Unbowed, Unbent, Unbroken [Aegon Targaryen]

CHAPTER THREE - THE CONQUEROR

AN ENTIRE MOON PASSED, AND NOTHING. No one came, no ravens were received. And they were still alive. No dragons, no armies, no Conqueror. It was odd, but they continued about their business as usual, always watching the skies.

Sarella had her own army perfected, ready to act on her command. Now. . . now she was waiting. She knew that the Conqueror was purposefully drawing it out to make her nervous and on edge, but in truth, she was calm. He did not frighten her, nor did his dragons. She thought that perhaps that made her foolish, not being afraid.

She was in her gardens with Lena one afternoon in the beginning of the second moon since Visenya had been there, taking a leisurely stroll. In the midst of their conversation a shadow, larger and darker than either one before it, flew over the gardens. The cry that came from it was one of the most menacing sounds Sarella had ever heard.

Sarella and Lena froze beside each other, smiles dying on their lips. "The Conqueror has arrived," Sarella said. She turned slowly, and began walking toward where the beast had landed, growing faster by the minute. Lena came after her.

"Lena, if you do not want to come, you do not have to," Sarella told her, mid-stride.

"I do, Princess. I will stand by you, and not be intimidated by him."

The Conqueror landed in the same place as both of his sisters, and Sarella met him in the same place as she had met his sisters. The place where he was forced to walk over to meet her. As he came closer, she could make out his features.

His hair was short and the same silver-blond as both of his sister's, his eyes a deep indigo colour. And he was, even as Sarella hated to admit it, handsome. He had a sharp jawline and stubble that covered it, and his full lips made him a man that any woman would swoon over.

His walk was confident and commanding, one of a king. Of a conqueror. Upon his brow sat a crown of steel and rubies, and he wore a tunic and pants of black and red. Targaryen colours.

His beast behind him was all black and the largest creature Sarella had ever seen. It's eyes were as black as its scales, yet seemed to glow. A frightening beast, truly, and yet. . . it did not frighten her. It intrigued her.

Sarella's hand casually sat on the pommel of her sword, and her lips wore a small smirk. She greeted him with a nod of her head and that same smirk. "Conqueror." It was a slight shout, as he was still a few feet away.

"Princess." His voice was low and rough, almost gravelly.

"We were beginning to think that you were not coming."

"You requested my presence. So I came." The Conqueror looked her over, indigo eyes like an animal inspecting its prey.

"You do not seem like a man who comes when requested."

"It is preferred to killing you. By both of us, I would think."

Sarella allowed a laugh to leave her lips as she shook her head. "Yes, I suppose so. Come inside, Conqueror. I would speak with you. Perhaps we can come to an agreement that does not end in death."