I only hope Alleria and your gryphon riders return soon with news," Kael added. "We need time to assess the situation."

"If things get complicated, I just hope we find worthy enemies here. Come on, Danath, don’t let Uther take all the glory," said the High Thane of the Wildhammer, clapping his friend on the back.

I wouldn’t expect anything less from you.

"You know I enjoy a good fight as much as the next man," Danath replied. "But right now, too many unknowns are working against us. Let’s hope the powers above don’t take your words as prophecy."

They continued walking, pausing to issue orders and assess progress. Some soldiers were doing well—focused, organized. Others moved sluggishly, unease written all over their faces.

Let’s hope that mood doesn’t spread too far.

"I hope your riders return quickly," Danath said. "Even one warrior could make a difference now—let alone a whole squad."

"Don’t worry. The west is being scouted by my fastest flyers. We should see them again soon."

Danath spotted Uther in the distance, surrounded by soldiers, barking orders in every direction. When the paladin noticed them, he gave a nod of greeting and dismissed the others.

The militia captain approached, shaking hands with him.

"We’ve got a serious problem with materials," Uther said grimly. "This… grass is everywhere, but our magi are having trouble manipulating magic here. Without resources, we can’t build anything."

He paused and furrowed his brow. He was listening for something.

A moment later, Danath heard it too—hooves pounding the earth.

"Riders from the east!" Danath roared. "Form ranks!"

Weapons came up instantly. The expedition’s soldiers fell into a defensive line. Danath took the center, Uther the left flank, and Kurdran—rather than take to the sky—anchored the right. From the distance came warriors without armor, armed with crescent-shaped blades. The way they rode—some even standing on their saddles—showed they were elite cavalry.

"Shield wall! No matter what happens—hold the line!" Danath bellowed.

"Archers! Anyone who clears the wall—bring them down! Mages—one focused volley. Break their charge! Priests, behind the lines!"

There was something beautiful in the sight of enemy riders breaking against their ranks. The soldiers didn’t budge. Every barbarian who slipped past the shield wall met an elven arrow to the throat. Danath lost count of how many foes fell beneath his blade. Trol’kalar shone with pale light, slicing, parrying, cleaving—instilling terror in their enemies.

Thank you, uncle.

But still, the barbarians pressed on. Danath noticed that even minor displays of magic sent ripples of fear through them. The gryphon riders were impressive—but it was the Light that truly broke their spirit.

"Liadrin! Have your priests pour as much Light into us as they can!" Danath shouted.

The beautiful elf glanced at him, unsure, then nodded. As Uther began to glow with radiant golden light, panic rippled through the enemy ranks. Their momentum faltered. Chaos took hold.

At last—it was time.

"Sons and daughters of Alliance… CHARGE!"

The front line surged forward. Shields crushed anything in their path. Danath scanned the battlefield—and saw a warrior who could only be the leader. Tall, broad-shouldered, with a long braid and flanked by guards. Their eyes met.

"I see you, boy. You’ve got a plan."

Danath glanced at Kurdran. The dwarf raised his hands in mock innocence.

"Relax. The flank’s secure, Uther’s holding the line. Someone’s gotta show these savages how we fight on Azeroth. You take the big one—I’ll deal with the rest."

Kurdran dove into the enemy ranks.

Danath nodded once, then pushed forward, cutting his way across the battlefield. When he reached the chieftain, Kurdran was already engaged with the guards. The two leaders circled each other as the fighting melted away around them, forming a ring.

"I’m Danath Trollbane. And you are?"

The barbarian growled out a name in a guttural tongue and lunged without warning, swinging wide. Danath parried and caught the follow-up strike. His opponent dodged—only to be met with a punch to the face that shattered his nose. The warrior howled, staggering back, spitting blood. Before he could recover, Danath swung Trol’kalar. The blade sliced through the air. The chieftain barely dodged, but the cut slashed across his arm—deep enough to disarm him. Instead of retreating, he roared and charged with bare fists. He struck Danath’s helmet with the force of a warhorse. The captain reeled, vision spinning, pain ringing in his skull. He bit his tongue to stay upright, barely raising his sword in time to deflect a brutal elbow.

Strong bastard.

The barbarian reached for a dagger and slashed at Danath’s gut. The blade scraped the breastplate, leaving sparks and a deep gash. Danath reacted without thought—kicking him hard in the knee. Something cracked. The enemy fell to one knee, roaring in agony. Danath didn’t wait. He spun and brought Trol’kalar down in a furious arc. The blade sliced through the barbarian’s neck like a hot knife through butter. Blood sprayed high into the air, soaking the grass in crimson. The body slumped, suddenly aware of its own weight. Danath looked around. The remaining guards had stopped fighting. They stared in disbelief—at their fallen leader, his severed head, the glowing sword in Danath’s hands. No words were needed. They began to retreat.

Kurdran swooped in and landed beside him.

"So that was their chieftain?"

Danath nodded, panting hard. "He’s done."

"Good work, Danath. Beautiful work! You hear that, Uther? This bald bastard just took down their boss! First round’s on me!"

From the ruined camp, a roar of celebration echoed across the field. Danath raised his sword—not in pride, but to lift the spirits of his men. He knew this was just the beginning. There would be more. This land was not like their own.

Many soldiers were bleeding—but their faces were steady, their stance unwavering.

Today, the Alliance stood victorious.

Danath pounded his chest with a clenched fist, a thunderous sound echoing across the field. Kurdran joined him—and then the others, one by one, until all voices rang out as one.

"ALLIANCE!"

"ALLIANCE!"

"ALLIANCE!"

"ALLIANCE!"