The Dragon of Duskendale

Posted originally on the Archive of Our Own at http://archiveofourown.org/works/6477040.

Rating: Teen And Up Audiences

Archive Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Category: F/M
Fandoms: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Relationships: Alysanne Lefford/OC, Elia Martell/OC, Rhaenys Targaryen (Daughter of
Elia)/Willas Tyrell, Aegon Targaryen/OC
Characters: Rhaegar Targaryen, Elia Martell, Aerys II Targaryen, Alysanne Lefford
Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence
Language: English
Series: Part 1 of The White Dragons, Lords of Duskendale
Stats: Published: 2016-04-06 Completed: 2017-03-01 Words: 215,616
Chapters: 71/71
 The Dragon of Duskendale
by Kerjack

Summary

The Targaryens have a history of madness, and no one knows it better than Aelor, second son
of the Mad King. Amidst his father's erratic and destructive behavior and his elder brother's
decision to run off with a girl who wasn't his wife, it will take every ounce of his Targaryen
charm and skill at arms to save the greatest dynasty in Westeros...and that still might not be
enough.

Notes

Well hello. I've been posting this story on the fanfiction dot net for a while now under the
same pen name
(Kerjack), but I finally decided to post it here as well. I'll be posting a chapter a day until the
two sites are caught up, so you can either run over there and spoil what happens next or hang
around here, whichever you prefer. After the sites are on the same chapter, however, update
dates will be much more sporadic until the story is complete. In any case, I hope you enjoy.

This has many OC's in it, as you'll hopefully stick around to see. I don't see a tag for that, so
this is your heads up!

*Just so you know, I'm still getting used to this site and its intricacies, so if you believe I need
a certain tag or warning or whatever after reading, please don't hesitate to let me know!*
 I

It was difficult being the son of the most hated man in Westeros.

Aelor Targaryen had seen his fair share of death. He'd watched the executions of the Houses
Darklyn and Hollard after the Defiance, a fifteen year old squire to Ser Barristan Selmy
who'd been forced to stay behind while his mentor scaled the wall of Duskendale and rescued
Aelor's father. He'd killed his first man, some hulking brute who smelled like a pig sty and
fought like a boar, two years later during the waning hours of the Kingswood Brotherhood,
and sent seven more men to their graves before the conflict was finished, earning his
knighthood. And he'd seen men burned alive by his father for years now, more men and more
situations than Aelor wished to recall. His father's nickname of the Mad King was well
earned.

But the deaths of Rickard and Brandon Stark were…haunting. The smell of the Lord of the
North's burning flesh still swirled in his nostrils, just as the sound of the man's son strangling
himself as he tried to reach his longsword to save his father still rang in his ears. Aelor was
no stranger to nightmares, but he knew those deaths would haunt him until the day he died.

If they ever find Rhaegar, I'll kill him myself. There are worse things in life than being labeled
a kinslayer.

"My Lord," came a deep, raspy voice in the hall behind him. Aelor didn't turn, his eyes
finally seeing what he had been staring at since he'd stormed out of the throne room. King's
Landing was breathtaking from this balcony at night, the stench of the city prevalent but
easily ignored when one was gazing at the millions of lights down below. The sound of heavy
footfalls drew nearer before stopping a few feet behind where Aelor leaned. "My…"

"I heard you the first time, Ren." Prince Aelor Targaryen sighed, running his hand through his
short, silver hair. "They'll be hell to pay now." The second son of Aerys Targaryen, second of
his name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms
and Protector of the Realm, turned to regard his best friend. Renfred Rykker, Lord of Hollard
Hall, was a big man, six and a half feet tall and broad shouldered. His warhammer was
strapped across his back, a permanent accessory to the man since he'd been big enough to
wield it. Black haired and fully bearded, he struck an imposing figure.

Renfred came to lean next to his lifetime friend, arms folding across his chest. Aelor was
himself big for a Targaryen, only an inch or two shorter than Rykker and nearly as broad
shouldered. His silver hair and trimmed beard paired with his dark violet eyes and classic
Targaryen beauty to strike an imposing figure in his own right. They'd both only seen twenty
namedays, but each man felt in that moment a lifetime older.

Rykker spoke first. "The King has commanded Jon Arryn to surrender Eddard Stark and
Robert Baratheon to him."

Aelor shook his head. "He won't, and the Seven know I don't blame him for it."
Renfred raised an eyebrow. "Do you think he will call his banners in rebellion?"

The prince turned to meet his friend's eyes. "My father just burned the Lord Paramount of the
North alive in his armor, while his heir strangled himself trying to save him. All of this after
my brother, heir to the throne, disregards his wife and kidnaps the man's daughter, who just
so happens to be the betrothed of Robert Baratheon, Lord Paramount of the Stormlands."
Aelor snorted. "My family has done an excellent job of screwing things up. Yes, Jon Arryn
will rebel, and the North and the Stormlands will join him."

Renfred nodded. "So it will be war, then. I don't see your father abdicating."

"My father hasn't done a sensible thing like that in years, old friend."

Rykker glanced around. "You know as well as I, Your Grace, the dangers of talking like that."

Aelor Targaryen laughed, gaining his feet from his leaning position. "Yes, the walls have ears
as they say. It is true, I have no doubt. Even now you can hear the wings of Varys' little birds
as they flap away to report on King Aerys' traitorous son. Let them. My father will need me
now more than ever, and even his madness won't stop him from knowing it." Aelor raised his
voice louder. "Ser Barristan!"

The knight stepped out from behind the pillar where he had been waiting, white enamel plate
shining in the torchlight of the rather dark hall. "Yes Your Grace?"

Aelor walked towards his old mentor, strides long and confident, his well-muscled but lean
body moving as smooth as a shadowcat. Renfred followed, his strides longer, heavier and not
nearly as graceful. "We're leaving."

"At this time of night, Your Grace?"

Aelor nodded, the Kingsguard knight and Lord of Hollard Hall falling into step on either side
of him. "Yes. We all know how my father gets after displays like today. I have no intention of
hearing my mother's wails for mercy ever again." Aelor's face was hard as stone. "When we
reach Duskendale, send the ravens to my bannermen. We prepare for war."
 II

Duskendale was an impressive sight. It had been impressive five years ago, when he'd rode
with Tywin Lannister to besiege the city and it's castle, and it was just as impressive now,
even after he'd ruled it in the years since his father had granted it to him after destroying the
Darklyn's. He was still a mile away, but he could clearly see the Dun Fort, his castle, on the
shore of the Narrow city speared out away from it, thickly walled on the three sides that
didn't face the ocean. Cobbled and swept streets made Duskendale an attractive city, and a
prosperous one thanks to trade made possible by its location on the ocean. Even now, galleys
flying the banner of the Stormlands, Dragonstone, the Reach, and even the Free Cities of
Pentos and Myr were docked outside the walls, being loaded or unloaded by the dockhands,
their goods carried by the cartload to the traders inside the walls.

Despite being born and raised in King's Landing, which made Duskendale's population of
forty thousand seem miniscule, Aelor always felt a sense of pride when he saw the Targaryen
banners flapping above it.

They'd passed several fishing villages on the road, raising the levies as they went. Aelor had
sent Sers Balman and Morgan Byrch, the brothers of Lord Cleyton of Byrch Hall, sworn to
him, as well as Sers Manfred Darke and Gullien Elwood to the surrounding villages.
Duskendale itself, however, would provide the most levies, among them two thirds of the two
thousand strong City Watch. In the five years since Aelor had been granted the city, he had
worked tirelessly to train and equip the men under the City Watch's banner, drilling them
every day with his own household guards. In times like these that training would prove
invaluable, as the peasants that would soon be flooding Duskendale would need both training
and the occasional blow to the head if they stepped out of line.

His retinue pulled their horses to a stop at the fork in the road just outside the gates, the
traders scurrying around the forty strong formation, many staring at the attractive dragonlord
sitting astride the white palfrey, or the famed Barristan the Bold, fully armored and mounted
on his own grey gelding. Slightly behind them a man bore the three-headed red dragon on
black field banner of House Targaryen, and beside him another bore two three-headed white
dragons facing each other on a black field, the personal coat of arms of Prince Aelor
Targaryen, Lord of Duskendale.

Lord Renfred Rykker sidled his horse up beside his Prince's, clasping wrists with the second
son of the king. "I'll return with my full force as soon as possible, Your Grace."

Aelor nodded, clapping his lifelong friend on the shoulder. "This will not be a quick war,
Ren. Shall I ask Lord Buckwell to bring Malessa with his host?" The Targaryen Prince
couldn't help but smile at the blush that overtook his massive friends face at the mention of
his betrothed. "You will have the full hospitality of both the Dun Fort and Duskendale itself
for your wedding. You need only say the word."

Renfred Rykker, who feared no man in either Westeros or Essos, turned white at the prospect
of marriage. "I do not know if it will be necessary so soon."
"We both may die, old friend." Aelor spoke gently but firmly. "Your only brother is a member
of the Night's Watch. You are the first Lord Rykker. If you die heirless, Hollard Hall reverts
to me. I granted it to one friend for him to keep. I don't intend to grant it to another."

"There is no guarantee that…the…bedding would result in a child, Your Grace."

Aelor's smile grew. "No, but it certainly is worth a chance. You've postponed this marriage
long enough, Ren. If we're to die for my family's follies, at least allow yourself some pleasure
before we do."

Renfred Rykker hesitated a long moment, indecision fighting a losing battle over his facial
features before he finally nodded, eyes resigned. "Yes, Your Grace. I graciously accept your
offer."

Aelor laughed, clapping the larger Lord Rykker on the shoulder again as they released one
another's wrists. "It's about damn time. Strong shield."

"Stronger sword," Lord Rykker completed the greeting and farewell the two had used since
they were toddlers in the Red Keep. With a salute, he turned and spurred his palfrey down the
road, ten retainers in the blue and white of House Rykker peeling off to follow.

Aelor spurred his palfrey towards the gate, Barristan and his own retainers following. "Are
you certain it will come to war, Your Grace?" Barristan rode beside the man he had trained
with a sword from birth, grateful to the king for assigning him to Aelor as his personal
Kingsguard.

"I wouldn't call my banners if I wasn't, Barristan." The Prince turned his eyes on his mentor.
"If I were Eddard Stark, I'd do the same."

"He seemed like a shy lad at Harrenhal."

Aelor nodded, turning his attention to the road as he passed under the portcullis. "He is, quiet
and honorable. The opposite of his brother, truth be told, but he has a strength to him. After
the insults my family dealt to his, he has to respond." Aelor nodded and waved at the citizens
they passed, many stopping to watch him pass by, smiling. His voice, however, held none of
the mirth showing on his face. "You have more experience at war than I could hope to gain.
What are your thoughts? And don't try to sweeten the sound of it for my father's sake, Ser. I
want your honest opinion."

Barristan kept his mare even with the Prince's, mulling the question even as he habitually
watched the surrounding citizens for threats. An assassination attempt was unlikely, as Aelor
was loved by Duskendale and its surrounding people, but Barristan was nothing but
thorough. "The Northerners and Valemen will follow their liege lords to the death, as will
most of the Stormlords. The Iron Islands won't budge. The Reach will likely stay loyalist, as
will Dorne for Princess Elia's sake."

"Even after Rhaegar's dishonorable actions?"

"Princess Elia is still in King's Landing, Your Grace."

Aelor darted his eyes to the Kingsguard knight. "You think my father…" The young Lord let
his voice drift off, looking down in thought before nodding slightly and returning his eyes to
the road. "Aye, you're right, he would. I doubt I'll be able to convince him to send her and the
children here or to Dragonstone either." Aelor shook his head. "Tywin Lannister may side
against us as well, after the years of insults my father hurled at him."

Barristan shook his head. "No, Your Grace. Tywin Lannister may well take no part in the war,
but he certainly won't side against us. The King keeps Jaime close at hand."

Aelor groaned. "Bloody hell, I'd forgotten. My father, using his own bodyguard as a hostage."

"It well keep the might of Casterly Rock out of this war you're so certain of, Your Grace. As
much as I hate it for Jaime, it does serve a purpose."

"The same purpose as dear Elia and perhaps even my niece and nephew." Aelor rode on in
silence for a moment. "How did we let things get this bad, Barristan." It wasn't a question,
and the knight of the Kingsguard didn't answer, merely riding alongside his prince as he had
for years. They were nearing the portcullis of the Dun Fort itself before the dragonlord spoke
again. "What of Hoster Tully?"

"His eldest daughter was betrothed to Brandon Stark, Your Grace."

"Was being the key word. Catelyn is her name, isn't it? She's a fair lady, and quick of mind if
I recall. Do you suppose Hoster will ask for Eddard in place of her?"

"I could not say, my Prince."

Aelor nodded, features drawn in in thought. "If I offer myself as a husband to either Catelyn
or…what's the other one's name, the younger girl?"

"Lysa Tully, Your Grace."

"Yes yes, Lysa. If I ask to marry one of his daughters I may be able to keep him loyal."

Barristan felt a pang of concern for the boy he thought of as a son. "Your father would be
furious were you to marry of your own choosing, Your Grace."

Aelor snorted. "It wouldn't be of my own choosing, Barristan. But my father will be furious
with me no matter my course of action, and he hasn't chosen a bride for me on his own yet.
At least I might be able to save my family before he burns me alive as well."

Barristan smiled slightly, remembering the phrase the young prince had always used as a
child when chided for attempting something far more dangerous than he should have. "Fire
cannot kill a dragon, Your Grace."

Aelor snorted out a laugh. "No, but steel most certainly can. It's the steel I'm wary of, Ser
Barristan; dragon or no, it will kill you just the same."
 III

When Aelor Targaryen held a feast, he held a feast.

It had taken a week and a half for the Prince's bannermen to muster their levies and arrive in
and around Duskendale. In that time, he had somehow stocked the larder with vast quantities
of boar and deer, acquired the services of both the bard Cellador of White Harbor and a
troupe of Tyroshi acrobats, and had forged a new blade for each of his bannermen and
household knights. Even now, Sers Gullian Elwood and Alester were engrossed in discussing
their respective swords, though they had both drank enough by then that the conversation
mostly consisted of repeating the same details over and over amidst rounds of boisterous
laughter. The Northman bard played and the Tyroshi enamored the crowd with flips and other
acts of agility, each act earning more and more applause as the guests dove deeper and deeper
into their cups.

Aelor Targaryen, despite not having touched a drop of wine, was smiling wider than anyone
else in the room. "For the sake of the Mother, Renfred, smile."

Lord Renfred Rykker, in direct contrast to his liege and friend, looked like he would rather be
dueling the Warrior himself than be there. "I don't know if I can do this, Aelor."

The Targaryen laughed, violet eyes filled with mirth. "Well it's too late to back out now, old
friend. You have the wedded down, the bedded to go."

Renfred turned red, contrasting with his dark blue doublet. "Exactly."

"Oh come now, Renfred. Half the handmaidens in the Red Keep knew you were more than
capable by the time you were fourteen, and from what Heavy Hallie told me you haven't lost
your touch." Renfred's blush doubled at the mention of the extremely well-endowed
courtesan Aelor had had waiting in his friend's chambers the night before, as a wedding gift
of sorts. It was impressive in truth, for Rykker's face had already been as red as the Targaryen
sigil.

Aelor turned towards the table from the alcove he had found his friend hiding in, gesturing
towards the slightly plump girl seated there, laughing along with several other young ladies.
"Look at Malessa. She is having a grand time, and I dare say she has much more to fear from
tonight than you do." The eldest daughter of Lord Buckwell had seemed completely calm and
confident since the moment she arrived that morning, putting her new husband to shame in
truth. Rykker had been fidgeting restlessly for three days now.

"I have no experience with….maidens."

Aelor grinned mischievously. "Well, it's like Willem Darry always told us; practice makes
perfect." Before Rykker could stop him, Aelor had stridden out towards the middle of the
chamber, calling out to the waiting lords and ladies. "Time for the bedding!"
Renfred's curses were swept away by the cry of the crowd, as men converged on Malessa and
ladies on Rykker, Lady Byrch already working on his breeches as if she had been waiting all
night for the chance. With a laugh, Aelor realized she probably had.

Aelor made no move towards the throng of men surrounding Malessa Buckwell, leaving the
removal of clothes to those more inebriated, but he did nod at Ser Manfred Darke. The
knight, bigger than Rykker and half as tall, muscled through the crowd and scooped the
already mostly naked maiden into his arms, striding toward the chamber with the other
partiers stumbling along behind. Aelor had instructed the man to make sure Malessa made it
to the bedding chamber unscathed, and while Ser Manfred was rude and perpetually angry, he
was as loyal a man as Aelor had ever known. The new Lady Rykker would make it to the
chamber unmarked if the short, wide knight had to break arms to make it happen.

Aelor was laughing after the crowd of revealers when Ser Barristan stepped up beside him,
materializing out of nowhere. "Your Grace, I have news."

The Prince nodded, chuckling once more before turning to his trusted mentor. "Good or
bad?"

"Expected, Your Grace." The Kingsguard gestured to another man, dressed in heavy boots
and a rumpled cloak. "A man from Gulltown in the Vale, arrived on a galley just this night."

Aelor nodded, the mirth draining from his face to be replaced by the clenched jaw and
furrowed brow the Prince adopted when he focused on matters of high importance. "Your
name?"

The man, half a boy in truth, was short and slightly built with wispy hair and a harelip, which
quivered as he gulped nervously. "Ronald, my lord. I have information."

Aelor nodded. "I look forward to hearing all about it."

Aelor's solar was smaller than one might expect for a castle such as the Dun Fort, but it
overlooked the city of Duskendale and all its splendor. Ronald was fidgeting nervously,
apparently unsure if he was supposed to be looking at the view out the solar window, the
plate of roasted boar in front of him, or the fair dragonlord seated across from him. Aelor
ended his uncertainty quickly. "Eat."

The man obliged, albeit nervously, eyes periodically darting up to either Aelor or Ser
Barristan, who was standing behind the Prince with his arms folded. "You claim to have
information," the dragonlord began after a time. When Ronald nodded, Aelor leaned forward
slightly. "Concerning what, exactly?"

Ronald swallowed, his fidgeting increasing. "Lord Arryn, my lord."

"Your Grace," Barristan corrected from behind Aelor.

"Y-your Grace," the man corrected quickly. "I'm sorry, Your Grace."
Aelor leaned forward. "Calm yourself, Ronald. I am not my father." The man, too much
weight on his small frame to be a peasant but much too nervous to be familiar with dealing
with nobility, relaxed ever so slightly, though his eyes were still wary and his knee did not
slow its rapid up and down motion. "Where are you from?"

"Gulltown, Your Grace."

"And what do you do there?"

"My father is the steward for Ser Arstan Saul, Your Grace. I assist him"

Ser Barristan cut in, filling in the blanks for his Prince. "A knightly house sworn to House
Grafton, Your Grace. They control a towerhouse guarding one of Gulltown's gates."

Aelor nodded. "And you, Ronald, decided to board a galley and sail here to Duskendale with
information for Prince Aelor Targaryen. Well, here you are, and here I am. I'm listening."

Ronald gulped again, eyes dancing between the other two men in the room. Aelor knew that
whatever information the lad possessed, he had intended on being rewarded for it. Aelor
didn't necessarily hold that against him; nothing came free in this world, and information
could be more valuable than all the gold in the Westerlands. While Ronald certainly would be
rewarded if his information proved worth his time, Aelor didn't intend to promise anything.
Spies and turncloaks had their uses, but their nature roiled his stomach.

Aelor sharpened his gaze, letting the dark violet mingle with the shadows of the candlelight
to darken his face intimidatingly. "I don't have all night, lad. And while I'm not my father, I
do not like to be kept waiting." Aelor let his jaw clench ever harder, blazing his gaze into the
young man across from him.

Whatever Ronald had been intending to ask for in return for this information must've
suddenly become unimportant, because he opened up rather quickly. "Lord Arryn has called
his banners, Your Grace. There are rumors in Gulltown that he is opposing your father."

Aelor nodded. Looks like I was correct about our war. Gods I hate being right sometimes.
"And Lord Grafton?"

"He is going to answer the call to arms, Your Grace. He has already ordered Ser Saul and his
sons to raise levies."

"What else?"

Ronald shrugged nervously. "That is all I know, Your Grace."

"Any talk of Lords remaining loyal to the crown? Rumors of mercenaries, news of that
nature?"

"No, Your Grace, I promise. I have told you all I know."

Aelor leaned back, regarding the young man across from him coolly. "Apparently you don't
know too much, Ronald, although what you have told me is useful." Aelor looked towards
the door of the solar, ignoring the Valeman for a moment. "Ser Manfred!"

The broad shouldered and ugly knight opened the door at once, stepping through. "Your
Grace?"

Aelor stood, and after a moment Ronald realized he should stand as well, nearly knocking his
chair over in his rush to gain his feet. "This man has proven his loyalty to the crown. Ten
golden dragons and a mug of ale for him."

"Thank you, Your Grace!" Ronald's face lit up as he answered, but Aelor was already moving
past him, Ser Barristan at his heels. Aelor clapped Ser Manfred on the shoulder as he passed.
"He also arrived at my home intending to sell information he should have given me freely. He
leaves Duskendale with a few less teeth than he arrived with."

Aelor and Ser Barristan were out the door before the sound of Manfred's fist connecting with
Ronald's face filled the room. "That may have been a poor move, Your Grace. The man gave
us valuable information."

Aelor nodded, not slowing his stride. "Yes, he did, and you're probably right. I suppose I have
seen too many treacheries for money in King's Landing; it has turned me hostile to those who
turn on their family for so little a motive as gold."

"You have never lacked for gold, Your Grace. Those who have see it much differently."

Aelor couldn't argue that. "A true statement. That's why I like you, Barristan, you put me in
my place. I'll give him another dragon for the teeth." Aelor returned to the dining hall, finding
that after the bedding many of the guests had stumbled to their chambers. Servants scurried
about, cleaning the spills and reorganizing the disarray the visitors had left his hall in. A few
were helping this knight or that Lord to their feet and herding them off to their chambers.

Aelor chuckled quietly. "I see I wasn't missed. Ser Barristan, rest well. We rise early in the
morning. There are peasants to train, hangovers to cure."

Barristan the Bold nodded. "Of course Your Grace. Shall I convene a war council in the
morning?"

Aelor nodded even as he turned to meander towards his chambers by the Narrow Sea. "Of
course, old friend. As Ronald so kindly confirmed, we are fighting a war after all."

How Barristan had managed to assemble his bannermen and top knights so early in the
morning Aelor would never know, yet when he entered the private dining hall they were
almost all already in place, struggling through a breakfast of fresh fish from the docks.
Struggling was the apt term, as most of them were moving sluggishly slow and Lord Byrch
seemed to be more asleep than awake, but they were there in body if not mind.

Aelor waved them down as they tried to rise upon his entrance, taking his seat at the head of
the table and returning the chorus of greetings from his bannermen. A servant brought him
his own dish of steaming cod and a flagon of ale, and Aelor ate quickly and quietly as the
men around him returned to nursing their hangovers, chuckling to himself when Lord
Renfred Rykker entered and was met with a round of good nature ribbing. He sat beside
Aelor, giving his longtime friend a shove in the shoulder when the Targaryen smirked at him.

He looks happy. Good. The world needs more happiness.

After several minutes, he cleared his throat. "My lords, we have received word from the
Vale." Each of the lords and knights, no matter their stage of sickness from the night before,
instantly gave him their full attention. "Jon Arryn has called his banners. We are at war."

Each of the men took the news calmly, nodding their heads. Lord Cleyton Byrch, apparently
more awake than he seemed, spoke first. He was a burly man though a shade short, a few
years shy of thirty, with a belly already beginning to grow portly. He kept his blonde hair
short and his face clean shaven, with brown eyes and a slightly large nose. Though loyal to
Aelor, he could be ambitious and arrogant, as well as perpetually paranoid about losing what
was his. That paranoia had driven both of his younger brothers, the handsome Balman and
rail-thin Morgan, to leave Byrch Hall, and Aelor had taken them in as household knights in
his personal retinue. It served both Lord Byrch and the Dragon of Duskendale well; Lord
Cleyton could rest easier without his irrational fear of treachery from his brothers, and Aelor
got two very capable swords. "What are your plans, Your Grace?"

"That's what we are here to discuss, my friend. I have sent a raven to King's Landing
informing my father of what has happened, though I expect Varys already knows. The King
will call his own banners of course, and the raven summoning me may well be on the way. I
intend to already be marching by the time it arrives."

"The peasant levies have only just began training, Your Grace," cautioned Lord Donnel
Buckwell of Antlers. Malessa's father was in his forties, of average height and build with a
head of balding black hair peppered with gray and a drooping mustache. An honorable man,
he had earned his knighthood in the War of the Ninepenny Kings, and while he was no
strategist or master with a blade, he was solid and steady.

Buckwell's new goodson answered for Aelor. "We can train as we march," Renfred said with
a nod to the other men. "We have the men to do so. Call a halt an hour or two before daylight
and drill them until nightfall. By the time we reach an actual battlefield they'll be as ready as
they're ever going to get."

"Levies are unreliable no matter their training," Lord Cleyton countered. "The knights and
retinues are the only fore we can depend on."

Ser Barristan spoke from his standing position behind Aelor. "That is true, Lord Byrch, but
with proper support levy spears can turn a battle. While most of the levies had never held a
weapon before we armed them as you arrived, they can learn."

Ser Manfred, his voice like stone breaking and face scowling as it always was, spoke for the
first time in Aelor's memory without cursing every other word. "They will fight as a wall.
Alone, the fuckers won't know which end of the spear to stick where and in whom, but
together they'll do fine."
"What are our numbers?" Asked the quiet Lord Elwood Harte, short and thin with a few stray
copper hairs he tried to pass for a beard. Nineteen, he had been a Lord since he was two years
old, when a round of illness had taken his Lord father and most of his household, leaving the
young toddler Elwood as the sole survivor of House Harte.

"We have over six thousand men total," answered Ser Barristan. "The majority are trained
men-at-arms or knights."

"A relatively small army," Aelor admitted, "but we are already assembled. The Vale is only
just beginning to muster, and Lord Arryn will have to smuggle Eddard Stark north and Robert
Baratheon to the Stormlands to rally their own bannermen."

"We can strike first," piped in Ser Balman, notably standing as far from his older brother as
he could. While they were relatively civil to one another, there was no love lost between the
two eldest Byrch's. "We should hit the Valemen or Stormlords before they can assemble."
Aelor had been thinking along the same lines, as had most of the other knights and Lords
present judging by the wave of nods that followed Ser Balman's proposal.

"They stand a better chance once they unite," agreed Rykker. "We hold the advantage of
having the largest force already amassed and equipped."

"The King will insist on your presence in King's Landing, Your Grace," cautioned Ser
Barristan. "While Ser Balman's suggestion is credible, your father will expect you to
reinforce the capital first."

Aelor nodded. "And so I shall, though I will not remain there. We will march to King's
Landing, training our levies as we go, and swell our numbers once there. Then we march
through the Stormlands. I intend to scatter as many Stormlord hosts as we can. If we take
them piecemeal, we may be able to end this rebellion before it begins."

"The King may not approve, Your Grace."

"The King started this war, with no small amount of help from my brother. I intend to end it,
whether he approves or not." Aelor rose to his feet, prompting the others to do the same. "Go
to your men my lords. War is upon us. We march for King's Landing by dusk."
 IV

Elia Martell knew Rhaegar Targaryen better than almost anyone, and even she hadn't seen it
coming.

When her husband had won the tourney at Harrenhal, unhorsing his own brother in the final
tilt after both Targaryen's had broken twelve lances on the other's shield, Elia and the entire
realm had expected the heir to the Iron Throne to crown her the Queen of Love and Beauty. It
wasn't pride or a notion of her own beauty that made her believe so; it was simply expected
of a victorious tournament winner to crown his wife. That was how it had always been, and
how it always would be.

So when the Crown Prince of Dragonstone bypassed the royal box, bestowing the crown of
winter roses on the head of the Stark girl, Elia had been duly surprised. While her union to
Rhaegar had not grown into one of love, it had been a happy one, at least for Elia's part. She
had thought Rhaegar to be happy as well; all the way until the day it was revealed that he had
stolen Lyanna Stark.

The Princess of Dorne had had no warning, no word from Rhaegar before or after hand to
soften the blow. Truth be told, she still hadn't wrapped her mind around it fully.

Her concern was more for her children than herself. Rhaenys was only two namedays old and
Aegon was still an infant, so the scandal of their father's betrayal of their mother wouldn't
dawn on them for years yet. The war that it alongside their grandfather's lunacy had started,
however, threatened them here and now. The Vale had called its banners, and it only stood to
reason that the North and Stormlands were doing the same. King Aerys had called his own
after a terrifying rant that had included the King burning the messenger alive with wildfire,
but Elia wasn't sure how many lords would answer. Her goodfather's epithet of the Mad King
was well deserved, and Jon Arryn was well respected across Westeros. She was quiet but she
certainly wasn't stupid; if this rebellion was to win, her children would be threats to
whomever the traitors chose as king.

And in the game of thrones, threats were removed. Violently.

"Elia," called a rich baritone, and the Dornish Princess's heart stopped when she turned to
face it. For just a moment Elia thought her husband had returned, striding towards her
confidently. But no, this man was a few inches taller and a fair bit broader through the
shoulders and chest, a beard growing on a face that, while still attractive, didn't quite possess
the haunting beauty that Rhaegar's did.

"Aelor," the Princess greeted, genuinely pleased to see her goodbrother had returned. In Elia's
—private—opinion, the Dragon of Duskendale was the only Targaryen with his head firmly
on his shoulders. Her husband's recent lapse of judgment had only affirmed that belief.
Though he was often away at Duskendale, ruing as a lord should, he still frequently visited
King's Landing. He had a soft spot for his niece Rhaenys and was enamored with baby
Aegon, at times seeming to care more for the children of his brother than his brother did
himself. Aelor had also won Elia's undying friendship when he'd viciously berated his elder
brother at Harrenhal, his rage having been so great that one would have thought he was the
woman scorned.

That fury had been terrible to behold; in those moments, with his violet eyes wide and
muscled arms destroying everything within their reach, she had seen the only hint of madness
Aelor had ever displayed. Elia was glad she hadn't been with him when he had learned of
Rhaegar's most recent transgression.

They stopped a few feet apart, Aelor bowing and Elia curtseying formally. The Lord of
Duskendale's smile, however, was all warm familiarity, and he placed a hand on her shoulder,
squeezing it reassuringly. "And how is my favorite Dornishwoman?"

Elia giggled girlishly, patting Aelor on the arm as he dropped his hand from her shoulder.
"I'm the only Dornishwoman you know."

Aelor's grin grew wider. "Nonsense! I'm rather well associated with your Vaith handmaiden,
if you recall. Talana, with the long legs and impressively flexible...everything."

The Princess scoffed a laugh, rolling her eyes even as her smile grew. "Of course, how could
I forget? She went on about you for weeks, talking of how her dragon prince swept her off
her feet."

The dragon prince in question adopted a mischievous grin. "If I recall correctly, she swept me
off of mine."

They laughed for a good while, and Elia realized how nice it was to do so again. Heavens
knew there hadn't been much humor in her life of late. Even Aelor, who always managed to
coax a smile from her, had been gone for some time. She had heard he had arrived in King's
Landing the day the Starks had come demanding Lyanna's release, and left that same night.

She couldn't blame him. Everyone in the Red Keep knew of the King's obsession with fire,
and how it ignited his baser needs. The Queen's screams were terrible to hear.

"How are the children," Aelor asked, cutting into her momentary reminiscence. The prince's
eyes lit up at the thought of his niece and nephew.

"Rhaenys is with Ashara, fussing over her kitten."

"Ah yes, the infamous Balerion the Black Dread."

Elia sighed in exasperation at the thought. "A title most appropriate, I assure you. Aegon is
with his wet nurse. I am on my way there now."

"I'll make sure to visit with them both while I'm here. I bought a new doll for Rhaenys, all the
way from Volantis. It has obsidian eyes as black as Balerion and cornsilk hair." Elia couldn't
help but think that Aelor was more excited at the prospect of giving the doll than Rhaenys
would be at receiving it, and there were few things her daughter loved more than gifts.
"You certainly spoil her." The reason for her earlier apprehension abruptly returned in full
force, and her mirth dissipated rapidly. "Not that I am no pleased to see you, but why are you
here? Your father just sent for you this past morning."

Aelor's smile faded instantly. "It didn't take a genius to know how Jon Arryn would react to
my father's demands. I have already called my banners. They are camped outside the city."

Whatever hope Elia Martell had held out that maybe just maybe war could be avoided,
leaving her and her children in no more danger than the eccentric King provided on his own,
died in that moment. "I see. So you march to war then."

Aelor nodded, face grim. "I intend to scatter the Stormlord hosts before they can assemble."

"The North was risen against us as well, as I'm sure you know."

The dragonlord grimaced. "The Riverlands will as well. I offered myself in a marriage
proposal to either of Hoster Tully's daughters, and received his response mere hours before
we marched. He claimed his eldest was in grieving for her recently strangled betrothed, and
that he would not consider offers for his youngest until Catelyn had recovered and was
married herself."

It didn't take a superior mind to see through that. "A farce of an answer."

"Aye. I imagine Tully has something else planned for his daughters, and I'd wager those plans
have to do with the rebellious houses."

Elia felt her worry grow. Four of the eight regions—half of the realm—in rebellion because I
couldn't please my husband. She didn't know whether to feel guilty or enraged. "How many
men do you have?"

"Six thousand, for now. I'll gather more."

"Will the King allow you to go?"

Aelor shrugged. "The King cannot stop me. I will not sit by while he and my brother destroy
a dynasty that took fields of fire and rivers of blood to build."

Elia nodded softly. "So you have had no word from Rhaegar either."

Aelor's eyes filled with a mixture of rage and pain. "None." Elia had nothing to say in
response, and the Lord of Duskendale seemed to realize that. "I will say my goodbyes to you
and the children before we march. I am on my way to handle my father now."

Elia nodded. "Good luck. If you drive towards the Dornish Marches, you will probably meet
up with my brother's vanguard. Oberyn is likely to be in command. The two of you will make
a force to be reckoned with." She pulled her goodbrother into a quick hug. "Take care, Aelor.
The King grows worse every day."

Aelor nodded, kissing her hand softly. "You do the same, Elia. I will make this right, I swear
to you."
As the Dornish Princess watched the straight back of the Dragon of Duskendale stride away,
she couldn't help but wonder if, by the end of this war, there would even be anything left to
make right.

Each time Aelor saw his father, he looked worse than the time before.

Aerys Targaryen once looked the part of a King. His father had been tall, with a regal
bearing. He'd had a love for dancing, for masked balls, for feasts. He had always been
eccentric, even Aelor knew that, but the realm had prospered during the first dozen years of
his reign. Tywin Lannister was to thank for that, it was true, as the Lord Paramount of the
Westerlands was as capable a Hand of the King as the realm had ever seen, but his father had
at least managed to avoid plummeting the crown into despair.

The Defiance of Duskendale, however, the very rebellion that saw Aelor rewarded a keep and
vassals, had driven whatever remnants of sanity Aerys Targaryen possessed into the darkest
abyss of the Mad King's mind. His jealousy of Tywin boiled over, with Lannister resigning
his post as Hand of the King, leaving Aerys to rule unchecked.

It was then that it had all gone to utter shit.

"Father," Aelor greeted with a cheeriness he most certainly did not feel. Aerys hair was long
and matted, his fingernails even longer, curving like talons. His once proud bearing had been
replaced by a stooped posture, the crown upon his father's head seemingly driving the
incompetent king below it into the ground. Aelor could even see a few fresh wounds the Iron
Throne had inflicted upon Aerys, and the dozens of scabs from previous ones.

"Aelor," his father croaked out, his voice cracking as if the man mistrusted language itself.
Aelor supposed that might actually be the case; King Aerys certainly mistrusted everything
else. "You have an army outside my gates."

The Dragon of Duskendale sank to a knee below the Iron Throne. "An army here to serve
you, Your Grace." Aelor rose after a few moments, knowing that if he waited for his father to
bid him rise that he would be on that knee for hours.

Aerys didn't seem to notice, still transfixed on his first statement. "You have an army outside
my gates. I only summoned you yesterday morning. How are you here?"

Aelor met his father's eyes, no mean feat considering Aerys' eyes were barely recognizable as
human anymore. They reminded Aelor more of a cornered predator than a King. "I took the
liberty of calling my banners days ago, Your Grace."

Aerys' eyes filled with rage and he leaned forward in his throne of twisted iron. "I did not
command that. You are my son, you follow my commands!"

No, you didn't command that. You only abused your prized dogs and expected them to never
bite. "Yes, father, as always. I merely intended to have my men ready to serve you quicker, so
you need not wait for them to arrive." This seemed to appease the King somewhat, for Aerys
leaned back on his throne. Aelor wished to bring this meeting to a close as quickly as
possible, and with that goal in mind he wasted no time with preamble. "I hear we are at war.
With your leave, I beg permission to gather the men of Lord Bywater and march on the
Stormlands with them combined to my own strength."

Aerys nearly snarled. "He serves me."

"Yes, Your Grace, as do I. I only wish to bring these traitors to heel, for the glory of King
Aerys and House Targaryen."

"I have already sent out missives labeling Lords Arryn, Stark and Baratheon traitors,"
rambled the old voice belonging to the even older Lord Owen Mayweather. Aelor had never
cared for the man; he was amiable enough, it was true, but the replacement of Tywin
Lannister as Hand of the King was about as useful as nipples on a breastplate.

"Yes my lord, and done nothing else," Aelor snapped, causing the elderly Hand to furrow his
brow in insult. Good. Be insulted; the Seven know you can't do anything else. Aelor turned
his attention back to his father. "Father I beg you, allow me to end this war. Let them sing of
the praises of King Aerys, of how he ended a war before it could truly begin."

Aerys stared at his second son for a long time, Aelor meeting it. When he finally spoke, he
thrust a gnarled, scarred finger towards Aelor, his talon of a nail angling down. The King's
tone was suspicious, untrusting-mad. "You wish to make the people love you more than they
do me!"

I could be an ugly, imbecilic dwarf and still manage that without much difficulty, father. "I do
not, Your Grace. You are the King. I only intend to help you solidify and protect your
kingdom."

This round of staring was longer than the first, and Aelor felt his patience wearing thin. He
held his tongue however; he would do his family, broken as it was, no good dead, and Aelor
knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that his father's mind had regressed to the point that he
would willfully kill his own son. When King Aerys spoke again he rose, bringing the other
courtiers to their feet as well. Aelor had paid them no mind; lickspittles each and every one,
focused only on increasing their positions by flattering their King with praises they didn't
mean. Aelor cared for none of them.

"Go."

The single word was both permission and dismissal, and Aelor wasted no time in exiting.
"Thank you, Your Grace."

Ser Manfred Darke, Lord Harte and Lord Rykker awaited him outside the main hall, Aelor
having left Ser Barristan in charge of his forces outside the city. The Dragon Prince had
feared that, upon seeing the white of his armor, the King would demand Ser Barristan remain
in King's Landing. Aelor refused to risk that possibility; he was a deadly warrior, a truth he
prided himself on and strove to maintain, but Ser Barristan had experience of war Aelor knew
he would need in the coming conflict.
"Send a rider to Lord Bywater. His force will be ready to march by the time I reach the
Kingswood. From there we march on Bronzegate." Lord Harte hastened to obey, always
diligent and timely when given orders, striding away quickly towards the courtyard where he
had left his palfrey.

"I take it the King has approved of your plan then, my lord," Rykker mused. "That didn't take
long."

"Is it unholy for a man to dread the company of his own father? If so, the Seven must surely
despise me. I ascertained permission as quickly as I could and left. Time is, after all, of the
essence."

"When do we leave?"

"By nightfall. See to the preparations, Ren. Strong shield."

"Stronger sword," Lord Rykker replied before he strode confidently in the same direction
Lord Harte had just gone.

"Manfred," Aelor spoke to the boulder beside him, "with me." The big man dutifully fell into
step behind his liege lord, following as the Targaryen prince strode deeper into the Red Keep.

The biggest obstacle has been removed, at least for the time being, thought Aelor Targaryen
as he hastened through the castle where he had been born and raised. Now I just have a war
to win.

Rhaenys looked more and more like her mother.

The toddler was still forming words, and she babbled unintelligibly but happily to the doll he
had brought for her. Aelor couldn't help but smile down at her from the doorway, knowing
that the tiny Princess would grow into a beauty that rivaled even Ashara Dayne, who was
holding another of the dolls Aelor had made gifts to the girll, playing along. The tiny princess
had her uncle wrapped around her tiny olive-toned fingers, and the entire Red Keep knew it.
Aelor didn't care. He would fight and die for that child.

Thanks to both her father and his, he very well might.

"You can go in, you know." Elia appeared beside him, tiny Aegon resting soundly in her
arms. The Dornish Princess had always been quiet, even in movement, and Aelor started
slightly at her sudden appearance.

The Targaryen Prince grinned at the sleeping baby that reminded him so much of his brother.
"I know, but I can't stay long. We march for the Stormlands tonight. I had Ashara give her the
doll; she certainly seems to like it."

Elia Martell laughed. "Of course she did. She always does love presents." Elia offered the
infant snoozing in her arms to Aelor, but he shook his head reluctantly. "I had best not. My
men are already being roused and are preparing to march; I must join them. I was only
waiting for you." Elia furled her brow in confusion. "Ser Manfred," Aelor called quietly.

The big man stepped around the corner, face impassive even as he bowed to the beautiful
woman before him. Elia raised an eyebrow, looking to Aelor for explanation. "Princess Elia,
this is Ser Manfred Darke. He is uncouth and savagely mean, but he is as loyal a man as I
have ever met, and a good friend to me." Aelor looked the Dornishwoman full in the face, his
dark violet eyes peering into her nearly black ones. "I am leaving him here with you, as your
sworn shield. I will miss him on the battlefield, but his business here is much more important,
though I pray to the Mother he never needs to go about it. The numbers against us are great,
and my father's madness grows worse. If King's Landing is to fall, you and the children will
be in the gravest danger of all, if not from the rebels than from the King himself."

Elia didn't like this talk of her greatest fear being realized, especially coming from the man
with whom her best hope of preventing it lay. "King's Landing is well defended, her gates—"

"Breachable," Aelor cut in gently. "If that is to happen, Ser Manfred has been tasked with
getting you and the children as well as my mother and Viserys out of the city. He has never
failed me before and I know he will not in this. If the time comes, you must do exactly as he
says, if not for yourself than for Rhaenys and Aegon." The Dragon of Duskendale held the
Delicate Spear's eyes for a long moment, face set in grim seriousness. "Do you understand,
goodsister?"

Elia could only nod, fear for her children and for the young Targaryen in front of her making
it nearly impossible to speak. Aelor dropped his gaze to the baby in her arms, his grim face
breaking into a sad smile for just an instant before he abruptly turned and strode away,
offering no parting words nor waiting to receive any. Elia could only watch him go for the
second time that day, wondering if it might be the last time she ever saw him.

Ser Manfred Darke spoke as Aelor rounded a corner and disappeared, the knight's voice
nearly as ugly as his face. "I am here to serve, Princess."

Elia nodded absently. "Let us pray you never have to, Ser Manfred." The Dornish Princess
turned and entered the room where her daughter played oblivious in the way only children
could be to the dangers she was now in. "Let us pray hard."
 V

The knight with a white slash on his blue shield struck high, bringing his morning star down
hard at the Targaryen's helm. A shield of oak and banded steel deflected it aside, its wielder
using the moment to slash his sword at the Stormlander. The blue shield met it, the morning
star snapping on its chain and whistling for the sword bearer's head.

Aelor Targaryen ducked low, the spiked ball barely clearing the top of his helm. The
Stormlander, a warrior from House Hasty, reversed the chained weapon again, swinging it as
hard as he could back towards his opponent. The Dragon Prince spun just outside of its reach,
the deadly hunk of steel just missing his back, and stepped in all in one move. Before the
nameless knight could bring his shield to defend, Aelor Targaryen's blade drove through the
chainmail between his helm and breastplate, piercing skin, artery and throat. Blood spurted,
running down the chainmail and breastplate, leaving a red river through the water blue of his
surcoat.

Before Morning Star had even hit the ground, another knight took his place, this one in the
dented armor and hacked-up shield of a hedgeknight. It's the dragons on my shield. Attracts
opponents like a Lyseni whore. This knight carried the characteristic sword and shield, as did
Aelor. He came on quickly, trying to catch the Dragon Prince while he was still recovering
from killing the Morning Star Knight, but Aelor matched him blow for blow. It took half the
time to cut this man down, Aelor slashing his legs out from under him before driving his
castle-forged steel into the downed knight's chest.

Three more came, two more hedgeknights and one mere man at arms, and all three soon hit
the ground. On and on it went, for how long Aelor couldn't say and didn't care about. Aelor
felt alive in battle, his sword a whirlwind of steely death, his shield both a defense and an
offense. His mind never worked faster, his blade never swung quicker and his body never felt
stronger than it did when he was on the battlefield.

It was odd in a sense. He himself never felt more alive than when he was taking someone
else's.

The Dragon Prince smashed his shield into the face of a helmless man even as he disarmed—
in every sense of the word—a toweringly tall opponent with the nine silver unicorns of
House Rogers on his chest. He cut the man's screams short with a downward thrust, piercing
the very same heart that was pumping blood out of the gaping wound where his arm used to
be.

The Dragon of Duskendale stood, extracting his blade from the now very dead man's chest,
and whirled to meet the blade darting in on him. At least, that had been his intent; there was a
sudden lack of blades. As Aelor came out of his battle haze, he found that not only was there
a lack of swords trying to kill him anywhere near, there also seemed to be a lack of bodies—
live ones anyway. There were certainly plenty of corpses.
"Your Grace," called a familiar voice, and the Dragon Prince turned to see a knight in white
enamel armor working his way through the dead towards him. Ser Barristan Selmy's white
cloak was covered in blood, but none of it seemed to be his as he moved through the much
changed battlefield from the last time Aelor had had time to notice it. The clang of steel and
screams of men and horse had seemed to die down, replaced by an eerie silence that was
interrupted periodically by the cry of a dying man. Or two. Maybe ten. Aelor couldn't really
tell; it was hard to differentiate over the sound of his heavy breathing.

Seven hells, I always forget about this part. The black sword in his hand seemed to have
grown exponentially heavier in the past few moments, and his black shield with the warring
white dragons was nearly dragging his left arm to the ground. Everything seemed to hurt,
even speaking. "Ser Barristan."

"They've broken, Your Grace. Lord Rykker's cavalry took their rear."

So the diversion worked. And here I thought it was our spirited charge. "Good to hear." Aelor
registered the remnants of his vanguard, once four hundred mounted knights strong, around
the field beside and behind him. Most were unmounted, losing their mounts as Aelor had to
the spears of the Stormlander lines. Lord Rykker's flanking force, another seven hundred
knights, sat their mounts to the field in front like a wall of horseflesh, certainly in much better
condition than his own men.

That was the intent, I suppose; hammer and anvil and all that. Funny; the song never
mentioned how unpleasant it is for the anvil.

The Kingsguard knight removed his helm, and it dawned on Aelor that he was burning alive
in his armor, prompting him to do the same, driving the point of his blade into the ground and
holding the helm with the white flame crest in his sword hand. I'll have to sharpen that later.
Wait, I have a squire for that now. A stab of concern shot through him then, as he couldn't
recall seeing the boy since his destrier went down."Where's Alaric?"

"Here, my lord," spoke a voice behind him, and Aelor nearly jumped out of his armor,
turning to find the fourteen year old a few feet away, sword bloodied. His helm was off, and
the lad's face was green. Tall and thin, Alaric of House Langward was fourteen and had been
Aelor's squire for all of three days. When the dragonlord and his army had merged with Lord
Dontos Bywater of the Kingswood and his vassals at Langward Hall, a mere few miles away
from where they stood now. Lord Jarman Langward, seventy years old and as crotchety as
anyone Aelor had ever met, had instantly offered his great grandson as squire upon learning
that Aelor no longer had one, having knighted Jaremy Rykker, Renfred's brother and new
ranger of the Night's Watch, after the cursed Tourney at Harrenhal. Aelor had accepted,
mainly to get the cranky elder to shut his mouth.

Ser Barristan's brown hair was plastered to his sweat-coated forehead, but he was grinning.
"Your squire did well, Your Grace. Kept up with you throughout the charge."

"I tried to get behind the knight with the morning star, Your Grace," the lad said, face still
marvelously sick though his quiet voice held firm. "A spear got in my way, and then another."
Aelor had taken a shine to the shy lad in the few days he'd known him, and felt marvelously
guilty for having forgotten about him during the heat of the battle. "Are you hurt, Alaric?"

"No Your Grace," the boy said, his shaggy black hair sweat-soaked. "Just…my gut…" It was
only a few moments more before the lad was depositing the contents of his stomach over the
nearest dead corpse, then trying to aim elsewhere and instead covering his armored boots.

Aelor smirked sympathetically. "I had the same reaction my first battle."

Barristan grinned as well. "I remember."

The sound of thundering hooves cut him off, and Lord Renfred Rykker rode up alongside
several knights, the visor of his spiked helm up and his warhammer bloody. "Ren," Aelor
called cheerily. "I see you still have your horse. Lucky; I seem to have misplaced mine.
Strong shield"

Renfred Rykker grinned. "Stronger sword. This sense of misplacement must be spreading;
your squire seems to be losing his morning meal."

"Don't be hard on him, old friend. We did the same."

Rykker laughed. "That we did. I have a present for you." He waved a hand, and two knights
Aelor didn't recognize rode forward, another armored man on a horse between them. This
one, a prisoner judging from his lack of weapon and the fact that his wrists were tied to his
horse, had three golden buckles on his surcoat and a bloody gash in the joint of his elbow
armor. His helmet was gone, showing long red hair and green eyes peering out of a bruised
face near thirty. "Meet Lord Ralph Buckler, Lord of the Wendwater."

Aelor regarded the man coolly, ignoring addressing him for the moment. "Do you have any
others?"

"Lord Bryce Rogers, one of Bucklers vassals, and several other knights. We're sorting them
now."

"Losses?"

"I lost no more than forty or fifty. They broke before my goodfather even had a chance to
move in with our full force. I don't know about your vanguard though, Your Grace."

Aelor nodded grimly. "Neither do I."

Ralph Buckler had a deep voice, shockingly so for a man of shorter than average height and a
slight build. "I was only following my liege's orders, my Prince."

Aelor snorted. "I'm apparently no longer your prince, Lord Buckler. That honor seems to
belong to Robert Baratheon, or perhaps Eddard Stark. Tell me, have you worked that
particular detail out among yourselves yet?"

Buckler's face colored, though from the fear in his face he was quite aware of how short his
life expectancy might have just become. "Your father burned Lord Stark alive."
Aelor nodded. "Yes, he did. I was there. I'm not saying my father was correct in that action,
but I find rebellion to be rather drastic, don't you?"

Buckler nearly snarled, losing a touch of his fear in his anger. "And burning a man while his
son strangled himself trying to free him is not?"

Rykker barked from astride his stallion. "Watch your tone."

Aelor waved his friend off, setting his jaw and narrowing his gaze. "Whatever your
justification, you rose in rebellion to the Targaryen dynasty. And now a Targaryen holds you
prisoner. I wonder, what am I to do with you?"

"As I said, I was—"

"Following your liege's orders, yes." Aelor grinned charmingly, though his gaze remained
deadly. "Why don't you tell me all about them?"
 VI

The messenger wore a black and green surcoat with a white crescent moon on his right
breast.

At least, that was supposed to be the color scheme. Thanks to the roughly bandaged wound
from an axe having come down on his right shoulder, digging deep and rendering that arm
useless, everything just looked red.

Bronzegate had surrendered without incident. After surrounding the large but plain castle
with the great bronze gates that gave it its name, Aelor had displayed both Lord Buckler and
the tall, portly Lord Bryce Rogers before the walls. Lady Buckler just so happened to be Lord
Rogers' sister, and fear for her husband and brother as well as the ten thousand strong
Targaryen loyalists surrounding her keep had made the plump woman as plain as her castle
see sense. She'd opened the gates of bronze, and Aelor Targaryen rode though without
trouble.

The battle fought that morning just a mile north had been short and bloody, but also relatively
insignificant. Lord Buckler had had only two thousand men, a good number of them
untrained levies. Their lines had been broken by less than one thousand mounted knights,
many of the inexperienced peasants throwing their spears down and fleeing before the wedge
of lances, led at the point by a demon in black armor with white flames cresting his helm, had
even barreled into them. The rest had broken when Lord Rykker, having slipped by their right
flank and gotten behind their lines by keeping to the hills, crashed into their rear—the loyalist
infantry under Lords Buckwell and Bywater hadn't even had time to arrive on the field.

Only the center, manned by Buckler's retainers and the top knights sworn to him and his
vassals, had put up much resistance. That's where Aelor had been. Nearly two hundred
knights, half of his vanguard, had died fighting alongside him—but they'd broken the
Stormlander lines.

Lord Buckler's hall was square and as plain as seemingly the rest of Bronzegate, but it housed
over one hundred, and it was there that Aelor and his advisors had taken their meal. Lord
Buckler, arm bandaged and face black and purple from bruising, had been confined a prisoner
in his own chambers with his wife Alerie and their two small children, six year old Andrus
and three year old Rohanne, under guard but comfortable. Lord Rogers, on the other hand,
had viciously cursed Aelor after it had been found that the tall knight with the silver unicorn
surcoat the Dragon Prince had slain had been his sixteen year old son and heir, and was now
rotting in his goodbrother's cells.

Lord Barristan Hasty of Hadlow Keep had been in command of Buckler's center. He, along
with his brother and two cousins, had died there.

The messenger was nearly carried in, half dead already but set on delivering his news. "Your
Grace," the man croaked, in his early twenties with a thrice broken nose but otherwise fair
featured face. Aelor was on his feet at once, the humble meal of venison and potatoes
forgotten as he near sprinted towards the wounded knight in House Fell colors.

"Sit him down!" The dragonlord nearly roared, and a chair was quickly shoved behind the
man's knees, the two sentries supporting him seating him as gently as they could.

"I…I have news, my lord." The knights brown eyes were racked in pain, but he pushed
forward stubbornly before Aelor could answer. "Lord Baratheon…is at Summerhall.
Defeated Lord Fell, Lord…Grandison and Lord Cafferen, one by one. Two days ago. Lord
Fell is…dead."

Aelor knelt beside the badly wounded man. "Your name."

"Ser…Roland Rawlins, Your Grace." Ser Rawlins had to speak around his gasps for breath,
eyelids drooping lower and lower. "Lord Baratheon knows…knows you're coming, my
Prince. Only has four thousand men with him….he's going to rally the rest where…he is."

Ser Rawlins fell into unconsciousness then, and Aelor stood to his full height. "The maester,
now! Move!" His men rushed to obey, four of them picking Ser Roland up and nearly
sprinting towards the maester's chamber while others rushed to round the man himself, an old
Northman named Harrion, from where he was tending the wounded from the battle that
morning.

Aelor turned back towards the high table, where his advisors were all staring at him, half of
them still half out of their seats from being startled when Ser Roland had burst in. "Ser
Barristan," Aelor commanded, eyes focused. "I want the best scouts we have to ride for
Summerhall and find and track Baratheon's army. I want to know his numbers and how many
of his lords haven't merged with him yet."

"At once Your Grace," the Kingsguard knight replied, but Aelor wasn't finished.

"Send a messenger both down the Boneway to treat with the Dornish and another towards the
Reach. The Tyrell's will still be rallying, but he's to gather the first sizeable force he can and
order them to close down the Kingsroad south of King's Landing. We cannot allow Baratheon
to unify with Lords Arryn or Stark. We keep him in the Stormlands, and we finish him here.
The Dornish are to march with haste up the Boneway and close him off from Dorne." Ser
Barristan nodded and turned, striding out of the hall while already giving orders.

Lord Rykker was standing, the plate of cooling stag in front of him forgotten. "It seems Lord
Buckler was telling the truth about his wayward vassal." The Fells were sworn to the
Bucklers, along with the Rogers and Hastys, but Aelor had realized shortly after the battle
that only the latter two had been present. He now knew why.

Lord Buckwell grunted. "He failed to mention Summerhall, however."

"He was told to hold us here. Baratheon probably knew it was an impossible task, and didn't
communicate further."
Lord Dontos Bywater of the Kingswood, gaunt of face with copper hair he kept cut close,
scrunched his face up in shock. "He sacrificed his men?"

Aelor retook his seat, staring at his plate in thought. "He had too. I had ten thousand men
descending on his head, and his bannermen had only just begun to rally. He had to buy
himself time, especially when Fell and his allies remained loyal to the crown." Aelor looked
up and waved his hand around the hall. "It worked. The longer I'm here the longer he has to
amass troops."

Lord Byrch raised an eyebrow. "How did he get to Summerhall so quickly?"

"According to Rawlins he only has four thousand men. That's his retinue and whatever men
he could raise on the fly. He knew he had to put down the loyalists quicjly, and he did."

Rykker furled his brow in confusion, though he too sat back down and resumed eating. "So
why is he suddenly intending to rally his forces at Summerhall, so close to the Tyrell's? Why
not return to his seat of power?"

"Because if Ser Rawlins hadn't told us of my ancestor's ruin of a castle, where would we be
going, Ren?"

Understanding spread across Lord Rykker's face. "Storm's End."

Aelor nodded. "We attacked this force for the same reason he left it; I can't have a substantial
enemy presence to the rear. Were we to converge on Storm's End, laying siege to a castle that
has been deemed impregnable, Baratheon would finish rallying his men, and then he'd be in
perfect position to utterly fuck us."

Lord Harte was seated beside Renfred, who in turn was directly beside Aelor, but the Dragon
of Duskendale still had trouble hearing him when he spoke. "Or to ignore us completely, and
march to unify with Lord's Stark and Arryn."

Bywater, who in Aelor's limited experience with him had struck the prince as eager but an
incompetent tactician, spoke next. "And the Tyrell's?"

Aelor shook his head. "Mace Tyrell has a lot of men, but he's a fool. A fool with forty
thousand soldiers is less useful than a genius with fifty."

"They have Randyll Tarly," Rykker pointed out.

"True, and I can only hope Tyrell has given him full command, though I somehow doubt it."

Lord Buckwell had always been down to business, and war hadn't changed that. "What is our
next move, Your Grace?"

"Sieging Storm's End is out of the question. They'll only have a skeleton force since
Baratheon already marched to Summerhall, but even that would likely be enough to hold us
for an extended period of time. Summerhall was a pleasure castle, and it wasn't very
defensible even before it burned down. Baratheon is not fortified, but he's also not expecting
me to head straight for him."
"And we are?"

"No, we're not." Aelor stood amidst the confused ramblings of his advisors. "The Evenstar
doesn't have near enough ships to sail his strength into Shipbreaker Bay—they can only ferry
from the island of Tarth the short distance over the Straits of Tarth to Drakesgrave, where
Lord Selwyn will probably rally his mainland vassals. They'll march on land from there to
Summerhall."

Rykker stood as well, knowing where this was headed. "We can potentially catch them as
they disembark. Tarth has another three or four thousand men."

Aelor nodded. "The goal of our entire campaign was to scatter the Stormlord hosts before
they can march. Even if Baratheon is at Summerhall, I see no need to alter that course of
action. As long as the Tyrell's and Dornish do as their ordered and keep him bottled up in his
own lands, we can cut him apart piece by piece."

Lord Buckwell gave a small grin beneath his massive mustache. "We're going to remove the
stag's antlers."

Aelor drained his flagon of ale before turning to leave. "Damn right. Prepare the men. We
force march tonight."

Lord Selwyn Tarth the Evenstar was rumored to be highly competent, a good man who
accomplished what was ordered of him quickly and efficiently. That's why it came as a
disappointment to Aelor when he crested the ridge and saw galleys still disembarking men in
the quartered yellow sun on red and white moon on blue of House Tarth.

He supposed he could understand, though; it should have only taken him half the time it had
to march the relatively short distance from Bronzegate to Drakesgrave, but the storms that
gave the Stormlands their name had begun a torrential downpour that hadn't lightened until
two days earlier. Ten thousand men took a considerable amount of time to move in perfect
circumstances, and with the storms turning the roads into mud his supply wagons kept getting
caught in the slop, slowing his army's movements to the point that Aelor Targaryen had been
ready to rip his silver hair out by the roots.

The only plus was that it had slowed the army of Selwyn down as well. The Straits of Tarth
were shielded from the worst of storms by the mountains of the island of the same name, but
only a fool would try to transport hundreds of armored men across the waters in one.

Selwyn Tarth was clearly no fool, judging by the defensive lines his landward vassals had set
up to defend the disembarking troops, even though they surely had been praying they
wouldn't need them. They had to know they were outnumbered by more than two to one, and
the positioning of Drakesgrave gave them nowhere to flee to. They had to be betting Aelor
would march on the supposedly undefended Storm's End, leaving them to slip around and
merge at Summerhall.

Even so, Evenstar had been ready. Banners bearing the crossed white quills on a brown field
of house Penrose of the Parchments, the yellow haystack on an orange field of house Errol of
Haystack Hall, and the quartered yellow pavilion on blue field and green laurel branches on
white field of house Musgood of Drakesgrave, whose small castle and town stood a few
hundred yards behind the Stormlander lines, nearly on the water of the Straits where Tarth
men were rushing out of galleys. Two half-dug trenches lined the field to their front, and the
Stormlander's were dashing to form a shieldwall behind them.

Aelor Targaryen whirled on his black stallion, the second of four destriers he kept in times of
war. The first had died outside Bronzegate, and Aelor knew there was a high likelihood that
this one wouldn't survive this battle. It was an inevitable part of knighthood; horses died
under you by the score. You could only hope you didn't soon follow them into death.

"Form a wedge," he called, and voices and a warhorn carried the command down the entirety
of his line. It was the same formation he had used at Bronzegate. I suppose I'm an unoriginal
military mind, but things become the norm by working. This isn't a time to get too creative for
my own good. He had pulled nearly all of his cavalry, fifteen hundred knights, into his front
lines, leaving two hundred as a reserve. "Ren, take the left. Strong shield."

Renfred Rykker slammed a gauntleted fist into his breastplate. "Stronger sword," he replied,
before spurring his own stallion towards his awarded flank.

"Ser Barristan, you have the right." The Kingsguard nodded and rode to his own assignment.
"Watch for arrows from the castle walls!" The Dragon Prince yelled after his closest friends.
"Lord's Buckwell and Bywater, you have the infantry. We'll smash into them and you will fill
the cracks in their lines. File them all into the same hole if you have to; we take those galleys,
understood?" Both men nodded and turned their horses. "Lord Byrch, you have the reserve.
Whenever you see an opportunity, take it. They have nowhere to go except those galleys and
the castle, and I don't want them to reach either."

Lord Cleyton pulled the visor of his helmet down. "They won't, Your Grace." He spurred his
own mount away.

"Alaric, my helmet." Aelor's tall, lanky squire instantly handed the knight his white flame
crested helm, and the Dragonlord pulled it over his silvery hair. Alaric dutifully then handed
him his shield and lance, before mounting his own gelding. "Stay close to me, Alaric. I'll
watch your back and you watch mine. Are you with me?"

Alaric Langward pulled his own helm, a plain hunk of grey steel Aelor had gifted him before
Bronzegate when the boy had made it clear he wouldn't remain behind, over his head. He's a
good lad; I'll have to get him a better suit of armor. "To the death, Your Grace."

Aelor felt a sense of pride for the young man he barely knew. "Let's hope that's not the case."
He turned to his men then, rows of steel and horseflesh waiting for his word and his word
only.

Aelor didn't have many words; the idea seemed pretty obvious to him. "I'm not good at pretty
speeches, so I won't give one. Let's just kill the bastards!" He thrust his lance into the air, and
his knights did the same, roaring back at him, even the men who couldn't hear him repeating
the gesture. "Targaryen!" "The Dragon of Duskendale!" "Prince Aelor!" All those filled his
ears, as well as others of individual houses or the Iron Throne in general. There wasn't,
unsurprisingly, any roars for King Aerys.

Aelor kicked his stallion into the action and they were off, the thunder of hooves even louder
than the thunder of storms that had rocked the land mere days ago. Aelor formed the point of
the wedge, his black and white lance matching his night black armor with his warring white
dragons etched into the breastplate, the white flames of his helmet shining in the sun. He was
sure it made a glorious sight.

It also makes me a target. Making an impression certainly has it disadvantages.

Alaric rode to his right, a high place of honor for a squire, but he had remained alive and near
Aelor at Bronzegate when many more experienced knights had died. In Aelor's mind, the
squire had earned it. Ser Balman Byrch in his resplendent green armor rode to his left, his
battle axe wielding brother Morgan beside him.

It took forever and no time at all to reach the first trench, which Aelor's mount vaulted
cleanly, doing the same to the second. The dragonlord knew many of his men would be held
up by the trenches, and some horses undoubtedly would trip in the shallow earthworks,
breaking legs and being trampled by the men charging in behind. It was losses he'd have to
take; the shock of hundreds of armored knights smashing into the Stormlander lines would
spook levies, as even now he could see some lose their nerve and turn to flee. More did so
when he lowered his lance, his knights doing the same, hundreds of sharpened steel points
hurtling towards the wavering men of Tarth.

They crashed into the lines like an armored fist into a stomach.

Aelor impaled a man at arms on his lance, the momentum of his horse driving the shaft
halfway through his gut. Aelor dropped it and its cargo, unsheathing his sword and setting to
the grisly work he so enjoyed. His stallion had somehow managed to avoid the forest of
spears on the Stormlander front lines, already having survived longer than his first did. Many
of his men's horses weren't so lucky, the bloodcurdling scream of dozens of dying horses
filling the air.

His own beast didn't stop, driving through the thick conglomeration of enemy combatants, his
rider's sword rising and falling, dealing death with alarming speed. Before the Dragon of
Duskendale truly understood what was happening, he had burst out the back of the first
formation of Stormlanders and into the second, beheading the first man he came across and
opening another's throat only a second later. His stallion again avoided the spears, and Aelor
couldn't help but say a prayer in the back of his mind that the beast made it through as it
never stopped it's momentum until he was through that line as well. Aelor wheeled around,
finding that Ser Balman was no longer on his left, having been replaced by a knight in the
blue and white of either Renfred or Lord Bywater—he couldn't tell at the moment, and it
wasn't important—but that Alaric had against all odds stayed with him, wheeling his own
gelding around with Aelor.

Even as he crashed into the already breaking men at arms, killing with each strike, Aelor's
mind was spinning. Something isn't right. There are no knights solidifying these levies, no
commanders holding firm.
His confusion was clarified in the next moment. "My Prince," the unnamed knight beside him
yelled, pointing with a mace dripping of gore and brain matter. "The infantry!" Aelor peered
over the heads of the pigs for slaughter below him, seeing his foot soldiers pouring towards
the melee he was currently involved in.

And hundreds of Stormlander knights, formed in a wedge of their own and flying the stag of
Baratheon and quartered banner of House Tarth, smashing into their side.

"Dammit," Aelor growled, cursing himself for a fool. It seems you're not the only one who
knows how to flank. "To the infantry, go!" He spurred his own mount forward, paying no
more mind to the poor men below him other than to cut down those in his way. "The flank,
the flank!" he bellowed as he rode, directing more and more of his knights to the actual
threat. The galleys behind him were forgotten, for the Stormlander knights despite their small
numbers had wreaked havoc on his infantry, Aelor's levies—just as inexperienced as the
Stormlander's—having done the same as Lord Tarth's, turning and fleeing.

It took him much longer to navigate his way through the two Stormlander lines the second
time than it had the first, the field full of bodies of dead men and horses, some of the still
living ones still trying to kill him. He galloped towards the new hotspot of the battle, seeing
the field in front of him as if he was just an observer. Lord Cleyton's reserves of knights were
already charging at the threat, his men at arms and braver levies turning to swarm at the
mounted rebels. The unnamed knight in white and blue was gone, Aelor having noticed in his
peripheral the man's horse go down, but Alaric Langward was still beside him as always.
There were other knights from the front lines both ahead and behind him, the men who had
been at the rear already well on their way to counter the flanking action.

It was a suicide mission for the Stormlanders, but Aelor knew they had known it beforehand.

When he finally reached the flanking enemy he let his rage go, hacking a man in the yellow
and orange of House Errol off of his horse with more force than Aelor even knew he
possessed. The Prince pulled his reins, his miraculously still living stallion begrudgingly
coming to a halt, and the Dragon of Duskendale let out a roar worthy of the title as he
chopped men left and right as more and more of his own soldiers converged on the threat.

A lance nearly took him in the helm but he dodged to the side at the last moment,
instinctually wrapping his arms around it and yanking. The knight it belonged to, unprepared
for that, was pulled from his horse, where Aelor's footmen swarmed him like buzzards on
carrion. That snapped Aelor out of his haze, and he realized the suicide knights had been
washed away in an ocean of red and black Targaryen colors.

He turned his stallion towards the ocean and felt his heart drop when he saw that the galleys
had pulled anchor and were even now pulling back into the sea. The Stormlander's had left
hundreds dead on the field, but Aelor knew in his heart that Lord Tarth and his most vital
vassals and knights were still aboard those ships pulling farther and farther away.

"Dammit!" The Dragon Prince roared. "Dammit all!

 VII

They found Morgan Byrch in the arms of his brother.

The youngest of the three Byrch brothers had been one of the first knights to counter Selwyn
Tarth's flanking maneuver, flying back from the slaughter field of the front to save the
infantry. He'd been unhorsed in the brief but fierce fight in the flank, but he'd continued to
fight on foot. It had taken a dirk in the gap in his armor under the armpit to take him down,
but even then he'd buried his battleaxe into the skull of the man that killed him. His brother
had found them there, the Tarth knight's hand still on the dagger in Morgan's side and
Morgan's hand still on the axe buried in his killer's forehead.

Balman Byrch had lost his own mount to a levy spear, remaining in the vicinity of the
Stormlander lines for the battle, but he had seen his baby brother race back to the infantry.
When Morgan didn't come back, Balman had gone to find him.

Aelor wished it had been someone else who had come across the young knight, if only for
Balman's sake.

The middle Byrch was openly crying, caring not a whit if other men saw him as he cradled
his brother's lifeless body. Lord Cleyton stood stony faced a few feet away. The eldest hadn't
had the relationship with his youngest brother that Balman had, but Aelor knew the man was
suffering.

The Dragon Prince stood beside Ser Barristan and Alaric, watching the heart wrenching
scene in front of him with his helm in his hands. "It's my fault."

Barristan Selmy shook his head. "Men die in war, Your Grace, friends and foes alike."

"I rushed in like a fool and had my flank turned. If Selwyn Tarth hadn't have been
outnumbered two to one, we'd all be dead now."

Ser Barristan's voice turned firm. "This is not the time for self-pity, Your Grace. We were
outmaneuvered, but their losses are far greater than our own."

"The important ones got away."

"We annihilated hundreds of Robert Baratheon's men. That was our goal in marching here,
and we achieved it. Yes we were outflanked, but we learn from that and we move on."

Aelor was quiet a long moment before clapping his mentor on the shoulder. "Thank you, my
friend." Aelor turned away from the harrowing scene in front of him, unable to bear Balman's
tears any longer. If that was Rhaegar, would I do the same? Would he for me?

Aelor didn't know the answer, and that disturbed him more than he cared to admit.
Renfred rode up then, dismounting a different horse than the one he'd rode at the start of the
battle. "The castle opened her gates as soon as the battle ended. It was manned only by a
skeleton garrison with no sign of Lord Musgood or his family. They never intended to hold
out."

Aelor nodded, taking the waterskin his friend offered and taking a long drink, only then
realizing how thirsty he had been. "Their entire goal once we arrived was to hold us up just
long enough to get the nobles and most important knights back on the galleys. It worked.
What are our losses?"

The Lord of Hollard Hall grimaced. "Close to six hundred of the infantry including the
wounded. Less than half of that for the knights." He gestured towards the bawling Balman.
"Morgan?"

Aelor only nodded, unable to voice the confirmation. Rykker cursed under his breath before
continuing his report. "We're not yet sure of their infantry numbers other than that almost of
all those who had been on the field are dead or captured. They couldn't have been more than
two and a half thousand, if that. There was two hundred knights thereabouts in their flanking
force. All are dead."

Aelor shook his head in disgust. "They took more than three times their number to the grave
with them as well as running off half my levies. An impressive feat I'll admit, even if it was
against me. We give them each proper burials."

Rykker nodded. "Of course Your Grace."

"I'll need a count of how many men I have left. I'll have Ser Barristan send out a few parties
to return my panicked levies; the ones they can find anyway. We rest at Drakesgrave tonight.
Move the camp up."

Rykker bowed his head. "It will be done." The big man remounted before smacking his
breastplate. "Strong shield."

Aelor returned the gesture. "Stronger sword."

Renfred hesitated just a moment longer. "All men must die, Aelor. Such is life." Rykker
turned his horse and galloped away before the prince could think of anything to respond with.

"Alaric," the dragonlord said while summoning the Langward lad with his hand, his squire
stepping up from where he had dutifully been waiting. The boy's shaggy black hair was
soaked with sweat and Aelor could see his hands trembling with the retreating adrenaline in
his veins, but Alaric had managed to hold on to his lunch this time, and he stood tall and
straight. Aelor handed him the waterskin, and Langward drank gratefully. "You did well."

Alaric shrugged once he lowered the waterskin from his lips. "You told me to stay with you,
Your Grace."

The prince grinned for the first time that day. "Aye, that I did. You ride well, and you're good
with a lance."
The squire responded as all young men did to praise, his chest puffing out as he tried to fight
back a smile. "Thank you, Your Grace."

"I'll see if Ser Barristan will assist with your swordsmanship training, and I'll get you a set of
proper armor as soon as I can, on two conditions."

"Your Grace?"

"You keep both me and yourself alive long enough for me to fulfill that promise."

Alaric grinned. "Of course, Your Grace."

The Dragon of Duskendale nodded. "Good. Now go and assist Lord Rykker in moving the
camp. I'll be reviewing the castle."

Both of them swung onto their respective animals. Alaric had only just sped away when the
sound of someone calling his name captured his attention. Aelor turned his stallion around—
shit he was getting attached to the beast—and saw a messenger weaving through the mass of
bodies both dead and living.

"Prince Aelor!" the man called again before pulling his lathered, exhausted looking horse to a
stop beside the dragonlord. "News from your scouts. Robert Baratheon is marching."

She missed Aelor.

Elia Martell knew the Seven had to frown upon her for that. It was Rhaegar she was
supposed to miss, the Prince of Dragonstone, heir to the Iron Throne and father to her
children. But all Elia felt when she thought of her husband was anger and heartbreak, so
instead she thought of his younger brother.

They'd received word from the Stormlands, both from messengers sent by the Dragon of
Duskendale and from Varys and his spiderweb of knowledge. Aelor had scattered a
Stormlord host at Bronzegate, capturing Lord Buckler and various other nobles and knights.
He'd slaughtered another at Drakesgrave on the shore of the Narrow Sea, though Lord
Selwyn Tarth and his advisors had eluded capture. Elia hoped her goodbrother kept himself
alive, for he seemed to be the only hope for the Targaryen dynasty. While she was a Martell,
her children were dragonlords, and their safety and wellbeing were the most important things
in the world to her. Right now, it seemed that safety and wellbeing rested on Aelor
Targaryen's shoulders.

They'd received word from elsewhere as well. Her youngest brother Oberyn was currently in
the Boneway, having been ordered by Aelor to prevent Baratheon from avoiding him by
fleeing through Dorne. Elia knew her hyperactive brother would be chafing from both being
ordered and from missing the combat taking place, but she knew he would follow the Lord of
Duskendale's command.

Oberyn and Aelor had struck an odd friendship, the Red Viper much more fond of the second
Targaryen than the first. Elia had once worried that Oberyn craved a more…intimate
relationship with the son of Aerys—she was fully aware of some of her brother's taste—and
had worried about how Aelor would react should her brother try something, but Oberyn
seemed to understand Aelor was as straight as an arrow and their friendship was just that.

The Dragon of Duskendale had also been correct about Hoster Tully's intentions, it seemed.
Varys spies had reported that the Riverlander had managed to marry not only his supposedly
grief-stricken eldest Catelyn to her dead betrothed's brother Eddard Stark, but also his
youngest to the elderly Jon Arryn of the Vale. The three regions were amassing at Riverrun,
their presence a constant dagger pointed at King's Landing.

A dagger pointed at her children.

Robert Baratheon was the only wild card. The last word from the Dragon of Duskendale was
that Baratheon was moving towards Storm's End, and that Aelor was taking back to the field
to meet him. Mace Tyrell was moving the main body of his force to try and pin the Stag
between the Rose and Dragon while his vassal Randyll Tarly was moving his vanguard to
close down the Kingsroad to King's Landing, but even Varys wasn't sure just where the
rebellious Lord Paramount of the Stormlands was.

Well, Elia supposed he wasn't the only wild card. No one knew where Rhaegar and his three
Kingsguard were.

For not the first time, Elia was grateful for the constant presence of Ser Manfred Darke. He
was as mean as he was ugly, and neither the overly sensual Talana Vaith or gorgeous Ashara
Dayne had been able to flirt so much as a smile out of the squat knight. It was abundantly
clear, however, that he was as loyal a man as ever lived. Aelor had ordered him to protect the
royal family—at least,most of it—at all costs, and protect the royal family he would.

Of course, no one on earth could protect the Queen. Rhaella Targaryen was pregnant again
after three living children and eight who didn't survive infancy, her belly already beginning to
swell. Elia believed that unborn child and young, eccentric Viserys were the only thing
keeping the haunted woman alive. It had disturbed Elia to no end when she'd first married
Rhaegar and heard her goodmother's desperate pleas for help on the occasions Aerys took his
"rights" as her husband. It infuriated her that Rhaegar did nothing while his mother suffered
so, but she'd soon learned that no one could. Not the Kingsguard, not Rhaegar, not even
Aelor, who had always been more hot tempered and challenging of his father's eccentrics. No
one raised a finger to the King.

"Princess," sounded the breaking stone Manfred Darker used for a voice. "A letter for you."

Elia smiled at the broad man. "Thank you, Ser Manfred."

He extended the letter in one hand before opening his other, revealing a tiny doll. "This," the
big knight said, clearly uncomfortable holding something so small in his huge hands, "came
with it."

Elia couldn't help but giggle at the sight of the monstrous man holding a doll. Her mirth grew
even more when the man blushed.
Talana and Ashara would be devastated when they learned a doll had managed a feat neither
of their feminine wiles could.

The Dornish Princess ended the man's silent suffering and took the proffered doll and
parchment, breaking the seal bearing the warring dragons of Aelor. Ah, just who I was
thinking of. The Prince's writing was physically narrow but emotionally broad, able to convey
a broad range of emotions with mere words if he so chose. Rhaegar was the true poet of
course, able to bend words into marvelous arrangements. His poetry and singing was, in
truth, what she had loved most about him. But while Aelor couldn't carry a tune, his writing,
despite being only half as poetic as his brother's, certainly reminded her of Rhaegar.

Elia,

This may come as a surprise to you, but I have a new doll for your daughter.

I found it in the chambers I commandeered at Drakesgrave. I suppose it belonged to one of

the Musgood girls, but it belongs to Rhaenys Targaryen now. Call it dishonorable thievery if
you will, but I'm sure your daughter won't see it that way.

I know Ser Manfred has you well taken care of, but I worry for you and your children's safety,
as well as my mother and Viserys. Keep Aegon and Rhaenys close to you. This war is the
greatest threat to the Targaryen dynasty since Daemon Blackfyre and Bittersteel, and I fear
more lives will be lost during its course than even the Redgrass Field claimed. I beg you to
remember that Ser Manfred is your bodyguard; please, for the sake of the Seven, let him
guard you.

I killed a boy today. He was a squire, no older than thirteen. It wasn't even a true battle, just
a skirmish trying to throw me off of Robert Baratheon's true force. He thrust a spear at me,
hoping to gain fame as the slayer of the Dragon of Duskendale I suppose. Before I even knew
what I was doing, I cut his throat. A boy, one not even old enough to have felt a woman's
touch. Now all he'll ever feel is the embrace of cold clay.

I didn't feel a damn thing after I killed him. No remorse, no sadness for the death of one so
young. That is what terrifies me.

Give my niece and nephew a hug from me. I pray that I'll be able to do it myself someday
soon. And I pray that the Aelor Targaryen that returns to King's Landing, if one even does, is
at least a tiny bit similar to the same one that left.

Aelor

Elia didn't know whether to smile at his gift or frown at his words. Aelor's care for his niece
and nephew had always been touching, and it didn't surprise her at all that Aelor would even
use a war to find more dolls for Rhaenys' already impressive collection. Then again, his
statements about feeling changed worried her. Elia knew men changed in war, but this…this
seemed something more.

Elia didn't want Aelor to turn away from the good man he was at heart. The Seven knew
there weren't many of those around, especially in positions of power.
The Dornishwoman presented the doll to her daughter, a lump forming in her throat at her
delighted squeals. Elia pulled her into a hug, the lump growing larger as Rhaenys threw her
tiny arms around her mother's neck.

It had been a long time since Elia Martell gave in to the need to cry. The urge had been with
her for months now, but she had never given in.

But when the first tear cut a trail down her coppery cheek, she just couldn't stop the dozens
that followed.
 VIII

The Lions of Lannister were on the move.

Ser Loren Lannister didn't consider himself a true lion. No, he was more of a domesticated
cat, lazy and capable of only so much harm. In truth, even that was a stretch; he'd never
harmed a fly, despite his knighthood. One should equate him to a kitten. Yes, a plump,
harmless kitten.

Many men would be ashamed of themselves if that was how others—and even they
themselves—looked on them. Loren, however, knew it was the truth, and since he was happy
in such a life, he saw no shame in fully accepting it.

Tywin Lannister didn't know the first thing about Loren, and the latter was more than okay
with that. The Lannister patriarch was cunning and ruthless; Loren was at best an average
mind and hated death. Sure, Loren looked the part of Lannister, sporting shaggy blond hair
and emerald green eyes in a well sculpted face, but Loren was several stone overweight due
to his excessive drinking and gluttony, squandering whatever blessings his prestigious
bloodline had granted him.

No, Tywin Lannister wouldn't like him. Best to remain anonymous.

Besides, retaining anonymity wasn't hard for a Lannisport Lannister. There were hundreds of
them after all, each one descended from a King. Some claimed to trace their ancestry back to
the last King of the Rock, a different, more lion-like Loren. Others claimed it all the way
back at Lann the Clever, the first Lannister King.

Loren didn't know where the hell he came from, and he didn't care. His ancestors couldn't
buy him a drink.

The army of the West had been camped at Casterly Rock for…well, Loren didn't actually
know. He'd been drunk most—all—of the time. They'd abruptly packed up and started
marching after… he didn't actually know why they had moved out either. Or how long they
had been gone. Or where the hell they were going.

Loren Lannister truly didn't know much.

"Loren Lannister," came the guttural voice of…piss, Loren really didn't know much. The
man was a Lannister, at least he knew that, with golden lion heads for shoulder plates. He
grew his blond hair long, his face a permanent, scarred scowl. Tall and lean, he looked the
part of a warrior.

In other words, he looked the exact opposite of Loren. If he were an envious man he'd be
jealous, but of course it took effort to be bitter.

"That's me," Loren replied as he took another swig from his chalice of wine.
The warlike Lannister before him raised an eyebrow. "Are you sure?"

"The last time I checked, yes."

War Lannister shook his head, permanent scowl deepening. "Bloody shame. You're expected
at the war council."

Well thatwas a surprise. Loren didn't know the first thing about war. Granted, he was a
knight, but that had only happened during a particularly long episode of drinking with a few
captains of the Lannisport City Watch. A few bought drinks and well placed jokes and next
thing Loren knew, he was Ser Loren Lannister of Lannisport. "Me?"

War Lannister snorted. "You."

"Why in the seven hells would I be there?"

"Upon seeing you, I have no idea. I doubt you'll be much good. Politically however it's
required you show up. You're the head of one of the Lannisport families."

Oh, that explained it. This was all a mistake. Loren took another swig of wine, much more
relaxed with the prospect of actually being expected to contribute to society out of the way.
"No, you have the wrong Lannister. That's my uncle Tybolt."

"Tybolt is dead."

"Oh. Well then it'd be my cousin Lann."

"He's dead too. Died just yesterday of a bloody cough."

"Really. Well then, how about Lancel or Luceon or…"

War Lannister cut him off. "Enough. My brother told me to fetch you." Without further
ceremony he reached down and seized Loren by the collar of his breastplate, pulling him to
his feet before the Drunken Lion could react. Unsure how to respond, Loren did the only
thing he knew how to; he brought the chalice to his lips and drank.

War Lannister knocked it away, the goblet bouncing away and spilling all its glorious
contents onto the ground. "No more. You're drunk enough; if you come in still drinking my
brother will have you walk all the way back to Lannisport. From the look of you you could
use it, but my opinion doesn't matter. Grab your sword." Distressed over his wine but even
more wary of what this War Lannister might do if he didn't obey, Loren fumbled around for
the blade he couldn't ever remember even so much as unsheathing. Without a word War
Lannister turned and walked out, Loren following for fear of not.

Tywin Lannister's pavilion was as great as the man himself seemed to be, this temporary
structure nicer than half of the permanent homes in Lannisport. A long table, oaken and
sturdy, was currently seating twenty war advisors. At the head of it sat the man himself, bald
of head with bushy golden side-whiskers just beginning to turn silver, his presence
commanding even when he was silent.
Loren took the farthest available seat he could find. If he was going to have to be here, he
was damn sure going to make sure he wasn't noticeable. Loren was a drunk and he knew it;
he had no intention of firstly offering bad advice and secondly getting killed for it.

Tywin Lannister spoke first; from what Loren had gathered, the man did everything first.
"What of the second son?"

A burly man with a rearing purple unicorn on his doublet spoke from a few chairs away.
House Brax, Loren remembered, to his own surprise. "Reports place him still in the
Stormlands, chasing Robert Baratheon."

Another lord, this one with a peacock and a name that escaped Loren, took the narrative.
"Prince Rhaegar still hasn't been seen. Aerys has pulled the Crownland lords not with Aelor
into the capital."

Brax finished. "No more than two or three thousand."

Tywin Lannister's nod was so miniscule Loren was fairly certain he had imagined it. "And of
the Reach and Dorne?"

War Lannister spoke up then. "Still trying to help Aelor trap Baratheon." Tygett. The name
sprung unbidden to Loren's mind, and suddenly he realized that War Lannister was none
other than one of Tywin's younger brothers, the more martial of the three. Good thing I
obeyed. Word is he's as dangerous a swordsman as Aemon the Dragonknight.

Another Lannister, probably Kevan, the second eldest of the sons of Tytos Lannister, sat at
his brother's right hand. "The Vale, North and Riverlands are all amassing at Riverrun. It
won't be much longer before they march."

Tywin Lannister's baritone could silence a mounted charge. Not that Loren knew anything
about those really; it just seemed to stand to reason that they would be loud. Personally he
hoped he would never find out. "We must reach King's Landing before they do." Ah, we're
going to reinforce the capital. Good on us! "The Targaryen dynasty was once great enough to
bring the Lion Kings of old to their knees, but no longer. Aerys has spat upon the Lannister
name too many times." Oh. We're going to attack the capital.

The day was full of surprises it seemed.

But, Loren thought. At least he thought he thought it, until he found the entire table, Tywin
Lannister included, was suddenly staring at him. Well shit. There went my disappearing act.
Loren dare not look at the emerald green eyes of Tywin boring into him when he blundered
on, completing his thought process verbally. "But who will be king?"

War Lannister—Tygett—spoke over the angry ramblings. "He is Lann's cousin, brother. New
to the council." Despite his defense of Loren, it was obvious Tygett didn't care a whit for him.

When Loren finally managed to look at Tywin, he could tell the man wasn't impressed either.
That was fine; the chief Lannisters could despise him all they wanted to. All Loren cared
about was making sure they didn't kill him. "Robert Baratheon has the best claim through his
grandmother, Rhaelle Targaryen. I intend to turn King's Landing and the bodies of Aerys and
his family over to him with the suggestion he marry my daughter."

But Baratheon is betrothed to the Stark girl, Loren remembered, though Tywin had turned
away from him in clear dismissal. That was fine. Loren hadn't dared ask the question on his
mind anyway.

"We have to consider," Brax began, Loren fascinated by how much the man's moustache
moved when he did so, "the possibility that Baratheon doesn't escape the Stormlands."

Lord Peacock nodded. Those two certainly like to talk. I prefer wine myself. "He is
surrounded by four armies, and the Targaryen Prince is no fool."

A new lord, this one with a red bull on his chest, made his voice heard. "Targaryen is a boy."

"Yes, a boy who hasn't lost a battle."

"He's only fought two and a handful of skirmishs, Lord Serrett, and he's outnumbered the
enemy two to one in them all."

Brax came to Serrett's defense. "That may be, Lord Prester, but he rides with Barristan Selmy,
and Randyll Tarly is in command of one of the Reach armies."

Lord Peacock, a name Loren much preferred to Lord Serrett, had an arrogant voice. The more
Loren heard it, the more he wished to drown it out in alcohol. "And reports claim he has
killed more men with his own hand than any man in his army."

Tygett Lannister snorted in derision, something he seemed to do quite regularly. "So what if
the whelp is good with a blade? That makes him a killer, not a strategist."

"Men rally to a warrior. If he continues to route his enemies—"

"Enough." While it wasn't quite a mounted charge, Lord Lannister's voice certainly stopped
his vassal's cold. "Our sack of King's Landing will draw the Targaryen lad north, into the
jaws of the other rebellious lords. If Baratheon has any wits about him he'll use the
opportunity to escape. If he doesn't we will react accordingly. Now out. All of you."

Loren didn't need to be told twice.

As he rambled his way back towards his tent, Loren thought on the task that apparently lay
before them. He'd been blissfully unaware of it mere hours earlier; with the help of the
copious quantities of wine in his tent, he'd soon be ignorant of it again. But during the
agonizingly long trip to his beloved wine stores, the idea that he was marching to commit
treason ran through his mind unhindered.

Tywin had claimed he was going to present Baratheon with the bodies of both Aerys and his
family. Didn't that family consist of a child or two? Maybe it was three; he vaguely
remembered some talk of a new prince, Aelon or Aegor or some other such Targaryen name.
Surely the Lord Paramount of the Westerlands didn't intend to slaughter mere babes, did he?
The Rains of Castamere suddenly began playing in his head, and Loren realized that yes, yes
he did.

That seemed particularly unknightly. Granted everything Loren did was unknightly, but he'd
never once considered the murder of children. The idea that he was marching forward to do
just that didn't settle well with him.

For the first time since he didn't know when, Loren felt something very close to a moral
conscience.

He blamed it on his level of sobriety. Gods did he need a drink.

 IX

Aelor Targaryen had never been particularly passive in nature, his temper as hot as the blood
of the dragon coursing through his veins, but he was as wroth as he had ever been in his life.

His stallion thundered underneath him, its huge lungs working like a billows as it raced
towards the sound of slaughter ahead. Alaric had taken to calling the stallion Warrior, a name
Aelor was certain the High Septon would disapprove of but that fit the massive destrier like a
gauntlet. The beast seemed to love battle almost as much as Aelor did, having emerged from
the Slaughter of the Straits with a red muzzle from where it had bitten hunks out of the
Stormlander enemy. While it was particularly unwise of a knight to grow attached to his
mount, as more horses would die underneath him than women would writhe, Aelor found
himself liking the animal more than he did most men.

But right now the Dragon of Duskendale wasn't focusing on things he liked. No, right now he
was focusing on his hate, and there was certainly plenty of that to go around.

The Lannister's hadn't left many men guarding the Mud Gate that lead to the Roseroad and
southern Kingsroad. They clearly hadn't felt the need, as no one was supposed to know they
were marching on King's Landing with the intent of sacking it. But Aelor Targaryen did
know, thanks to the chittering's of a little bird that had appeared in his tent the night before he
was to assault Robert Baratheon, and while he hadn't been able to reach the city of his birth in
time to prevent the start of the Lannister's pillaging, he was certainly in time to prematurely
end it.

Aelor Targaryen was going to kill them all. Each and every one.

He drove his lance through the throat of the first man he came to, turning the guard's shout of
warning into a gurgle of blood and death. The others fared no better, one turning and trying to
flee through the gate but instead being trampled by the mass of armored horses crashing
through. The streets of King's Landing were awry with soldiers and citizens both dead and
alive. Some men in the red and gold of Lannister were battling with those in the gold of the
City Watch or the red and black of House Targaryen, blood being spilled onto the already red
streets. Others had given up the pretense of waging war and were openly looting, the
valuables being stolen from brothels and Septs alike.

Aelor drew his sword, the ruby in its crossguard glittering, and cut into them like a demon
from the deepest of the seven hells.

His men knew their commands, and they would carry them out with gusto. They were to kill
every man in Lannister red they came across. There would be no chance of redemption, no
declaration of repentance; there would be no mercy. The Lion had bitten the Dragon's tail,
and it was going to be burned into blackened nothing for the offense.

Some knight with a purple unicorn surcoat tried to knock Aelor off of his destrier, the Dragon
Prince driving his sword through the narrow slit of his visor in response. Aelor roared as the
lust of battle flooded his veins, withdrawing his blade from his dead enemy's face only to
plunge it into the back of the next man at arms he crossed. Aelor didn't give a damn whether
it was an honorable blow or not; he just wanted to kill, and whether he did so by cutting off a
man's head and killing him instantly or cutting off a man's hand and letting him bleed to
death on the shit covered street mattered not a whit to him.

Aelor had gotten good at killing. He intended to get much better.

The deeper he drove into the city, cutting a bloody path up the streets of his family's capital,
the more Lannister red he saw, and the more his rage grew. Warrior felt his rider's fury and
responded, his frequent neighing sounding more like a predator's roar, running more than one
man down and turning them into a fleshly pulp underneath the stallion's hooves and weight.
The black armored knight and black hided horse made a terrifying duo, spilling blood as if
they were the embodiment of the Stranger. Even those Westlander's who had sense enough to
run could not escape, feeling the bite of a blade or the crushing clamp of a set of flat
herbivore teeth digging into their skin.

Men died by the scores, and still the Targaryen Prince drove on.

Whether Alaric or Ser Barristan were still beside him Aelor couldn't say. Whether Lord
Randyll Tarly had successfully brought the infantry up to block off the city's gates, ensuring
not a single Lannister would escape the purge of their own making, Aelor didn't know. The
Lord of Duskendale didn't even know if this euphoric slaughter was real or just the dream of
a man from a family known for its madness, dark and terrifying and beautiful.

Aelor didn't care. All the mattered was killing and the Red Keep.

When Aelor came upon a man in a lion's helm, his shoulder pads forged to look like the faces
of the predator the Lannister's were so proud of, all of his rage focused on that one being.
This knight was atop a horse almost as big as Warrior, the long blond hair flowing from
underneath his helm waving to and fro as he tried to set up a defensive line. His men weren't
listening, too intent on the loot they were pillaging and the women they were defiling to
worry about something so trivial as a war.

Aelor ended his efforts for him. Warrior crashed into the Lannister's mount, nearly unhorsing
the knight as the stallion beneath him staggered sideways.

The second son of Aerys brought his blade in at a downward angle, hard and fast. To his
utmost surprise the Lannister knight parried it with his own, forcing Aelor's blade up and
away as the Lion's horse regained its balance. Warrior, enraged that the other stallion in front
of him hadn't gone down, slammed his armored body back into his rival's flank, sinking his
teeth into the blanket of heavy mail covering the Lannister horse's haunch. Aelor used that
momentum to strike again, his own fury growing as the Lannister parried once more,
knocking Aelor's blade aside and going on the offensive even as his mount staggered again,
screaming hauntingly at the pain Warrior was inflicting.

The Lion's blade crashed into Aelor's shield, the sword slashing a furrow into the warring
white dragon's painted onto the heavy oak and banded steel. Aelor had almost forgotten the
thing was strapped to his left arm; he hadn't needed it to this point. The Dragon swung the
newly rediscovered defense out, knocking the blade of his opponent away, and once again
struck, this time aiming the point of his sword at the slit in the man's visor, intending to
skewer the Lion's brains as he had the purple unicorn's. Lannister managed to block this blow
as well, not giving up a fraction of a second in transitioning from the defensive to the
offensive, slashing his blade in at Aelor again, carving another groove into the Dragon's
shield.

On an on the two danced, parry being met with parry, their stallion's warring with each other
every bit as hard as their rider's. Thrice Aelor thought he had an opening, and thrice the
Lannister knight managed to close it off before the Dragon of Duskendale could drive his
blade home. Their deadly dance paid no heed to the carnage around them or the passage of
time, blade meeting blade meeting shield meeting blade.

Aelor roared as Lannister landed a blow, the tip of the Lion's blade catching Aelor's helm,
carving through the steel with the strength only battlelust could give, biting into the skin
around Aelor's right eye and setting his helm ajar, his vision blocked. The Dragon roared in
fury and pain, the Lion laughing as he aimed his sword for a killing blow. Warrior saved him,
at that moment deciding to drive his muscular shoulders into his rival's flank again. The
Lion's laughed turned into a curse as he had to regain his balance.

In that time Aelor Targaryen had removed and discarded his helm, the gash that carved
diagonally from his right brow over his eye and sliced cleanly until it ran off the point of his
cheek bleeding freely. Violet eyes, both unscathed despite the mess of blood surrounding the
right, burned out from a face twisted in anger.

The Dragon of Duskendale looked nothing like a man in that moment. As he raised his
sword, thundering out a war cry of rage and pain and hate, he looked more like a fire
breathing bringer of death than even the white dragons etched onto his breastplate.

This attack was twice as furious as his first, the Dragon swinging hard enough to nearly break
the Lion's shield arm when he met the blow. Whatever momentum Lannister had won with
the blow that nearly blinded the Prince was lost, and soon he was barely able to ward off the
deadly blade of his opponent. The Dragon Prince seemed to be growing only stronger,
bloodlust fueling his every strike, his unshielded face snarling as he struck again and again.

In truth, the Lion could only hold off the Dragon's onslaught so long. One parry was a
fraction too slow, the weak counter knocking the Prince's sword aside but also knocking the
Lion's blade away. Before he could bring it back, the Dragon of Duskendale had thrust his
sword forward, driving the point of his blade through gorget and chainmail, unleashing a roar
so vicious one would think he was a dragon reborn.

The Lion never cried out in pain, as silent and sullen in death as he had been in life. Tygett
Lannister only twitched twice, blood running in a torrent down his breastplate, before falling
backwards as stiff as a tree, sliding off of both Aelor's blade and his own battered and
bleeding horse to land in a crimson and gold heap in the street. The gold of his shoulder
plates made a sharp contrast to the blood soaked filth, long blond hair turned red and brown.

Aelor Targaryen gave his dead opponent only the briefest of glances before he kicked Warrior
back into a sprint, thundering up the red street for the Red Keep.
The fighting hadn't quite reached the fortress of his ancestors, the drawbridge up and nervous
men manning the battlements. One man was so tensed from waiting for an enemy that had
yet to arrive that he had drawn his bow and loosed an arrow before he truly saw the figure
riding towards him. His heart nearly burst when he saw that figure was a Targaryen Prince,
face, armor and stallion all so bloodied as to almost be unrecognizable. The archer fell to his
knees in relief when his hastily shot arrow sailed well wide of his target, the man never so
glad to be a lousy shot than he was in that moment.

"It's Prince Aelor!" "Hold your arrows!" "A friend, hold fire!" Each of those cries and more
echoed through the line of men holding the walls. "Open that gate, let the Prince in!" Cut
through the mass of voices, and men rushed to obey.

The Dragon of Duskendale galloped through the rapidly raised portcullis, not slowing as men
at arms in the courtyard had to leap out of the way of his charging animal. The Keep seemed
untouched, the whirlwind of death Aelor had unleashed on the Lannister rear having
seemingly saved the inhabitants. Aelor rode hard anyway. Tywin Lannister was smart; he
knew that the only thing that would keep many of the defenders fighting was the lives they
protected. If he could slip a few men into the Keep and eliminate the Targaryen's inside, most
would lose heart, ending his brilliant sack of the city with the termination of most of the
bloodline that had insulted him repeatedly over the years.

Aelor knew the murder of children like Aegon and Elia wasn't above the lion. The Rains of
Castamere began playing in the young Prince's mind as he neared his destination.

They have to be alive. They have to be. I must see them, I must hold them again.

Aelor came to the dry moat defending Maegor's Holdfast, finding the drawbridge up and
men, the last line of defense for the Targaryen's inside, tense and ready. "Lower the bridge,"
the Dragon called, the blood flowing down his face mixing into his silver beard.

A knight Aelor didn't recognize with a leaping swordfish on his chest peered down from the
walls nervously. "But Prince Aelor, the King demanded we open for no—"

"LOWER THE FUCKING BRIDGE," the Prince bellowed, and within a second the sound of
turning gears filled his ears. Aelor thundered across the drawbridge almost before it even
settled into place, flying under the ingress and into the courtyard.

The Dragon of Duskendale flew off of his stallion, barreling into the castle within a castle. It
was then and only then that he realized Ser Barristan Selmy, white cloak and armor turned
red, and Alaric Langward, covered in gore, were beside him. "Barristan, check Rhaenys'
room and then my mother's! Alaric, with him! Find my family!"

His companions gave no argument, Ser Barristan turning a corner with Alaric close on his
heels. Aelor himself ran like a madman, paying no heed to the sting of the cut down his eye.
All that mattered was reaching the nursery, was seeing Aegon and Elia and Rhaenys were
alive, holding them in his arms and seeing that he hadn't been too late.

When the Dragon Prince reached the nursery, too focused to even notice his lack of breath,
the door was already open. Aelor burst in, hoping beyond hope to see his favorite
Dornishwoman and her children safe and sound.

Instead, he was greeted with the sight of a mountain with legs and armor, a massive surcoat
bearing three black dogs on a yellow field stretched across the broadest chest Aelor had ever
seen. Aelor followed the surcoat up and up and up until he staring at the biggest man the
Dragon of Duskendale had ever heard of even so much as existing.

And the blade, as long as Aelor was tall, that the moving mountain was swinging towards the
Dragon Prince's head.
 X

She knew something was wrong the moment she heard the trumpets.

She'd just burst into Rhaenys' chamber when the first cries entered the fringes of her hearing.
By the time she'd managed to sprint to her son's nursery, cradling the infant under one arm
and hoisting her toddler on the other hip, the cries were as loud her own heartbeat.

The Dornish Princess nearly screamed when the door to the nursery crashed inward,
instinctively shielding her children from whoever had burst into the chamber. A being filled
the doorway, broader than the width between doorposts, a huge hand resting on the sword at
his hip.

Her knees almost gave out when that someone turned out to be Manfred Darke, her lady-in-
waiting Ashara Dayne slipping around the boulder of a man and rushing into the nursery, her
violet eyes panicked. Ser Manfred's eyes were not, the knight as unflappable even in this
clear emergency as he was in day to day life.

"Princess," came his gruff voice. "We need to go. Now."

Elia needn't be told twice, and she gratefully handed the whimpering Rhaenys to Ashara
before pulling Aegon, sleeping and blissfully unaware of what was going on around him,
closer to her chest. Ser Manfred turned and Elia followed instantly, Ashara close behind her.

Men at arms rushed through the corridors, shoving each other and shouting as they nearly
sprinted down the halls of the Red Keep. Ser Manfred strode confidently through them like a
battering ram, sending one man at arms to the ground with a quick shove when the lad didn't
get out of the way in time. Elia and Ashara huddled closely to his broad back, the noise of
clanking armor and the sense of spreading panic waking Aegon, who began to cry.

Elia hushed her son even though she knew it would do no good. She didn't know who was
currently raising hell on the city of King's Landing, but it didn't in the end matter; if they
were attacking, they either wanted Elia and her children as hostages or wanted them dead.
The Dornish Princess wasn't overly fond of either idea.

Elia had had no idea where Ser Manfred was going, but where he came to a halt would have
been one of her last guesses. Her bodyguard slammed his palm three times on the door of
Lord Varys' chambers, and the The Spider opened it instantly.

The bald, portly eunuch wordlessly ushered them in. Princess Elia, as confused as she could
ever remember being, followed Ser Manfred in only when he waved his hand impatiently.
The Spider's chambers were barren, with only a bed, table and a few chairs as decoration. But
it wasn't what wasn't in his chambers that surprised Elia even in this moment of panic and
unknowing; it was what was.

Queen Rhaella Targaryen stood in the center of the room, one hand placed protectively over
her swelling stomach, the other clutching the hand of the six year old Prince Viserys. Elia's
uncle, aging Prince Lewyn Martell of the Kingsguard, stood beside them in his resplendent
white enamel plate, his own hand resting on the sword at his hip.

"Elia," the youngest Targaryen called, his young face scared. He started towards the
Dornishwoman but the Queen held his hand firmly. While Elia and Rhaella got along fairly
well in their limited exposure to the other, the Queen clearly didn't want to release her young
son's hand when she didn't know what she was doing here or what was going on.

Elia didn't blame her. She pulled the crying Aegon even closer to her chest.

The Spider spared no words, merely walking in that strange stroll of his and making a quick
motion with his hands at the wall. And then that wall moved, neatly floating up to reveal a
staircase, and Elia decided that nothing made sense anymore.

"Up the staircase," came the fluttering voice of Varys. "My little birds will direct you from
there."

Ser Manfred nodded, turning to give them only a few gruff words. "Follow me, Your
Graces." The knight turned and without ceremony stomped up the stairs, his hand on his
sword, the passel of royalty following. Prince Lewyn, giving his niece a confident smile, took
the rear.

Aegon's cries resonated in the narrow, musky passage, and Viserys repeatedly asked what
was going on despite his mother hushing him each time. Rhaenys took to crying as well,
Ashara trying and failing to calm the child. Elia knew Ser Manfred and her uncle had to be
gritting their teeth, escorting three women and three crying children down an old passage that
lead to who the hell knew, but the squat knight and elderly Kingsguard said nothing, focused
solely on the dark passage ahead.

At the top of the stairs was their escort. When Varys had referred to his 'little birds', he
literally meant little. Their guide was a child, no more than ten. The passage they were in was
dark, only a few torches spaced generous distances apart offering light, but Elia recognized
the youngster as a regular around the servant quarters, the daughter of the blacksmith or some
other castle-bound smallfolk. If this child is for Varys, who else is as well? The thought was
disconcerting to say the least, but since the Spider seemed to be her children's best way to
escape, she wasn't going to give it all that much thought.

Priorities.

They made more twists and turns than Elia could keep track of, climbing then descending
then going straight, the blacksmith's daughter handing them off to another child the Princess
of Dorne didn't recognize before that child in turn handed them off to another and then
another. Elia was thankful for them all, because without them she would be as lost as a
septon in a brothel.

Elia didn't know how much time they spent in the darkness, her children crying, Viserys
growing more and more stressed and Ser Manfred charging stubbornly on, before the
smoothed stone below her feet suddenly turned rough, and the next thing Elia knew she was
being blinded by sunlight.
"We need to move!" called the voice of a short, slender man with a rather ordinary face. A
boat with black sails, one so small she had trouble believing Ser Manfred wouldn't sink it
with his weight alone, was grounded on a narrow strip of beach behind him, surrounded by
the rock of the cliffs on all sides. The smell and sound of the Narrow Sea was overpowered
by the smell of smoke and the cries from the city on the cliffs above them.

Ser Manfred stomped to the boat, turning to the royal family and ushering them on. "Quickly
Your Graces."

They filed in one at a time, huddling close to one another, Aegon's insistent cries grating with
Elia's already frayed nerves. I know you're scared, my love, but I can't protect you if I'm deaf.
For the love of the Gods shush. That prayer went unanswered, as Aegon's cries only grew
louder and more frequent.

Prince Lewyn assisted the pregnant Queen Rhaella aboard with great care. "Careful now,
Your Grace," Elia's uncle said, smiling as he always did. "I'm already disobeying the king's
orders by being here. I can't have you hurting yourself and giving him even more reason to
kill me."

"Do not worry, Ser Lewyn," said the Queen. Her tone was quiet, but it had more strength to it
than Elia had heard in years. "If I were to die the King would probably reward you."

Viserys doggedly stayed on the beach even after his mother was settled, eyeing the man with
the boat distrustfully. "Who is he, mother? He smells like a fish."

"Hush child," came the voice of the Queen, growing firm. "This man is saving us. Get on
board."

The young Prince scowled. "Father wouldn't like this."

"Your father isn't here, love. Get on the boat."

Viserys dug his heels into the sand. "We are blood of the dragon! We don't go with peasants."
Elia was beginning to fear Viserys may hold them much too long. She had known nothing of
the secret passages of the Keep, and it seemed the Queen hadn't either, so it was unlikely
someone would follow them, but the sooner they were on the sea the better she would feel.

That was an odd fact considering she had no idea who the small man waiting nervously by
the prow of the boat was. Panic made for the strangest friends she supposed.

Elia began to rise with the intent of manhandling the youngest Targaryen Prince onto the
boat, wanting more than anything to be gone from the wretched sounds coming from the city.
Ser Manfred beat her to it.

"Your mother says go you little shit," the big knight growled, his irritation as plain in his
voice as it was on his ugly face. "You're going." Ser Manfred moved astonishingly fast for a
man of his stature, and Viserys couldn't churn his young legs quick enough. Her sworn sword
grabbed the Prince, one hand clutching an arm and the other a leg, and jumped on board, the
youngest son of Aerys shouting the whole way. Ser Manfred payed him no mind, depositing
the boy next to his mother who, despite her fierce protectiveness of Viserys, had not moved
to protest the knight's actions. The big man kept one hand pressed down on the Prince's tiny
shoulder, keeping him firmly attached to his seat.

"Be off," the knight barked, and the small man obliged, heaving the boat into the water with a
strength that surprised the Princess of Dorne. Once it was sufficiently water bound, the
nimble man jumped aboard, taking one oar while Ser Manfred took the other, handing the
duty of containing the still struggling Viserys to the knight of the Kingsguard.

"The wind is in our favor," the brown haired savior said, Elia recognizing his accent as that of
a man from King's Landing. "Once we row far enough out we'll go full sail."

"Thank you," the Dornish Princess said, her heart feeling more and more relieved the farther
away from the cliffs of King's Landing they rowed. She pulled Aegon closer, his cries no
longer the nuisance they had been mere moments before, and reached to pull Rhaenys to her
side. "We can never repay you, Ser…"

"Davos, my lady," the man said, giving her a quick grin through his salt and pepper beard.
"And I'm no Ser."

Aelor Targaryen was going to die.

He'd managed to dodge out of the way of the monstrous assassin's initial blow, the wind from
the blade cutting through the air brushing against his cheek like a gale. Aelor barely had time
to even step back, bringing his sword and shield up, before the giant was bringing his blade
down overhead like an axe, intent on splitting the Targaryen's skull. Aelor jumped to the left,
the giant's blade digging into the smoothed stone of the nursery's floor, and swung his own
sword at the big man's unprotected side.

How the giant was quick enough to bring his massive sword up in time to block him the
Dragon Prince would never know, the beast's blade knocking the Prince's aside and his
opposite fist, the size of a small castle, grazing the point of Aelor's chin. The Dragon of
Duskendale staggered back, ears ringing and vision reduced to stars, only the unbalanced
manner in which the giant had landed the blow and the fact that it hadn't connected fully
saving every bone in the Prince's face from being broken. If the assassin had managed to land
the hit clean Aelor had no doubt it would have shattered every bone it touched and most
likely have killed him then and there.

It was then it became clear to Aelor that he could not beat this…thing. It was oddly peaceful,
accepting one's death.

The giant roared, a guttural sound so frighteningly unhuman that Aelor wondered if this, not
Warrior and himself, was what the embodiment of the Stranger looked like. He swung again,
Aelor seeing through the stars just enough to manage to dodge aside. The Prince never even
had time to go on the offensive, the stupidly long blade of his killer already whistling in
towards his side, Aelor bringing his shield up instinctually.
Aelor was no small man himself, tall and broad shouldered, but he might as well have been
the size of one of the many dolls he had gifted Rhaenys. When the mountain of a man's blade
hit the shield it barely even stopped the swing's momentum. Aelor Targaryen went flying,
armor and all, like a stone from a catapult, slamming into the wall of the nursery with a clank
of steel plate on stone before hitting the ground in a heap.

Aelor suddenly realized how much everything hurt. His face hurt, the blo

od still flowing from his wound and his chin throbbing. His right arm hurt, fatigued from the
strength it exerted to both swing and drive through enemy armor. His left arm hurt now too,
from fingertip to elbow, his shield nearly sheared in two, the top half hanging onto the bottom
only by a few slivers of wood and bent steel. Hell, his whole body hurt, from head to toe.

He felt more than heard the massive footfalls of the giant assassin coming to end his life.
Aelor couldn't find it in himself to care. No amount of the bloodlust or battle rage he had felt
only minutes before was present, and even if it was, it couldn't have helped him. All he felt
was pain. Hell, he didn't even know where his sword was.

Well shit. Knights are supposed to die with their swords in their hand. Aelor supposed that
didn't really matter. No one was going to sing a story about him, the Dragon who had his ass
handed to him by a man with dogs on his surcoat. Seriously, dogs? Why couldn't his sigil be a
tiger or a direwolf, something fearsome?

Aelor recognized his thoughts as the ramblings of a disconcerted, dying man. That was all
well and good, because he was a disconcerted and dying man.

The mountain of a man stopped in front of the heaped pile of the Prince, raising his sword the
size of Westeros and aiming it at the Dragon's head with a smile. Aelor met his eyes, willing
himself even in his stupor to meet his death head on.

And then a sword burst out of the mountainous assassin's neck, angled upwards. The giant
dropped his own blade, the greatsword clattering to the ground at Aelor's feet while its once-
wielder clawed at the blade that had cut his throat. With a sickening slosh the blade was
withdrawn, only to reappear a moment later slicing through the flesh at the back of the giant's
legs, sending the beast to his knees. Aelor still didn't know who was behind the saving blade,
for the monster before him was tall even when cut down to half his normal size.

The first hack dug into the side of the dog's neck, cutting flesh and tendon, but the giant
animal still struggled, pulling a dirk from his belt and reaching for Aelor even as he choked
on his own blood. The second hack dug deeper, the third even more so, slowing the giant
hand reaching to end the Lord of Duskendale's life. It took several more, Aelor watching in
grim astonishment as the mountainous man fought on despite a wound that would have killed
most long ago, before a final swipe severed the animal's head, sending it bouncing across the
nursery floor like a child's ball.

The body of the assassin protested death for a moment longer, its hands still trying to grasp
the battered Prince before them, before it finally toppled like a falling elm to the bloody
stone.
Aelor stared at the corpse for a long moment, mind still hazy, face still throbbing, before he
finally looked up at the soul that had saved him. When the face registered through his addled
brain, Aelor knew he had to be dreaming.

There in the nursery, sword bloody and black armor shining, stood Rhaegar Targaryen, a sad
smile on his face.
 XI

The Sack of King's Landing had to have been one of the most perplexing battles in the
history of Westeros. Aelor had been there, and even he was confused.

Twelve thousand Westermen had descended onto the light defended capital, gaining the gates
through deception. The door to the city had no sooner been opened then the true intent of the
Lions became clear, the guards being cut down before the mass pillaging of the City of
Dragons began. Women were raped, innocents slaughtered, gold and other valuables taken;
half of Flea Bottom had gone up in flames, the cries of hundreds of smallfolk filling the grey
sky as they burned in the filthy slum they called home.

And then another force had arrived, bearing the warring white dragons of Prince Aelor,
smashing into the disorganized Westerman with the force of a blacksmith's hammer. The
massacre had turned from that of civilians to soldiers, many being caught literally with their
pants around their ankles, pulled off of the women they were raping and disemboweled, their
lifeblood flowing around their stiffened members to form great crimson puddles. Many of the
Westermen were so committed to the utter chaos they were wracking that they never knew
they were being attacked before it was too late.

Infantry under Lord Randyll Tarly of the Westmarch had followed, many rushing through the
gates to assist the cavalry of Prince Aelor in ridding the capital of lions while others formed
there, cutting down any Lannister who tried to flee. Some Western lords managed to rally
retainers and attempt breakouts at each of the gates, but the men of the Reach, unbloodied so
far in the war, held firm, keeping the lions in their cage.

What rattled most about the battle wasn't the quick changes in momentum, however. What
rattled most was the presence of two Targaryen Princes.

Aelor, Lord of Duskendale and second son of the king, had rode through the Mud Gate first,
in the minds of the citizens cutting bloody swaths alongside Barristan the Bold and his best
knights on their way to the Red Keep, through sheer brilliance anticipating Lord Tywin's
move and arriving to thwart the lion. Rhaegar, Lord of Dragonstone and heir to the Throne,
had ridden through the King's Gate alone, cutting his own path through the carnage towards
the same destination. To many he had appeared as a God, returning from his self-imposed
exile in time to save the city of his birth with his brother.

Only the two men in question knew what utter gibberish all of it was.

The brothers sat in silence in the Small Council Chamber, one at each end of the table.
Rhaegar, hauntingly beautiful face framed by long silver hair, was strumming his lute,
changing the song periodically. Aelor, his face bruised and bloodied, held a chalice of wine in
his right hand and a tankard to refill it in his left.

Neither spoke for a long time.

"Do I have to call you 'Your Grace' now?" The latter finally asked, the cut he received from
Tygett Lannister bound to make for one hell of a scar.

His elder brother smiled sadly. Rhaegar does everything sadly. "Only in public. In private
you are still my brother."

Aelor nodded sharply. "Good. Because King or not, I'm still going to curse you for a fool."

Rhaegar Targaryen, the first of his name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar and the First Men,
Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm, smiled all the sadder. "I know."

Their father was dead.

They had found the Mad King dead at the feet of Jaime Lannister, his long fingernails
snapped from his impact with the ground, a bloody smile carved into his throat. Jaime sat the
throne, dressed in the golden armor of his house instead of the white enamel plate of the
Kingsguard, looking as calm as if he'd only swatted a fly instead of killing the King he was
sworn to protect.

The lad hadn't put up a fight, dropping his sword and submitting himself to chains in the
black cells when Ser Barristan and Alaric had found him after finding and killing the fat
Armory Lorch in Rhaenys' chambers. Aelor didn't feel so much as a hint of sadness at the
death of his father, a fact that no longer bothered him; his heart was so black by now it would
have surprised him if he was to actually feel remorse.

Ser Barristan Selmy stood guard at the door of the chamber, the only Kingsguard left in the
city besides the new Kingslayer, as Rhaegar's three companions hadn't returned with him,
Prince Lewyn Martell was with the new heir to the throne, and Ser Jonothor Darry had been
found slain in the chambers of Princess Elia, having gone to check on the Princess and
instead running into a giant as he crushed a lady-in-waiting's head.

Darry was an excellent swordsman, but he didn't stand a chance against the behemoth they'd
learned had been called Gregor Clegane. They'd found his body nearly cut in two at the waist,
lying over the ruin of what had once been Talana Vaith, the lady in waiting looking as if she'd
been ravaged by a monster.

That same monster had very nearly killed Aelor, only stopped from succeeding by the new
King. Clegane's head now resided on a spike on the battlements of the Red Keep.

Rhaegar cleared his throat and for a moment Aelor thought he was going to begin to sing, but
instead the new King of the Iron Throne spoke. Pity. I always like my brother's singing;
maybe it would have calmed me down enough to not want to kill him. "Where are my
children?"

Aelor took another drink of wine. He wasn't overly fond of alcohol, but right now he needed
plenty of it. "Halfway to Dragonstone by now, if the winds were good."

Rhaegar waited for an explanation Aelor didn't voluntarily give. "How?"

"The same way I knew Tywin Lannister was marching; with the help of a Spider."

Rhaegar tilted his head back in understanding. "Lord Varys."

Aelor nodded. "You know of the secret passages; you and I used to ditch our lessons and play
in them as boys. The Spider knows them better than anyone. I left my man Manfred Darke
and recruited Varys' help should the city be attacked. He did the rest. Odds are they were well
gone by the time I arrived, though in my panic I'd entirely forgotten the plan myself. I'll have
to apologize to the swordfish knight for my crude language."

"Baratheon?"

Aelor clenched his jaw, teeth grinding. "I had the choice of riding for King's Landing or
destroying the Rebellion's leader. I could not do both."

Rhaegar nodded. "I understand." They sat in silence for a few moments longer, Rhaegar
strumming the lute absently. "Our father is dead. If I were to sue for peace, do you believe—"

"No," Aelor cut him off. "Why the hell would they? They have an army already amassed and
reinforcements with a claimant marching towards them. And you and I are still alive. We are
as guilty of starting this war as our father was."

Rhaegar raised an eyebrow. "Oh?"

"Yes," Aelor said, voice growing hard as his anger rose. "You ran off with a woman who
wasn't your wife."

Rhaegar sighed. "Brother—"

"Save it," Aelor cut in, rising in his wroth. "You stole a woman, disrespecting your beautiful
wife who will make the best Queen since Alysanne Targaryen. And then you brought the
girl's father and brother to King's Landing, where our father killed them. Thanks to you. You,
Rhaegar." Aelor glared at his brother a moment before dropping back into his seat in a
defeated slouch, taking a long sip of wine. "And I am no better."

Rhaegar watched his brother calmly. "How so?"

Aelor stared into his wine. "We've always known what our father was, since we were little
boys. For a long time we didn't stop him because we couldn't, but what excuse do we have
for the last few years? We were his sons; you were loved by all the realm, and they at least
didn't hate me. We could have done something, stopped all of this. Instead you steal a woman
and I watch as a good man is burned alive, his son killing himself in a desperate attempt to
save his father." Aelor's stare was unseeing, the Prince reliving a dark night full of wildfire
and burnt flesh. "I stood andwatched. I could have done something, stopped the madness
before it began, but I did nothing. And then I ran. I ran so I wouldn't have to listen as he
raped our mother, the sweetest woman the gods ever graced Westeros with." Aelor took
another long drink before laughing bitterly. "Some Princes we are."
Rhaegar said nothing, instead starting to strum The Dornishman's Wife on his lute. The King
played and the Prince drank, neither speaking for a long while.

"I suppose I owe you for saving my life," Aelor said eventually, his tone making no secret of
how distasteful he found that fact to be."

"No," Rhaegar responded, still playing. "You ensured Elia and my children were smuggled to
safety. That is a debt I cannot repay."

"Good," Aelor said, slamming his chalice down. "Because you're the most foolish son of a
bitch I have ever known."

Rhaegar sighed again. "I know you don't understand, Aelor."

"You're damn right."

"The prophecy—"

"Piss on your prophecy," Aelor spat, voice cold and sharp as he rose to his feet again. "That
whole ridiculous delusion that you let become your obsession has already killed thousands.
You broke a good woman's heart and ran out on two wonderful children because you
buggering dreamed it was for the best! Horse shit it was. You tore a realm apart because of
the decades old ramblings of a woods witch."

"The Prince that was promised—"

"Sure as hell isn't you or I."

Rhaegar clenched his jaw, only now beginning to grow angry at his younger brother's
berating. "Careful, brother."

Aelor snorted. "Or what, Your Grace? Are you going to burn me alive as our father would
have done? I've been fighting a war for you, Rhaegar. I've been doing it poorly at times I
admit, but at least I was trying to put a stop to the destruction of our dynasty. And what were
you doing? Hiding hell knows where with a woman who for all I know you kidnapped,
letting men die by the scores." Aelor had both his hands on the table as he leaned over it,
violet eyes boring into his brother's identical ones. To Rhaegar's credit he met them evenly.
"Maybe Aegon is the Prince that was promised, but he can only fulfill your prophecy if we
steer him to greatness. And we can only do that if we are alive. In case you weren't aware,
there are tens of thousands of men at Riverrun and thousands more heading there, all aimed at
killing every Targaryen that breathes."

Rhaegar was silent even longer, now playing the Bear and the Maiden Fair. Aelor wanted to
take the lute and break it over his brother's head. "Are we certain they are still at Riverrun?"

Aelor sat slowly as he nodded, some of his anger dissipating after he lost his temper. I'm still
going to kill him, but I suppose I can wait until the war is over to do it. "No. Baratheon is
marching that way and he has too far of a lead on Prince Oberyn and his Dornishmen.
Whether the rest of the rebellion is still at Riverrun or marching to meet Baratheon we're
unsure of."

"How many men do they have?"

"Close to forty thousand. We'll have close to the same once Oberyn arrives, probably five
thousand or so less. I sent Mace Tyrell and the Redwyne Fleet to besiege Storm's End."

Rhaegar cocked his brow. "I imagine Robert's brothers are there, but does it truly matter
whether Storm's End falls?"

Aelor shook his head. "No, but it keeps Tyrell out of the way."

Rhaegar smiled, and for the first time that day it wasn't a sad one. "Prudent of you, Aelor.
You have made quite a name for yourself in this war."

The Dragon of Duskendale shrugged. "The Seven know why. I've only fought a handful of
battles, and each of them I've either had the element of surprise or superior numbers. And I
still had my flank turned by Selwyn buggering Tarth. A Dragon outmaneuvered by a man
with the nickname 'Evenstar'. How pathetic."

"You're men love you, and I daresay you're being thought of as the second coming of Aemon
the Dragonknight."

"I'm good at killing people. So is every sellsword on either side of the Narrow Sea."

"But none of those sellswords are Princes of the Iron Throne. Or Hand of the King."

Aelor stared at Rhaegar a long moment. "You're going to need to clarify that."

Rhaegar put his lute aside, standing to walk to his brother's chair. "Father's last Hand of the
King was apparently some pyromancer, Roassart I believe. Jaime Lannister killed him before
he cut our father's throat."

"Why?"

Rhaegar shrugged. "I couldn't say, though I fully intend to find out. I need a Hand of the
King, one who can help me finish this war and also rule the Seven Kingdoms in Aegon's
name should something happen to me. I can think of no one better than you." The King held
his hand out to his shocked brother.

Aelor hit him.

Rhaegar went reeling backwards though he kept his feet. "No!" He told Ser Barristan when
the Kingsguard knight began to start for them, intent on breaking them up. "Let him rage!"

So Aelor raged. Though three years younger, Aelor had been bigger and stronger than
Rhaegar for most of their lives, and he used it. His chair went flying back as the Dragon of
Duskendale burst out of it, landing another blow to his brother the King's cheekbone.
Rhaegar fought back though they both knew he was outmatched; it was as if they were young
children again, settling their quarrels through the world's oldest method of negotiation.

Ser Barristan the Bold, grateful for being called off, could only watch with a slight smile on
his face as the two Targaryen's beat the hell out of each other like they were children again.
Barristan would know; he'd watched them many times before.

By the time they were done Aelor's cut had reopened, fresh blood flowing down the second
son's jaw. Rhaegar's hauntingly beautiful face was no longer quite as beautiful, his lip busted
and bruises already beginning to form. Both men were breathing heavily, Aelor hunched over
with his hands on his knees and Rhaegar hugging a column to keep himself standing.

"If you think," Aelor started through gasps for breath, "That a damn pin…is going to make
me forget your stupidity…"

"I…know it won't," Rhaegar replied, holding that column closer than he ever had his wife.
"But it's a…serious offer. We have…a war to win. You're the best…man for it."

Aelor glared daggers at his brother while both caught their breath. After several long minutes
he slowly rose, face still angry and fists, bloody knuckles and all, still clenched. "I'll take the
damn pin until the war is over. Then you'll take it back and find someone else to run your
kingdom's for you, because I sure as hell won't."

Rhaegar had gone from hugging the column to simply leaning against it. "Fair enough.
Though if I die, I want you to be Aegon's regent. You'll care for him, Rhaenys and Elia
probably better than I ever could."

"I already do."

Rhaegar's sad smile returned. Aelor found it easier to stomach when Rhaegar winced at his
split lip. "I know." He held his brother's gaze. "You love her."

Aelor raised a brow. "Rhaenys? Of course."

"Elia." Aelor's face instantly turned shocked. "You have for years, baby brother. You might
not have known it, but I have. And she loves you, though I doubt she knows it either."

Aelor began to viciously protest, but it died in his throat. He thought of Elia then, all Dornish
beauty with a heart of gold. He had always been fond of her it was true, but he had never
considered it something more. She was his brother's wife, an unattainable object that Aelor
hadn't even realized he wanted.

But then he remembered that he did have a strange fondness for Dornish women that had
begun roughly when Elia had first arrived in the capital. Annara down at Chataya's was
Dornish, as was Senelle at Allie's back in Duskendale; both were his favorites. And then
there was Talana Vaith, so recently deceased. Aelor realized that he thought of Elia when he
was with each of them. Well I'll be damned. That's buggering messed up, even for a
Targaryen.
He loved Elia's company, almost always seeking it out when he had a chance. He wrote her
often and thought of her even more. Her laugh never failed to make him smile. I sound like a
young girl, all these romanticized thoughts. Renfred would never let me forget it if he knew.
Rhaegar's words made a hell of a lot of sense, Aelor had to admit.

So this is love. Who knew.

Aelor finally looked back at his brother, still leaning against a column. "This changes
nothing, Rhaegar. You know us both. We'd never—"

"I'm not worried about that, Aelor. Elia probably doesn't know how she feels anyway. Even if
she did, I don't disapprove."

Aelor raised an eyebrow in confusion. "You don't care at all that your brother loves your
wife?"

Rhaegar shrugged, a motion that caused him some pain judging by his wince. "No, nor do I
care that my wife loves my brother. All I care for right now is ending this war and keeping
my children safe; the rest can be worked out later. I need your help to do so. Are you with
me?" Rhaegar held his hand out again.

This time Aelor took it. "Aye. But if you do one more bonehead thing, I promise I'll kill you
myself."

Rhaegar smiled once more. "I know, brother. Believe me, I know."
 XII

They'd turned Flea Bottom into a funeral pyre.

The fire had started during the sack, the exact reason why unclear and unimportant. Randyll
Tarly had smartly sent teams of men to contain it as best as they could when he saw the
smoke billowing, eventually committing most of the loyalist force to the task once the serious
fighting had died down.

The bodies of the Lannister dead, lord and levy alike, were carted to the raging bonfire that
had engulfed half the slums from wherever they had died across the city. There were
thousands of bodies and bodies bred disease and illness, so the men were stripped of their
armor and weapons and thrown into the fire, the smell of burning flesh engulfing the already
stinking city. Several septons, tougher of heart and stomach than most of their brethren,
repeated death rites for hours, a communal prayer over a communal end.

The armor and swords that could be identified as belonging to lords—Brax, Falwell and Jast
had been recovered already, and more were sure to be found—were set aside to be returned to
the dead men's families, per the orders of King Rhaegar Targaryen. The rest—spears of
levies, swords and armor of knights and retainers—were sorted and distributed among the
loyalist forces, per the orders of Aelor Targaryen, Hand of the King.

King's Landing was a massive, sprawling city of thousands. Many Lannister men had used
that to their advantage, discarding their weapons and armor for stolen or stripped civilian
garb once it was clear the day was lost. There were dozens throughout the city, Aelor knew,
but there wasn't anything he could do about it. He was much more concerned with the
fortress inside a fortress Tywin Lannister and his retainers had made of the Great Sept of
Baelor.

The Ruthless lion had realized rather quickly that his men were too disorganized and focused
on pillaging to throw Aelor and his attackers back. Instead, the Lord of Casterly Rock had
rallied close to seven hundred of his men, stripped the Street of Steel for all the weapons they
could carry, and pulled back to the top of Visenya's Hill. He'd charged the Mud Gate, being
thrown back by infantry under Lord Cleyton Byrch, but it was soon discovered that it had
been a diversion. Fishmongers Square, a maze of a market selling everything from wine to
animals located just inside the Mud Gate, had been picked clean of food and drink. The
bakeries along the Street of Flour were also barren, the Lions using the chaos to carry as
many rations as they could to the home of the High Septon.

They'd even had the audacity to hoist a roaring lion banner over the sept. The sight of it
nearly drove Aelor back into his battlerage.

"Strong shield," Renfred Rykker greeted his old friend and his squire, clasping forearms with
Aelor once he'd dismounted Warrior. The Lord of Hollard Hall had taken an arrow to the
shoulder during the attack but had rode on as if it wasn't there. Even now he paid no mind to
the bandages wrapped around the wound, face showing not an ounce of discomfort. "You
look like hell."

"Stronger sword," Aelor responded as Alaric took Warrior and his own horse towards the
temporary stable. "You look worse." It wasn't true of course; Aelor's eye was a red gash and
he had a knot on his head from where he'd slammed into the wall of Aegon's nursery.
However bad he looked he felt even worse; his body was terribly sore from head to toe, and it
had taken all he had to dismount Warrior.

"How's the face feel? It looks like it will make for an impressive scar."

"It hurts. How's the arm?"

Renfred grinned. "I don't feel a thing."

Aelor raised a skeptical eyebrow even as he brushed by Rykker into the abandoned
blacksmith shop they were using as a temporary headquarters. "Really? Then why are you
favoring it like a child with scrape. I've seen Rhaenys handle injuries better."

Aelor stepped into the simple, one story building that still smelled of steel and the fire of
billows even after the Lannisters had cleaned it out. A table of rough wooden planks had
been moved in as well as chairs of all different makes, a ramshackle headquarters if ever
there was one. Several lords were huddled around it, a map of King's Landing in front of
them. Flags, red for Lannister and black for Targaryen, showed the positions of men in the
city. There were a few other Lion holdouts, one at the Dragonpit and another on the Street of
Silk, but those were minor and being methodically overrun. Tywin was the one that mattered,
so it was to Tywin Aelor had gone.

Lord Randyll Tarly, lean and beginning to bald, had been given command of the city while
the Targaryen brothers had gotten reacquainted. He'd restored order quickly and capably,
implementing frequent patrols that kept looting to a minimum as well as isolating the
Lannister resistance. The man himself stood up straight as Aelor entered, his massive
greatsword of Valyrian steel—Heartsbane—sheathed across his back. Tarly's face was grim,
his jaw hard-set. "Prince Aelor," he said more in acknowledgement than greeting, hard grey
eyes meeting the Prince's violet ones and holding them.

"Lord Tarly," Aelor nodded in return. "You've done an impressive job. King's Landing hasn't
been this orderly in a century." Tarly nodded but said nothing, never one for pleasantries.
That was fine with the Dragon of Duskendal; he was sore and tired, and wasn't in a mood to
be pleasant anyway. "How long can he hold out?"

"We're unsure, my lord," said Lord Cleyton. "We have no way of knowing how much food
and water he managed to steal."

"We do know he can't escape," Tarly said, pointing towards the black flags at each gate. "My
men aren't letting anyone in or anyone out. The city is locked down."

Aelor stroked his beard as he stared at the map. "Seven hundred you say? That's plenty
enough to put up one hell of a fight were we to storm the Sept, and they have seven towers to
hide in."

"They have plenty of archers as well, Lord Hand," piped in Jon Connington, Rhaegar's
protégé and lord of Griffin's Roost in the Stormlands. Aelor wasn't overly fond of
Connington, finding his obsession with Aelor's brother as offputting as Rhaegar's prophecy,
but as a man who was in love with his brother's wife he supposed he didn't have much room
to judge. "Our skirmishers have been trading shots with them for hours."

"We have the numbers to storm it, Prince Aelor," Tarly said. "There will be heavy casualties,
but they have nowhere to flee to. A few hours bloodshed and it will be over."

"As will the lives of hundreds of our men," Aelor pointed out, eyes hard. "We're going to
need every man we have to fight the Rebellion's true strength."

"We can't leave a hostile force inside our city's gates," Tarly countered.

"Of course not. If we have to storm it, we storm it. But the army won't be moving out for
several days anyway; we need to rest, resupply and keep the city under control from the
aftermath of the attack, as well as affirm Rhaegar is king. We can at least try and think of
another way."

"But Lord Hand," Connington began, "The traitors—"

"Don't have the strength to attack King's Landing." Aelor shook his head. "Scouts put Prince
Oberyn a mere two days away, while Baratheon has reunited with Stark and Arryn at
Riverrun just three days ago. Oberyn will beat them here with days to spare. The Lannisters
gained the gates through deception; the rebels have no chance of that. They can't take King's
Landing, and they won't try."

Aelor stretched, trying to work the soreness from his joints. If I do have to storm a fortress, I
don't want to be slow. A sept would be a hell of a place to die. "Give me time, my lords. An
opportunity will arise, and we will take it."

Loren Lannister hated sieges. He'd only been in one for two days and he already knew that.

Seven hundred men of the Westerlands were holed up in the home of the High Septon,
trading a

rrows with Targaryen loyalists. Tywin was in the midst of a cold rage, the "council" Loren
had just left just a façade for Tywin's rage. No one suggested surrender—though they surely
were all thinking it—for fear of their life. So they stayed, cramped in and around a massive
building for the Seven, on rationed food and wine. Loren didn't really care much about the
food, though he loved it as much as any other man; it was the limited wine that was killing
him.

So it had come to be that the Drunken Lion stumbled around the darkened corners and rooms
of the Great Sept of Baelor, hands shaking, stomach in knots. Other soldiers avoided or
openly mocked him, but Loren payed them no mind. He was in too much suffering to worry
over slights. More than one had openly asked Loren how someone like him could have
survived to rally to the Sept while so many other, stronger men had died.

It was a fair question. Loren didn't know either.

One second he'd been helping himself to the wine stores on the Street of…was it Sugar?
Honey? Something like that. Another Lannister, one of his numerous cousins of Lannisport,
had slit the baker's throat and was in the process of raping the man's daughter, but Loren had
been much more invested in helping himself to the wealthy merchant's generous stores of
Arbor Gold. Before either was certain what was happening, though, a big knight had burst in
barking orders, loading Loren down with the wine he'd been drinking and forcing him to haul
it up a hill filled with terrified peasants.

A hill. Loren hadn't climbed one of those on foot in years, and he certainly hadn't enjoyed it
then.

All he wanted was a drink. Well, multiple drinks to be exact. So many drinks that he could
pass out and not wake up until this war was long gone and he was back in his branch of the
family's mansion back in Lannisport, surrounded by Arbor Gold that he could kill the
hangover with.

Just how he worked his way into the High Septon's chamber he'd never know. The man
himself, called the Tall One or Fat One or something else Loren didn't give two whits about,
had been at a minor sept elsewhere in the city when the Lions invaded his home and Tywin
had commandeered his chambers. Whether the Seven would frown on that Loren couldn't
say, but he hadn't been familiar with them in a long time anyway. Loren began to turn,
knowing that as much as he didn't want to be in the Sept at all he certainly didn't want to be
in a room Tywin Lannister had claimed on his own, when his foot caught on the simple chest
the High Septon used to store—well, scriptures or robes or something, Loren didn't really
know—and he fell, big belly and all, to the smoothed stone floor.

He supposed it was particularly bad to curse in a sept, but curse Loren did, loudly and
repeatedly. Loren lay there, stomach roiling and body shaking, wallowing in his own misery,
when he saw the odd level of the floor under the High Septon's modest cot.

Part of Loren was opposed to snooping in the avatar of the Gods chambers. Another part of
Loren was feeling too miserable to care about what he might find. A third part wanted to get
out of that chamber as quickly as possible, before a wroth Tywin Lannister came back and
decided to unleash his concealed fury on the poor alcoholic sap in his room.

And that fourth part? Well, that part of Loren was so done with life that he shoved the cot
aside.

It was a trapdoor, wooden and fit into the stone of the floor, with a film of dust on top of it.
Loren stared at it for a long time, not even sure he wanted to open the door. What could the
High Septon keep under his cot?

It turned out to be a tunnel.

Loren went down the ladder, breaking through a plethora of spider webs. The tunnel was
dark, so dark Loren couldn't make heads or tails of anything. Going back was a clear option
and probably the smart thing, but this tunnel had to come out somewhere, and Loren was so
desperate for a drink he'd have fought through the Seven Hells themselves for a full horn of
ale. Whatever this tunnel was, he doubted it could be that bad.

And he surely wasn't going to get enough to drink in the Great Sept of Baelor.

The Drunken Lion hugged the wall, breaking through more spider webs and filth than he'd
ever been through in his life, tripping and falling to the filthy wood planked floor more times
than he could count. Whoever had built it clearly hadn't used it in a while, but Loren fought
on, mainly because he knew he didn't want to be on the other end. I'm going somewhere there
is wine, be it in this life or the next.

How long he spent in that dark tunnel Loren couldn't say, but when he finally bumped into
another ladder it was all he could do to not shout for joy. The hatch above it required all of
his not-so-impressive strength to shove open, as something had been pinned on top of it. But
when it finally did break free with a crash, the things that hit his senses were the last thing
Loren had expected. While the smells may have left for a little doubt, the sounds that were
greeting his ears most certainly did not.

Loren Lannister was in a whorehouse.

It took his eyes a long while to adjust to the light after being in the dark for so long, but
Loren finally managed to gather his surroundings as a store room. Foods, from sacks of
potatoes to sides of dried beef, were neatly ordered in the room alongside…

Bless the Seven, could it be?

Wine, the love of his life, had been what was keeping Loren in the darkness. The Drunken
Lion forgave it instantly, pulling a bottle from a case and uncorking it without so much as
looking at the vintage, putting the wine to his lips and letting the alcohol pour down his
parched throat.

Bliss. Utter and complete bliss.

Loren barely noticed the door to the storeroom open, barely even heard the scream or saw the
exposed flesh of the naked Summer Island girl, and almost missed the sharp point of a steel
sword that the burly, shirtless man the girl brought back pressed against his stomach.

"Tell Waters I found a lion," the gruff voice came, the man throwing his hand out when the
girl remained cowering behind his broad back. "Go, girl." The whore ran to obey, Gruff
pushing the point hard enough to make Loren understand that the alcohol, however blessed it
made him feel, shouldn't be his main focus right now. While he'd been more than willing to
die for just one more bottle mere minutes ago, the refreshing taste of the one he'd just downed
gave him a new outlook on life. Pointedly, it made him realize he wanted to keep his.

"You been hiding here this whole time, Lannister scum?" The fully bearded man said, his
chest covered in so much hair he looked very much like a bear. "Drinking up the wine to try
and avoid what's comin' to ya?"

Loren held his hands up, though he didn't relinquish his grip on the neck of the bottle. "If I'd
had been here that long, friend, I wouldn't be able to be talking to you right now, much less
standing up straight."

Gruff snorted in slight amusement, though the press of steel didn't leave his stomach. "Fair
point. But if you ain't been in there all this time, just where you been?"

Well, that was an interesting question. The truth was that'd he'd been in a sept, surrounded by
men most likely hostile to the one currently pressing a sword to his stomach. Many of them
were members of his family, the rest sworn to it, and all of them hadn't liked him. That being
said, he was still a Lannister, and that meant he should be loyal to the other Lannister's
whether they liked him or not, didn't it?

Well, that family had been planning to butcher Targaryen babes. They'd raped many women
in the city and would have more if it weren't for the Targaryen Prince arriving when he did.
They also had an aversion to giving a drunk the alcohol he needed to function, having pushed
Loren down to a shaking, vomiting husk of the insignificant man he'd been before. But
wouldn't telling this gruff bear of a man where that tunnel led and what his lords could do
with that knowledge make him a traitor? Or did that make him a loyalist, since the Lannisters
were technically rebels to the Iron Throne?

It all hurt too much to think of. These people had an abundance of wine, and Gruff was
looking at the still open trapdoor anyway, his clearly uneducated but not necessarily stupid
mind putting the pieces together slowly. Loren decided to save him the trouble.

"Let me have another bottle of wine," the Drunken Lion said, "and I'll tell you exactly where
I've been."
 XIII

They met in the middle of the tunnel.

The shaft was mostly straight, and Aelor Targaryen and the men following him—his best
knights—had seen the torches of the Lannisters from a fair distance. Tywin had obviously
found the door the obese, shaking Lannister of Lannisport had told Aelor about, and was
trying to use it as a means to escape.

The Dragon of Duskendale was trying to use it as a means of entry.

The brothel keeper had been rather off put when a man was dragged at swordpoint out of her
place of business, having emerged from the shaft the elderly Lyseni woman had claimed
hadn't been used in twenty years. She'd stopped complaining rather abruptly, however, when
a Targaryen Prince in full battle plate showed up later, at the head of When the Lions rushed
forward upon seeing the torches his own men carried, Aelor broke into a sprint of his own
towards them. The tunnel was the Lion's best chance of escape as well as the Dragon's best
chance of access. With both sides wanting to reach the other end, it meant only one thing.

The tunnel was soon going to be a river of blood.

"Alaric, order the King to attack!" Aelor shouted to his squire as he and his warriors rushed
forward. "Do it now!" The squire reluctantly hugged the wall, jostling by the armored bodies
pouring towards the enemy. Aelor eyed the passageway even as he drew his sword. It was
only wide enough for two abreast, Aelor on the right and Balman Byrch on the left. That
meant all the men behind them, as well as the men behind the leading Lannisters, wouldn't be
able to actively fight, instead pressing the leading men against one another.

"Dirks!" Balman cried. "Daggers Your Grace!" Aelor instantly understood; in the close
confines of the tunnel a sword or mace would be too cumbersome to wield, with no room to
swing or parry. A dagger, however, would be the perfect weapon to slip between armor joints
and other vulnerabilities in the mass of fighting bodies.

"Do it," The Prince called, his men taking up the call for daggers as the two sides closed in on
one another, Aelor sheathing his sword on the run and drawing the emerald-encrusted dagger
from his waist. As the two sides closed in on one another, armored bodies charging towards
armored bodies all under the flickering light of torches, Aelor couldn't help but wonder if he
should have just pulled back. This is no place for a fight.

It proved that it surely wasn't.

Aelor brought his shieldarm up to his neck, lowering his shoulder and using his broad frame
as a battering ram. Balman did the same, and the two men catapulted into the leading
Westerlanders, Aelor giving a war cry that his men took up, the Lannister's screaming chants
of their own. The blow of his shield hitting the other man's reverberated up his arm, and his
warriors pushed against his broad back. The man in front of him, his sigil too obscured in the
flickering torchlight for Aelor to even venture a guess at his House, started to falter
backwards, Aelor having the advantage of size between the two, but the other Lion's crashed
into their companions back and shoved him back forwards.

It was instantly evident to Aelor that this wasn't a fight; it was a shoving match, armored men
piled on armored men, all pushing the man in front of him forward, the men in the middle of
the mass of bodies being crushed. As one of those men, Aelor could attest to how
uncomfortable it was.

But Balman had had excellent foresight. His opponent had a sword, one he couldn't work his
arm free enough to use. Aelor had a dagger, and though his movement was also severely
restricted between the friends piled against his back and the enemies shoving against his
shield, he could just manage to sink the steel weapon into the gap in the groin of the Lion's
armor.

The man grunted in pain, blood beginning to pour out of the injury as Aelor pulled the dagger
out and thrust it back in. The helpless knight began to sink downwards as his lifeblood spilled
down his crotch and leg. The forces of men sandwiched him between them, not allowing him
to fall at first, but the Lannister behind the dead man soon realized his companion was dead,
grabbing his ally with his hands and shoving him down. Aelor helped him, knowing it was
far too late to pull his men out. That leaves one direction open to me; forward. And that
means you're in my way.

They managed to work the dead man's body down enough that the Lion behind could step up
on it, using his sudden height and attempting to strike down at the Prince in front of him. The
close quarters did him in as well, the Lannister man unable to use his sword except as a
puncturing weapon, the length of the blade making it unhandy to wield and giving Aelor time
to bend his body out of the way. Aelor avoided the sword the knight was using as a glorified
knife and drove his own dagger under the man's armpit.

Blood ran in rivulets down the Dragon Prince's black armor, covering him, but the Lion died
quickly. The man behind Aelor, seeing what his Prince needed done and being strong enough
to do it, reached over his liege's head and grabbed the dead lion, hauling him armor and all
over Aelor's helm and giving the Prince time to step over the body of the first man he killed
and lock up with the third Lannister before that man could use his sword.

This one, burly and with a plain helm, was smart enough to see the Prince's advantage,
catching the Targaryen's arm with his shield and slamming it against the tunnel's side, pinning
the dagger in it out of the fight. Aelor's shield collided with the man's chest, but the mass of
bodies pressing against his back hadn't allowed him to but any power behind the blow. Their
helms were thrust dangerously close together, the steel encasing the Westerlander's face
muffling his voice.

"Targaryen cunt," the Westlander spat out. Aelor was trying to come up with a clever reply
when the man rammed his helm into the faceplate of the Prince's.

"Dammit," the Prince cursed, the gash across his eye screaming in protest and the coppery
taste of blood filling his mouth. Well, bugger you too then. Aelor returned the favor, ramming
his own helm into the other man's. Even then, the soreness from the knot Gregor Clegane had
raised on his head flared up in pain. Ouch. Nobody wins with the headbutt.
The knight behind Aelor once again came to his Prince's support, apparently managing to
have disposed of the second dead Lannister's body. Slipping his arms around the Prince he
grasped the Lion's shield, pulling with enough strength to free Aelor's dagger. The Prince
buried it into the insulting man's neck, still unable to come up with a proper insult.

Damn. I suppose he got the last word.

The shoving match continued for some time, Aelor nearly finding himself dead when he
worked ahead of Balman—at least he assumed Balman was still the man helping lead the
charge—and a Lannister man was suddenly stabbing his sword at the Prince's side. He was
only saved by another Lannister knight, this one knocking the first's sword aside in his rush
for glory, trying to be the man to slay the Dragon of Duskendale. Aelor managed to turn in
time for him, killing the second by cutting his throat and watching the other die at the hands
of the knight who seemed to always have his back.

It was only then that Aelor realized the man was Renfred Rykker.

The tunnel had filled with corpses and blood by the time the Lannisters started to pull back,
the crammed quarters of battle suddenly loosening and loosening until Aelor could finally
stand without touching another living being. He gave pursuit, finally able to use his sword
after sheathing his bloody dagger, cutting a few of the fleeing men down as he chased them
back towards the other end of the tunnel, Renfred unslinging his warhammer and sprinting
alongside his Prince, moving very quickly for a man of his size.

The two lifelong friends charged hard, only stopping their attack when they realized the lion's
in front of them were surrendering. Aelor soon discovered why when he met his brother a
few dozen feet from the ladder leading into the High Septon's chamber. Several of the
yielding knights were kneeling between them, swords cast aside.

"I see our infiltration didn't work." Aelor greeted his brother as he pulled off his white flame
helmet. Alaric, good lad that he was, had managed to scoop it up during the ride to the Red
Keep. The Langward lad now stood beside the King along with Ser Barristan, both with
bloody swords.

"Quite the contrary," the King replied as he pulled his own dragon-wing helm off his head,
long silvery hair a stark contrast to the black of the armor. "They were rushing to send men
down the tunnel when we came through the front door."

Renfred, big black beard grown bushy while on campaign, had moved like a man without
pain during the fight, but now he was beginning to favor his wounded shoulder. Aelor
supposed it had reopened, as his own gash had. "How many men did we lose?"

"More than any of us would have liked, but less than we would have had we stormed it
without you acting as a distraction."

"Tywin?" Aelor asked, letting the adrenaline ebb from his bloodstream. I don't see how the
man could have escaped, but if this passage is here, there is bound to be more.
"Captured," Rhaegar's melancholy tone confirmed. "And still acting as if he is in complete
control."

"Of course he is. He's Tywin Lannister." Aelor cracked his neck, the joint popping in the
cramped, smoldering corridor. "Do you mind taking this conversation elsewhere? It smells
too much like death here."

"Aye, it does," came a new voice, exotic and flowing like a song as the lean owner stepped
into view, a smirk on his olive face. "Though the blood of Lannisters is a good thing, no?"

Aelor grinned widely. It seemed the Dornish had arrived.

 XIV
Chapter Notes

Apologies for how long it took me to get around to resuming the posting of this story. I
have no excuse. My intent had been to post every day until this story was in the same
position as the posting on fanfiction dot net, but I failed in that. I hope those of you who
follow this story forgive me, and I will try to resume regular updates from here on out.

I hope you enjoy.

"We can't execute him, Prince Oberyn." Rhaegar's voice was tired, both from battle fatigue
and from having to reiterate this point over and over again. "At least not yet."

"And why not," demanded the lean form of Oberyn Martell, the Red Viper of Dorne. His
exotic voice was only half as sensuous as the young woman currently seated in his lap.
Ellaria Sand he had introduced her as, the newest in a long line of Prince Oberyn paramours.
While she wasn't beautiful in the conventional sense, she certainly caught the eye.

Prince Oberyn seemed especially taken. Aelor knew the Dornishman easily grew bored, be it
with ballads or bed partners, but this one seemed different. The girl was no older than six and
ten, and despite the Red Viper's less than normal taste it was unlikely they had been
intimately entwined for long, but Oberyn already seemed heavily invested in the bastard of
Lord Uller.

Invested enough to insist, despite Rhaegar's protests, to bring her into the Small Council
chambers for the war council. Or maybe that was because of Rhaegar'sprotests. As angry as
Aelor was with Rhaegar's treatment of Elia—for less than chivalrous reasons, it seemed—he
held nothing on the rage her brother had for the King. Aelor was going to have to make sure
Prince Oberyn didn't kill Rhaegar in his wrath.

"Because we need the army of the Westermen." The King sat at the head of the table, an
untouched tankard of ale beside him. "Over three thousand of them are still alive. I need
those numbers to counter the traitors."

"They are traitors," Oberyn argued. "They were caught sacking your city, raping your
women. They sent an assassin to do the same to my sister and her children."

"They didn't succeed."

"No thanks to you," Oberyn spat back, rage evident in both his voice and glare. Ellaria Sand
placed a soothing hand on his chest, rubbing small circles as she whispered something in his
ear. The razor sharp tension in the Prince of Dorne's shoulders subsided though his glare
remained. Aelor was suddenly very glad for the paramour's presence.

"No, it was thanks to me, with the help of Lord Varys," the Dragon of Duskendale cut in from
the other end of the table, nodding at the Spider. "And as much as I'd love to slit the throat of
every Lannister in our custody, the King is right. Baratheon has forty thousand men. With
those Westermen we'll have close to the same."

"Numbers do not win wars," said Randyll Tarly, "but they certainly help."

Oberyn eyed the others at the table, Varys, Tarly, Jon Connington, Ser Barristan and the
Targaryen's. The Prince of Dorne had ridden into the city during the opening stages of the
assault on the sept, and, upon hearing the sounds of battle, had of course had to join in. "What
are our plans?"

Varys' tittering voice answered. "Baratheon and the others rebellious lords are slowly moving
from Riverrun, though it is clear they have no intention of marching on King's Landing."

"Wise of them," Connington said, nodding. "They have no chance of carrying the walls with
this many loyalists in the city. They'll wait for us to meet them."

"Which Your Grace has to do," Varys said. "My little birds tell me there is already talk of
Targaryen weakness for allowing the rebels to remain relatively unscathed for so long."

Rhaegar nodded. "Jon is right; we have to meet them in the field."

"You won't be able to trust Lannister," Oberyn pointed out, eyes still full of an anger he was
managing to keep in check with the help of Ellaria. Maybe that's why he brought her; to help
him keep his head during the meeting.

"That's why we don't bring Tywin." Or Jaime. Aelor shared a look with his brother across the
table. Rhaegar had gone to the black cells to speak with the young vow-breaker as Aelor had
overseen the siege of the sept, and what the young Lannister had told the King had made
Rhaegar Targaryen swear Aelor, Barristan and Alaric Langward to an oath of secrecy about
the true reason behind the Mad King's death.

Aelor wasn't certain how they were going to handle that situation. For all anyone else knew,
Jaime had been injured trying to protect the King and was recovering somewhere in the Red
Keep. The truth—that Jaime had killed him when Aerys had ordered the city burned—made
things much more difficult. We'll handle that once this war is won I suppose, though the
Seven know how.

"Ser Kevan Lannister was captured alongside his brother," Aelor continued on, returning to
the subject at hand. "He is loyal to his brother, but as such he cares deeply for his safety. If
we hold Tywin on threat of death, Kevan will keep the Westerlandes in line for the remainder
of the war."

"You can't be seriously considering allowing Tywin to live," Oberyn nearly growled, voice
outraged. "The man is a dishonorable traitor!"
"Yes, he is," the King said. "But he is a Lannister, and both respected and feared by his
bannermen. We need those numbers for this war. Once it is over we can deal with Tywin as
we will with allof the rebellious lords."

"A name holds powerful sway," Aelor agreed. "It's why we have an army at all. It wasn't for
love of our father that they remained loyal, of that we are all aware; it is because his name
wasTargaryen. For that reason Ser Kevan will lead the Westerlanders as we march on the
other rebels; because he is a Lannister."

Oberyn was clearly not pleased, though he kept his displeasure to himself. He waited a long
while before nodding. "My men and I are with you."

The Prince of Dorne had addressed Aelor, not the King, something Rhaegar had certainly
seen. Rhaegar said nothing on it, however, instead rising, prompting the others to do the
same. Even Oberyn and Ellaria. "Good. We march on the Riverlands on the morrow."

Aelor turned, striding from the chambers to start making the endless preparations necessary
to move a host the size of the one in the city. More death and destruction on the horizon, it
seems.Aelor didn't dread that thought. That once would have scared him, but it no longer did.
TI suppose that means I am truly lost.

Not that it mattered; he had a war to win. A good man may have trouble doing what was
necessary to achieve that, but a man like the one Aelor was turning into would have no
problem. No, a man like the one Aelor was turning into would enjoy the process.

She was a Queen.

Word had reached them only a few days after reaching Dragonstone. Prince Aelor's men
combined with Reachmen under Randyll Tarly had taken the treacherous Lannister Lion's in
the rear, killing or capturing nearly all of their force. King Aerys had been killed, how it
wasn't clear, but dead he was. That made her Aegon, still a squalling babe, the heir to a
kingdom. And his father, melancholy betrayer he was, a King. A King who had arrived
seemingly when needed most, to help save his city.

Rhaegar was back.

Aelor's brief letter, received only that morning, had barely concealed the second Prince's
anger at his elder brother, though he did admit Rhaegar had arrived in time to save Aelor
from an assassin. An assassin that had killed Elia's handmaiden and friend Talana Vaith as
well as Ser Jonothor Darry of the Kingsguard in brutal, horrific fashion. An assassin that had
been meant to do the same to her children.

Elia had held Rhaenys and Aegon close for a long while after reading that.

Queen Rhaella—Dowager Queen now, it seemed—had taken the news of her husband's death
in utter silence, staring over the Narrow Sea for a long time afterwards. She'd not said a
single word, not to Elia or Ser Manfred or Prince Lewyn, not to anyone. It had been an
unspoken agreement to all involved to say nothing to Viserys, who had settled in well enough
on the island of his ancestors though he avoided Ser Manfred like greyscale. The Dowager
Queen would be the best one to handle the eccentric child, and Elia didn't envy her the task.

Rhaegar had sent her nothing, not an apology or a poem he so enjoyed writing, not a letter of
any kind. Elia supposed Aelor may have something to do with that, his own letter hinting at it
clearly, and Elia wasn't sure whether to thank him or berate him for it. While Rhaegar's
betrayal, sudden an unexpected, still stung badly enough that the Dornish Princess doubted
she'd ever forgive her lord husband, she still wanted to hear the reasons why from him. Why
he'd done what he'd done, and why he'd done it to her.

The Stark girl hadn't come with him to King's Landing, nor had the three Kingsguard knights
that had disappeared with him. Aelor hadn't mentioned her beyond that fact, seemingly
pretending that if she wasn't discussed, she almost wasn't real.

That was utter horseshit. The girl mattered very much, obviously to Rhaegar as a woman he
abandoned his marriage for and to Elia as the woman he left. Had the Stark girl gone with
him willingly? Rhaegar didn't seem to Elia as the type to take a woman against her will—and
Elia knew him as well or better than anyone else in either Westeros or Essos—but he also
hadn't seemed the type to take leave of his senses and sink the Kingdom he was to inherit into
a civil war. Yet here they were, wrapped up in a conflict that every region of the Seven
Kingdoms barring the Iron Islands had become embroiled in.

Elia had her guesses for the reasoning behind Rhaegar's actions. She knew of the prophecy of
the Prince that was Promised, how a woods witch had told her husband's grandfather, the
second King Jaehaerys, of how he would be born of the line of Aerys and Rhaella. Rhaegar
had confided in her that he had once thought himself to be the Prince that was Promised, but
when a bleeding star had been seen over King's Landing the night they conceived Aegon, he
had begun to believe it was their son.

While that was all well and good, he had named their son Aegon and their daughter Rhaenys.
While Rhaenys had come first, yes, the significance of those names wasn't lost on Elia. If
Rhaegar believed her son was the Prince that was Promised, he probably thought he needed
the two sister wives his namesake had. He had a Rhaenys and an Aegon, all he needed now
was a Visenya.

Elia couldn't give him that.

She relived the shame of being informed she couldn't fulfill her wifely duty nearly every
night. It was a sad thing for a Queen to be unable to give her husband heirs. Granted, many
would claim she had already done her duty, giving Rhaegar a healthy, growing son, but Elia
couldn't help but blame herself for all of this. If she could have only given Rhaegar another
daughter she might have been able to prevent all of this mess they found themselves in now.
The idea that her husband would marry Aegon not only to his sister Rhaenys but also this
mythical Visenya appalled her, as the Targaryen marriage practice was not well received even
in the vastly more open-minded deserts of Dorne, but she would have had years to convince
her husband against the idea.

But she couldn't give him a Visneya according to the maester's, and now here they were.
Elia tried to put it all behind her, an impossible task that she must at least strive at if only for
her peace of mind. Rhaegar—King Rhaegar, first of his name—had sent one piece of
parchment, a royal decree. Whatever she thought of her husband and his eccentric decision
making of late, she found the declaration contained to be more than wise.

It had the workings of Aelor written all over it, and since the Dragon of Duskendale was the
new Hand of the King—another wise move in Rhaegar's short reign—Elia was certain he had
been adamant in its implementation. Rhaegar had seemed to agree, and the Dornish Princess
was grateful he had.

Ser Manfred was standing guard outside the nursery on Dragonstone, dutiful as ever. The big
knight, harsh and uncouth, seemed unaffected by and uncaring for damn near anything, yet he
seemed to care for Rhaenys and Aegon in his own, awkward way, though the Seven knew he
wouldn't admit it. Dragonstone was as safe as anywhere, only moderately defended but, as an
island, obviously accessible only by sea. That required a navy, something the rebellious lords
didn't possess. It was because of the relative safety of the secluded, sizzling piece of stone
that Aelor had informed her the royal family would be there for the remainder of the war.

That sense of safety didn't seem to matter one bit to Ser Manfred Darke, however. He had
been even more alert since reaching the Targaryen haven than he had been in King's Landing,
no mean feat. "Manfred," Elia called as she approached, her uncle Lewyn behind her at her
request.

"Your Grace," the big man greeted, face a scowl.

Elia no longer took that personally; Manfred always scowled. The Dornish Princess smiled as
she stopped close to the door he guarded, Rhaenys' laugh penetrating the solid oak from the
other side where she played with Ashara. "Do you have a family, Ser Manfred? I'm not
talking about cousins or uncles or the like; I mean a wife or children." He shook his ugly
head. "Do you have the intentions of starting one?"

Ser Manfred snorted. "Not buggering likely. I don't have the face, and even if I did, I don't
have the desire.

Elia nodded. Good. "That's excellent, because from this day forward that's no longer an
option." Ser Manfred's face stared at her unmoving, waiting for her to explain. Does nothing
bother him?Elia shook her head at the boulder's uncaring manner, though she continued on.
"Ser Jonothor Darry of the Kingsguard died during the Battle for King's Landing."

Ser Manfred's face twitched, the only sign the Dornish Princess had that he knew what was
coming next. It was all she needed.

Elia smiled warmly at the man who had so competently gotten her family out of the capital.
"If you have any objections, now would be the time." Ser Manfred didn't answer verbally,
deciding to instead sink to a knee. Prince Lewyn stepped forward, drawing his sword and
laying it on Manfred's massive shoulder.

Elia couldn't contain her glee, beaming as she spoke. They'll never write stories of his
chivalry or demeanor, but he's as worthy as any man I know. "In that case, I, Queen Elia of
House Martell, appoint you, Ser Manfred of House Darke, to the Kingsguard of King
Rhaegar Targaryen, the first of his name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar and the First Men,
Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm. I don't know if those are the right
words, but I suppose they are close enough."

Manfred rose, face once again impassive. "Does this mean I have to stop buggering cursing?"

Elia couldn't help but laugh. "No, Ser Mandred. No it does not."

"That's good," came a quiet voice from the other end of the corridor. Rhaella Targaryen stood
there, belly round with child, face calm. "Because you're going to want to curse up a
maelstrom."

"Your Grace?" Prince Lewyn asked, stepping towards her in concern.

The Dowager Queen stared into Elia's eyes. "There are longboats on the horizon."
 XV

"They have forty thousand men and our scouts can't tell us where exactly they buggering
are?"

The march had not been kind to the loyalist forces. Rains, some so savage that Aelor almost
believed he was somehow back in the Stormlands, had bogged his army down, the wear of
thousands of feet and hooves turning the roads into a muddy mess that nearly swallowed
wagons of provisions whole. It seemed like half of his men had come down with either a chill
or the shits—sometimes both—and everything was damp. Always so bloody damp. Even
here, camped in the ruins of Harren the Black's castle where Aelor's ancestors had burned the
Iron King and his sons, moisture permeated the air. No matter where he was, outside with the
poor levies or here in one of the towers, Aelor couldn't escape the buggering dampness or the
residual chill it brought with it. I'm a Targaryen; we're built for heat and fire, not cold and
damnable water.

It hadn't done his mood all that many favors either.

"Baratheon and his forces keep fighting small skirmishes, my Prince," answered the always
calm Barristan Selmy, white plate as clean as new fallen snow despite the copious amounts of
mud and shit. Just how his mentor managed to keep everything so polished and presentable
Aelor would never know; it took the combined efforts of both the Dragon of Duskendale and
Alaric to keep his own looking even remotely respectable. "A few dozen cavalry here, a
quick raid there; he seems content to stay where roughly where he is and harass us."

"It's not a bad idea," Renfred Rykker admitted grudgingly. "He can stay relatively in place,
leaving all the pains and nuisances of moving an army this size in this weather to take its toll
on our own forces."

"We could always do the same," came the quiet voice of Ser Kevan Lannister. "Harrenhal is a
ruin, but it's a cavernous one. We can turn it into a stout fortification." The brother to Tywin
was overshadowed by his still-imprisoned elder brother, but he had proven exceptionally
capable at keeping the surviving Westlanders in line. The bad blood between the Lannister
men and Aelor's own veterans, men who had been enemies slaughtering the other mere
weeks ago, had threatened to boil over early in the march, but the firm reprimands issued by
both Ser Kevan and Aelor had stemmed the potential tide of violence. He'd even sent
multiple letters to the remaining lords and men in the Westerlands, warning them not to raise
the levies Lord Tywin had forsaken in the name of speed. While several lords had wished the
King to raise those men to bolster their own forces, Rhaegar and Aelor had both decided to
push onwards. They'd left Baratheon and his friends mostly unmolested for much too long,
and the time it would take for the West to finish raising men was time they didn't have.

"No," spoke the even softer voice of the King, sat at one end of the table the war council was
seated around, the thrum of rain on the ruined castle overhead and all around filling the dusk
air. "We need to end this war soon, before more support for Robert can be found in the
Ironborn or some other entity. We must march onwards."
"Baratheon clearly has a preferred field of battle selected," said Randyll Tarly. "He's leading
us into it, skirmishing and raiding to keep his exact numbers hidden while simultaneously
letting our men suffer in this rain. He wants us to follow him to his field of choice."

"It is obvious once you look," agreed Jon Connington. "Once leaving Riverrun they have
marched relatively north, into friendly lands, not south or west or to King's Landing to hassle
our own holdings. They want us to follow."

"I don't like the idea of playing to our enemy's advantage," Aelor replied with a nod at Tarly
and Connington's words, "but we have limited choice. He has time that we don't. The longer
he defies the Targaryen dynasty the stronger he looks, while we at the same time seem
weaker."

"He still has to fight us," pointed out Oberyn, having been remarkably quiet up to that point.
Ellaria was once again seated on his lap, keeping the still bitter Prince of Dorne calm. Aelor
had grown more and more thankful for her since the beginning of the march; Oberyn hadn't
spoke of killing Rhaegar more than four or five times since they'd left King's Landing, a
much lower number than Aelor had expected. "However weak you may look by not quelling
his rebellion, the point remains that you have a nearly equal number of men in the field.
Baratheon can prance around and call himself Emperor of the World if he wishes, but no one
will call him king while a Targaryen still lives."

"Prince Oberyn has a valid point," agreed Ser Kevan. Oberyn wrinkled his nose in disgust at
the Lannister's support, unable to forget what the man's elder brother had intended for his
sister and niece and nephew, but remained silent. "Your Grace has the provisions of the
Reach at your disposal. While I'm sure we all want this war to end swiftly, Baratheon cannot
stay afield as long as we can. He will have to march and meet us eventually."

Aelor shook his head. "No. While your council is solid, my lords, we must press down on
Baratheon and Stark. They betrayed their King, and however justified that may seem to be in
their minds, we must destroy this rebellion lest more arise."

Rhaegar finally spoke again. "Aelor is right. We must be aggressive." The King looked from
one set of eyes to another as he posed his next question. "Since Baratheon is leading us to his
preferred field of battle, that leaves only one question; where is that?"

The lords sat back, mulling the options in their minds. "It can't be a castle; they have too
many forces to fit in any keep save for here in Harrenhal." Aelor drummed his fingers on the
table from the chair where he faced the King.

"It will need be a large area." Agreed Rykker. "Nearly eighty thousand men are going to go to
war there."

Prince Oberyn was stroking Ellaria's side, the upstroke of his hand lifting her decidedly
Dornish garment enough to reveal an expanse of her coppery side. In truth it wasn't much,
just a still modest glimpse, but it caused odd stirrings in Aelor's stomach and groin. Bloody
hell, has it been that long? The Seven must be proud, but my body certainly isn't. "The
Trident." The other lords turned to look at the Dornishman, the king raising an eyebrow. "A
river is a natural defense. Baratheon will want us to be forced to cross it, where his own men
can slaughter us as we wade out of the water."

"That makes sense, Your Grace," Barristan agreed. "The Trident only has a handful of
crossings at any point along its three forks. They more than likely wish to dig in on one of
them, making us cross under fire from archers and fight up the opposite bank."

Aelor shook his head. "Baratheon never struck me as this patient."

"He's not," said Connington, a man who—as a former vassal of the Stormlord—would know
his personality relatively well, even if he had spent the vast majority of his time with
Rhaegar. "He's hot tempered and a man of action, not waiting."

"Arryn and Stark are tempering him," King Rhaegar approved with a nod. "Baratheon would
have assaulted King's Landing with all of our army inside if it weren't for those two to keep
him levelheaded."

"Harroway is unlikely, the Crossing even less so." Tarly, always focused on the task at hand,
was studying the map of Westeros spread across the table. "We are too close to Harraoway,
and the Crossing is too far away."

Aelor had stood, walking behind his fellow members of the war council even as he kept his
eyes glued on the pieces of parchments. "While we aren't sure exactly where, Baratheon is
close, though I agree that he isn't likely at Harroway. His choice has a good chance of being
in this area somewhere near."

"Here," pointed out Rykker, reaching his long arm across the wide table to circle his finger
around a spot just north of where the Trident split into its three forks. "There is a crossing on
one of these forks, a wide ford that is used more by smallfolk, though I can't recall which of
these cursed rivers it is located on."

"The Green Fork," the King said quietly. "It is on the Green Fork." Aelor looked at his
brother, the Rhaegar's face haven taken on a look of finality as he looked at the map. "It's
unnamed, but well known."

The King's voice seemed resigned, as if something had just settled in his heart. As if Rhaegar
had just found the answer to a question only he knew. "That ford is where we will find Robert
Baratheon."
 XVI

As soon as the others left the tower, Aelor was speaking.

"I just preached a bad strategy to some of the finest military minds in the Seven Kingdoms;
you had best explain to me why."

Rhaegar still had an air of finality around him, even as he looked at his younger brother. "I'm
surprised you actually did it."

Aelor shrugged, violet eyes glaring into his brother's identical ones. "So am I. I still want to
throttle you for starting this buggering war, yet I just proposed charging headlong into a trap
to men who know it's folly all because you asked me to follow your lead in the war council."
Aelor snorted and shook his head. "Why are we rushing into battle, Rhaegar?"

"Because I am going to die, Aelor." The King said it calmly, as if he were merely pointing out
an obvious detail. "I will not survive this war." Aelor could only blink rapidly, his glare
turning into a blank stare that the King returned with a sad expression. "I will die at that ford.
I don't know how; rather it will be from an arrow or sword I couldn't say, but die I shall."

"Then why the buggering hell are we going there?" Aelor, for the first time since the tourney
outside the very ruin of a castle they now sat in, could look at his brother and not feel the
desire to feed him his own teeth. "How in the name of the Seven do you know that?"

"I saw it in a vision."

Aelor's glare returned in an instant. "You bloody idiot. You start a war that's killed thousands
because of a prophecy and now you're going to march thousands more into a trap because of
avision?"

"Yes." The King replied simply. "I started this war because of a prophecy, and I'm marching
into a trap because I saw it in a vision. Aegon is the prince that was promised."

"Fuck your prophecy, Rhaegar." Aelor said, keeping his voice remarkably composed despite
the rage that was coursing through his veins. I've yelled at him about this enough. Since that
won't penetrate his thick skull, maybe calm reasoning will.

It was particularly hard for Aelor, though. He'd always been shit at calm reasoning. Seething
in rage and killing things were his preference.

"Believe what you will, Aelor." Rhaegar's face was set, sad but firm in that infuriating way
only Rhaegar could manage. "Whether you believe the prophecy or not doesn't matter. You
are my brother, and you are respected greatly by the men camped outside; I find it likely most
of them love you more than they do me. But I am the King. It is my decision whether we
march for the Green Fork or not. I only asked your cooperation for appearances sake."
"Father was a King that did whatever he wanted becausehe was a King, brother." Aelor said,
lip curling. "He ordered a city of thousands upon thousands burned to the ground. Don't tell
me you are no better."

For the first time since they were young children Aelor saw rage flash across his brother's
face. The King pointed a long finger towards the Dragon of Duskendale, voice no longer the
soft tone he so often used, having been replaced with a timbre as hard as Valyrian steel.
"Never compare me to Aerys, Aelor. Hate me all you like, but I care for Westeros far more
than either he or youever could. All I do I do for the future of the Seven Kingdoms. No one,
not Robert fucking Baratheon or the Dragon of Duskendale, will stop me from doing what
must be done."

"The future of Westeros, eh? What about your family? What about your son?"

Rhaegar lowered his finger though his expression remained the same. "My son is the future
of Westeros and my family. They are all one and the same." The King took a long drink from
his wine, lowering the chalice to reveal he was once more composed, sad expression again
across his countenance. "My death is necessary for the ascension of my son. He will be a
greater king than even Aegon the Conqueror."

Aelor sat back in his chair, shocked at all he was hearing. "You're son is an infant."

"That makes no difference. He will be a great man and a great king."

"And a fatherless child."

Rhaegar shook his head. "Nonsense. You will be a better father to him than I could. You
already are." Rhaegar chuckled once at his brother's expression, a soft sound. "Don't look so
shocked, Aelor. You love my children as if they are your own. It's an admirable quality,
particularly for a member of our family. History certainly has a lack of loving Targaryen
family members and a plethora of murderous ones."

"I apparently also love your wife."

Rhaegar smiled ever so gently. "You know you do."

"You make it sound as if I want everything you have."

"You've always wanted what I have, baby brother. All except my inheritance. And my winged
helm."

Aelor shook his head. "An ugly thing. I can't fathom what you see in it." Aelor was trying to
digest all Rhaegar was saying, and failing miserably. "Aegon is a baby, Rhaegar. Even if he
will be the King you 'foresee' him as, he will be a child king for years. The history of the
Seven Kingdoms has not treated those well."

Rhaegar raised an eyebrow. "And who are the claimants to contest him? Viserys? A child as
well, and our mother would not allow him to cause strife. Our unborn youngest sibling?
Another baby, this one born after succession has occurred twice. You? No, Aelor. It wouldn't
matter how much you could want the crown, you adore Aegon too much to even think harm
upon him."

"The idea of power makes a man do unthinkable things, Rhaegar."

"Not you," the King said. "We both know it. You've never been able to lie to me, baby
brother. You can't hope to start now."

Aelor held his tongue, unable to counter his brother's points. It was beyond infuriating,
Rhaegar thinking he knew his brother better than even his brother did.

It was doubly maddening when it turned out he was right.

"Whatever your thoughts on your visions or your prophecies, Rhaegar," Aelor ground out,
changing back to the most vital subject, "I'm not going to stand by while you march our men
into a trap, especially if you believe this trap will lead to your death. If you're dead set on
dying, at least have the curtesy to not bring the rest of us down with you."

Rhaegar stood, walking to the window of the tower to look out over the driving downpour
outside. The sound of the rain on steel, canvas and stone was a constant backdrop to all that
was said, a sound Aelor normally found peaceful but after the last few weeks found it as
more of an annoyance. Of course, everything is an annoyance nowadays. "We will win,
Aelor. Rather, you will."

The Lord of Duskendale rolled his eyes in annoyance. "Let me guess, you've foreseen that
too."

"No, I haven't, but I know you will. It only makes sense; everything else has fallen into place.
The Seven gave me the vision when they did because it is necessary to the completion of the
prophecy. A defeat would be detrimental that."

"You know how much stock I put in your prophecies, Rhaegar. If I'm going to march into a
slaughter I need more than decades old ramblings and your dreams."

"We will not lose. All is in place, brother." Rhaegar sounded so utterly confident, so
unwavering and adamant about what he was saying that Aelor almost found himself
believing it.

The King was silent a moment, staring out the window. "Lyanna is pregnant."

Whatever small amount of understanding Aelor may have begun to garner, whatever peace he
had started to make with Rhaegar, disappeared in an instant.

Aelor's chair screeched in protest before clattering to the ground as he nearly flew to his feet,
reminding the Dragon of Duskendale of his reunion with his brother in King's Landing. It
seemed years ago, though it was in truth only a few weeks. "Pregnant? The Stark girl? You
still have her?"

Rhaegar didn't even bother to turn. "Of course I still have her."
"Where?"

"Dorne, in the Tower of Joy. The rest of my Kingsguard are with her. I request you give her a
safe home in the capital after all of this is over."

Aelor stomped to his brother, grabbing Rhaegar by the shoulder and whirling him around,
placing his face mere inches from the King's. To hell with calm reasoning. "You fucking fool!
You kidnap the girl and have the black heartedness to—"

"I did not kidnap her," Rhaegar interrupted calmly, keeping his voice level while his brother
raged. "Lyanna came with me, and she has provided me with one of the key parts of the
prophecy. A Visenya."

Aelor couldn't keep the horror off of his face. "You don't mean…"

Rhaegar shrugged loose of his brother's shocked grasp. "Aegon the First had a Rhaenys and
Visenya. Now so will Aegon the Sixth."

Aelor stumbled back against the wall. "You can't mean this, Rhaegar. You saw what our
family's marriage customs have led to. Men like Maegor the Cruel, Aerion Brightflame,
Aerys the Mad. It must stop. You can't mean for your own son and daughter—"

"I can and I do." Rhaegar returned to his seat. "Aegon will marry his sisters, and he will be
the prince that is promised. That is my will." Rhaegar waved his hand as he took another sip
of wine, so calm and collected that you wouldn't think he'd just predicted his death and
ordered what was to happen years afterwards. "I will not here your complaints on the matter,
Aelor. We march for the Green Fork, with or without you. We both know it will be with. Now
go. There is much to prepare."

Though he had thought about it many times in anger, for the first time in his life Aelor
Targaryen seriously considered killing his brother.

This is madness. He is no saner than our father. Aelor's hand started drifting down his side to
the emerald dagger resting in his belt. Our dynasty cannot survive another Mad King, no
matter how brief a rein it is foreseen to be. Before Aelor was fully aware of what he was
doing, his hand had taken the daggers hilt, his arm—as if it had a mind of its own—
unsheathing it halfway. Rhaegar was no longer paying any attention to the Prince, reading the
parchments in front of him as if the Dragon of Duskendale was a five miles away instead of
five feet. Barristan had left with the others on Rhaegar's orders, and Aelor was alone with the
King. It would be so easy to walk over and slit his throat, to end this folly that could only end
in catastrophic loss of life before it could progress to something so much worse than it
already was. It would be the best course of action for the Seven Kingdoms, for Aegon, for
Elia. Aelor pulled the dagger the rest of the way free, still unnoticed by his brother. I'll be
hated, but I can live with that hate if it saves so many lives, can't I? Killing was nothing new;
he was experienced at it, he was skilled at it, he enjoyed it. He could take this last life to save
so many others, couldn't he?

In the end, it turned out he couldn't.

Aelor fled from the room, carried off without conscious thought, right hand full of bared
steel. His mind raced even as his feet did the same, vaulting down the stairs, dagger frozen at
the ready by his side. The Dragon of Duskendale stumbled out of the tower into the driving
rain, paying no attention to the water soaking his silver hair and stinging his skin. I nearly
killed my own brother. I nearly cut his throat. Aelor hit his knees, his hand instinctually going
out in front of him to stop him from falling on his face amidst the mud and shit. While it
succeeded in that, it also succeeded in biting into his other forearm, causing the Prince to roar
out in pain as red blood mixed with colorless water to pour down his arm into the brown and
black filth below.

Aelor stayed there for some time, hearing the shouts of men as they rushed to his side, the
squelch of mud and slosh of puddled water filling his ears as they neared. He paid them no
mind, head and eyes downcast as his silver hair clung to his forehead. I nearly killed my
brother. A great pain, not of the physical nature—that he could handle—but of the much
more scarring internal kind ripped through his numbed body as another thought hit him. I
should have killed my brother. Of all the lives I have taken, I didn't have the guts to take the
one that needed taking most. I'm a craven. A craven who has condemned us all to a bloody
death.

Aelor lifted his head, letting the droplets of rain pound against his face and eyes as he stared
into the sky, channeling his despair and pain into a glare at the grey and black overhead. His
men were huddled around him, their questions and concerns buzzing like an incessant fly in
the Dragon of Duskendale's ears, the feel of their hands on his shoulders and arms no more
relevant than the piss he'd taken that morning.

There is a second Mad King on the throne, and I'm as powerless against this one as I was the
first.

Aelor Targaryen had never been more ashamed of himself in his life.
 XVII

Fatherhood was already fraying his nerves, and his child hadn't even been born yet.

Eddard Stark wasn't supposed to be here, leading thousands of Northmen in a war against a
dynasty that had been in power for three centuries. He wasn't supposed to be the Lord
Paramount of the North, reigning over the largest region of Westeros. That was supposed to
be his father. He wasn't supposed to be married to Catelyn Tully with an heir to the North on
the way, either. That was supposed to be his brother. No, Eddard Stark was supposed to be at
Winterfell, serving his father and in time his brother as they ruled, maybe holding a small
keep of his own in the distant future.

But Rickard and Brandon Stark were dead at the hands of Aerys Targaryen, and Catelyn
Tully was at Riverrun, heavy with his child. A quick wedding to a woman he didn't know, an
awkward wedding night, and then he'd left, returning weeks later with his father's—no, his—
bannermen to find his wife pregnant. He'd spent a few weeks there as well, Jon Arryn and
Hoster Tully forming their own men as Robert Baratheon evaded the men of the Reach and
Aelor Targaryen to slip out of the Stormlands and merge with them.

Brandon would have handled the whole ordeal excellently, Eddard knew. He'd know just
what to say to a young wife he was unfamiliar with, know how to make her laugh and feel
comfortable with him. Eddard had not a single clue how to even begin that, and it showed in
the awkward conversations—or lack thereof—he and his lady wife attempted to have. But
Brandon was dead, curtesy of the Targaryen's, and Eddard was in over his head.

But the overwhelming sense of protectiveness he felt when he felt the babe she was carrying
kick turned Eddard Stark into a different man. It fascinated him, knowing he'd had a part in
creating the tiny life that his wife said thoroughly enjoyed keeping her up all night with his
kicks. Even now, miles away, it was very nearly all the Northman could think about. Worry
continuously nagged at him, fear that something would go wrong with the birth or that the
child wouldn't even make it that long nearly driving him to a panic, and Eddard Stark did not
panic. It shocked him how much he already cared for his son or daughter. Eddard would fight
for that child, still unknown to him, until his dying breath.

A breath that might occur much sooner than he'd like, judging by the way things were going.

"Tywin Lannister is still a prisoner in King's Landing," Jon Arryn was saying, the rain
riddling the canvas the war council sat under relentlessly. Eddard found himself missing not
only Winterfell, but Riverrun and his stranger of a wife. At least she was warm. "But his
brother Ser Kevan is leading the remaining Westermen with the loyalist army. It puts their
numbers roughly even with our own, maybe a few thousand less."

"With a good number being veterans," Bronze Yohn Royce put in, bronze armor resplendent
even if rather impractical. "Certainly more than we have."

"Veterans of what, a few slaughters?" Greatjon Umber put in with a short laugh of derision.
The giant man with a giant as a sigil had given Eddard a fair amount of trouble when he'd
first rallied the banners, but in the recent weeks had seemed to take a shine to the young Lord
of the North. He was boisterously loud, but he also had a streak of undying loyalty Eddard
hoped he could earn. "They haven't seen true war."

"Maybe not," agreed burly Hoster Tully, Eddard' new goodfather, "But they've seen more war
than our men."

"My lads have seen war," chimed in Robert's booming voice, sitting at the head of the table
with a horn of ale in his big right hand. It was his third of the meeting, and Ned knew his
friend was only beginning. "We routed three armies in three battles in one day."

"We know," Jon agreed, keeping his tone calm though Eddard knew the man he saw as a
second father was as tired as the rest of them of hearing about the only true rebel victories of
the war. "Each of those were small skirmishes, even smaller than some of the second
Targaryen's sons."

Eddard spoke before Robert could, noticing his friends scowl. Robert was quick to anger and
quicker to forgive, especially Jon Arryn, but he absolutely hated everything to do with a
Targaryen ever since…

Ever since the new King of the Iron Throne had ran off with Eddard's sister. I'll find you
Lyanna. I promise. "They are camped at Harrenhal, but spies indicate they intend to march
for us. We should reach the ford before they do. Afterwards we can only hope they decide to
attack us there instead of taking another crossing."

"They'll hit us there," Robert said confidently, his brush of anger already forgotten. "They
want us dead, we want them dead and that ford is in between us; that river will run red with
those Targaryen cunts blood."

Eddard caught the glance Jon Arryn gave him. Robert's obsession with killing the Targaryen
brothers was growing more and more manic with every passing day. Wanting Rhaegar's head
was something Eddard could understand—he only need think of his sister's face to feel the
same anger Robert seemed to live on—but Robert's rage seemed to extend to every living
being with close Targaryen ties. More than once he had ranted to Eddard about his desire to
kill not only the King but his brother, the reported new Hand of the King.

While Aelor was by no means innocent, Eddard personally thought him to be a decent man.
He had been friendly and sociable at the Tourney of Harrenhal, and when Rhaegar had
crowned Lyanna instead of Elia Martell the Queen of Love and Beauty no man had been
more outraged. The Dragon of Duskendale's rage had even trumped Brandon's. Aerys and
Rhaegar were the true men at fault, yet that mattered not at all to Robert. Eddard feared just
how far his old friend would go.

The rest of the council was procedure, reports of the growing number of sick men and
reiterating the same strategy they had decided upon weeks ago, all amongst Robert's more
and more drunken spouts of anger directed at anything Targaryen. Denys Arryn, Jon's
kinsman and heir after Aerys executed Elbert Arryn soon after Brandon, made the mistake of
complimenting the Dragon of Duskendale's skill at arms. Only Eddard's firm grip on his
strong arm and Jon's calm chiding keeping Robert from rising from his seat in rage, the big
Storm lord resorting to drinking more and more ale and wine.

As soon as they were dismissed Ned stepped out into the rain, small Howland Reed
materializing out of nowhere to walk beside him, the tiny Crannogman having been Eddard's
constant companion since Lyanna's abduction. The Lord of the Neck had instantly grown
enamored with Lyanna in the way only Eddard's sister could ensnare people, and though
Howland was as calm and somber as any man Ned Stark could ever remember meeting, it
was clear that he was as concerned with Lyanna's safety as maybe even Stark himself.
"Robert grows more and more impatient."

Eddard nodded, the rain pelting his face and furs as he made his way towards where his
Northmen were camped. "Each day his anger increases."

"A man who speaks loudly and often rarely says anything of value."

The Lord Paramount of the North chuckled lightly. "A true statement. He fears for Lyanna."

"As do I." The Crannogman was quiet for a moment. "We will find her, my lord. We will."

"I certainly hope so," Eddard Stark said. "I most certainly hope so."

"Have you ever loved something more than life itself?"

Aelor Targaryen looked up from horn of ale he held in his hand, wondering if he had
misheard his friend's deep voice through the sound of the rain pelting the roof overhead. The
Prince's silvery hair was still damp and the gash on his shield arm was bound tightly with
bandages, aching almost in unison with the still healing gash over his eye. Aelor supposed it
didn't help that he kept reopening the injury, but it was hard to take things easy in a war.
Especially when it's being orchestrated by a madman.

"Say again?" Aelor asked Renfred Rykker, the big man sitting on the other side of the room
having pulled him from the mud and his stupor earlier, stubbornly refusing to leave the Prince
in afterwards. Aelor was glad for his lifelong friend's interference though; he knew it had
shaken the men to see their normally competent Prince so disconcerted. Renfred had hustled
him off to his chambers in the Barracks Hall, smoothing the situation over expertly before
sending Alaric for a maester to bind the Dragon of Duskendale's arm. He'd warded off the
well-meaning but unneeded men asking about their Prince's condition, allowing only Alaric
and Prince Oberyn to enter and remain in the room. The four men—well, three and half—sat
in the candlelight, quietly nursing horns of ale or chalice's of wine.

Renfred looked up, smiling lightly. "I asked if you have ever loved something more than life
itself."

"My daughters," Oberyn said, the Red Viper sprawled back in a chair as if it were his
chambers they were gathered in and not Aelor's. Of course Aelor imagined if they were in
Oberyn's tent the surroundings would be much different, as Aelor had a stunning lack of
posion and naked bodies, something Oberyn always seemed to have in great supply. The
Dragon of Duskendale's own temporary quarters were sparse, a cot and his armor the only
embellishments besides a few chairs Alaric had rounded up from…somewhere. The lad was
quite resourceful when it came to scavenging.

Aelor snorted. "The ones you know about, anyway."

The Dornishman glared good-naturedly, forging ahead. "A man knows his children when he
sees them. I certainly knew mine, and I loved them from that moment on."

"How sweet," Aelor chimed in, ribbing his friend in an attempt to take his mind off of his
brother's madness. "One would never know you were able to kill a man with a needle prick."

"A fact you had best remember, my friend," the Red Viper said with smirk, taking a drink
from the chalice he held.

"Dahlia Bywater," Alaric chimed in quietly, instantly blushing heavily when Aelor choked on
the ale he had been drinking.

"Whoa now," the Prince said between coughs, "You've never mentioned her."

"No," the squire said with the tiniest of smiles. "But I've thought of her plenty."

Renfred and Oberyn laughed, both raising their glasses to the boy in salute. Aelor held his
tongue on all the questions he had, chief among them who Dahlia Bywater was, but the
Prince had held his tongue. Alaric was being more and more outspoken as of late, and the
Prince saw no need to push him. Instead, he turned back to Renfred. "Why do you ask, Ren?"

"Malessa is pregnant."

"Congratulations, my friend," Oberyn said with a smile that Alaric echoed, raising their
glasses again in another salute.

Aelor however stared at his friend as if he'd grown two heads. "How did that come about?"

Oberyn laughed. "If you don't know that, my Targaryen warrior, I know plenty of people who
would gladly show you." The Dornishman purposefully left plenty unsaid just to annoy the
Dragon of Duskendale, Alaric ducking his head in embarrassment even as Aelor gave the
Prince a universally known hand gesture telling him exactly where he could go with his
remarks.

"I mean you haven't seen Malessa since we marched for King's Landing from Duskendale.
I'm fairly certain you would need to have been there more recently for this to be a recent
occurrence."

"It's not a recent occurrence," Renfred said, shrugging. "You were right about the chance of a
wedding night giving me an heir. It appears it has. I have kept it quiet for fear of things going
wrong, but she wrote me from King's Landing saying she may give birth any day now. Her
father is abusing his position as regent of the city to give her everything humanly possible to
keep her comfortable."
Aelor smiled widely, joy for his friend momentarily overruling his depression at his brother's
loss of reasonable judgement. "Strong shield, Ren. I'm happy for you."

"Stronger sword. I love that child more than life itself already, and I haven't even spoken
more than a dozen words to his or her mother. I never thought I could be a father, but now…
now I can't remember wanting anything more." The Dragonlord took a breath to say
something in reply, but Renfred cut him off, leaning forward to peer at his lifelong friend
intently. "I mentioned it now because that child is something I would fight to my dying breath
for despite it not having even been born yet. That child gives me hope; gives me something to
not only fight for, but live for."

Aelor looked away, thoughts of Rhaegar's proclamations and plans for the future running
through his head, but Renfred didn't let his mind stray. "Look at me, Aelor. Whatever the
King said that disconcerted you so doesn't matter. Whatever his reasons for marching us into
a trap and whatever your reasons for agreeing to it do not matter. Think of Aegon, think of
Rhaenys. Think of Elia. Whatever the King thinks is going to happen, whatever he has
planned, can be handled, because you have them, and they are worth whatever sacrifice we
make."

The Dragon Prince blinked, unused to Renfred having this much to say about anything, but it
seemed the Lord of Hollard Hall wasn't finished. "Every man here has something to fight for.
Oberyn has his daughters, all two dozen of them." The Red Viper snorted at the big man's
exaggeration but was watching the two men intently, clearly agreeing with what Renfred was
saying. "Alaric has this Dahlia Bywater, whoever the lucky lass is. I have Malessa and my
unborn child. And you have your family, children you think of as your own no matter their
true paternity. Children we both know you would die for just as quickly as I would die for
mine."

Renfred leaned back, voice completely confident. "Whatever the King has to say doesn't
matter to me, Aelor. Whatever has you so upset doesn't make a difference, because this world
is going to be fine. No matter the King's plans or lack thereof, the world will be just fine. We
could all die tomorrow, something more likely than not, and the world will be fine. Those
very things we are fighting for will see to that." The Lord of Hollard Hall suddenly shoved
the Prince none too lightly in his shoulder, knocking the Targaryen Prince backwards. "So
snap yourself out of whatever shithole you've gotten your mind into, my lord. We have a war
to win, not for us, but for them."

Aelor stared at his lifelong friend for a long while before holding his hand out. "Thank you,
Ren."

Rykker grabbed his forearm, Aelor closing his hand around Rykker's own. "Don't thank me,
Aelor. Win the war for me. Win it for them."

Aelor nodded. Bugger Rhaegar, bugger the prophecy, bugger Robert fucking Baratheon. I
have a Prince and Princess to protect.

For the first time in a long while, Aelor remembered just what he was warring for, Elia's face
filling his mind's eyes and Rhaenys' laugh so real in his ears he could have sworn she was
next to him. And suddenly, things didn't seem all that bad. No, things didn't seem all that bad
at all.
 XVIII

The capital had certainly changed in the time she'd been gone.

Flea Bottom was mostly gone, half of the once densely populated section of King's Landing
nothing more than charred buildings and blackened streets. The smell of smoke and, more
disturbingly, burned flesh still clung to the area like a fog of destruction. Bones, some being
pulled from the rubble and others from a massive funeral pyre, were still being disposed of
by teams of hard-hearted men, more than Elia Martell could count. The city, even this long
after the Lannister attack, was disturbingly quiet for King's Landing, the normal hustle and
bustle, while still present, much subdued.

"My Queen," came the soft but firm voice of the man in white armor beside her. "I don't like
the idea of you being here."

Elia turned to face Arthur Dayne of the Kingsguard, Sword of the Morning. His sudden
appearance at Dragonstone had thrown the Princess of Dorne for quite a loop, as did her old
friend's insistence that she board the sleek, fast longboats out of his ancestral seat of Starfall.
Ser Manfred had barked half of the Royal Navy into action before the shooting star of Dayne
was sighted on the sail of the sleek ships the Daynes used to navigate the Torentine River,
and even then he had ordered the galleys to the ready, despite the mere ten small ships
approaching Dragonstone's eighty warships.

Ser Arthur had greeted her at the gates of the Dragonmont, the greatsword Dawn, said to
have been forged from a fallen star by Arthur's long dead ancestors, strapped across his back.
For a fleeting moment upon seeing the silver hair of her handmaiden's brother Elia had
believed Rhaegar had returned, but the white armor that immediately followed the silver
locks into her vision put rest to that notion immediately. Ashara had nearly leapt into her
brother's arms, the two almost unfairly attractive siblings having always been close, but Elia
had hesitated. Arthur was Rhaegar's closest friend and confidant, having disappeared along
with her husband shortly before the Stark girl had disappeared.

It didn't take a genius to connect the dots between those two occurrences. Elia had known
Arthur had played a hand in Lyanna's disappearance for quite some time, and whatever their
previous friendship, she hadn't been able to forget that. In truth, she wasn't sure she wanted
to.

Apparently, Ser Manfred hadn't been able to forget it either; he had seemed to take a personal
slight against Arthur Dayne on Elia's behalf. While the newest knight of the Kingsguard gave
very few damns about very few things, he did seem to like the Princess of Dorne he had been
ordered to protect, and to Manfred that seemed to mean giving the man who had played a part
in her husband's folly absolute hell.

"I don't like the idea of a fucking knight giving the Queen orders," came the rough voice of
Ser Manfred, glaring openly at the taller and much more handsome Dornishman. "It was one
thing that she agreed to return to King's Landing, despite Aelor's letter saying to stay on the
island. It's another for you to buggering order her around once she's here."

"The King's orders overrule the Hand's, Ser," the normally calm and subdued Dayne nearly
spat out, having dealt with Manfred's nearly constant verbal barrage practically since he'd
stepped off of the longboats at Dragonstone. A petty part of Elia found it highly amusing.
"The King ordered me to escort the Queen and her children back to King's Landing."

"They were safer at Dragonstone."

"That is not your decision to make, Ser Manfred. You are a Kingsguard. You serve the King."

Manfred snorted. "I serve the royal family. All of them, from the babe to the Dowager Queen
you let the Mad King rape."

Arthur whirled on Manfred, violet eyes like his sister's—like Aelor's, like Rhaegar's—blazing
in fury. "I follow the King's orders, as will you. My duty is to protect and serve the King
unquestioningly, something I have always done. It is now your duty as well."

Manfred's scowl was only deepening. "My buggering duty is to protect the entire fucking
family, something I've been doing while you've been hiding who the fuck knows where with a
girl you helped steal."

The rage on Arthur Dayne's attractive face prompted Elia to finally put a stop to the
bickering. "Peace, Sers. You are brothers in arms now, no matter your thoughts on the
matter." Arthur grudgingly turned to face her again, Manfred giving a snort of derision and
contempt that had Elia barely concealing her smile. "As for your concerns, Arthur, this is my
city as much as the King's. These people were mine as much as his."

"These people are dead," Manfred said bluntly. Manfred says everything bluntly. "Nothing
can change that."

"You should address the Queen as Your Grace." Arthur put in, clearly having lost all patience
with the vulgar but loyal boulder of a man.

"You should bugger the fuck off."

"I said peace, Manfred," Elia cut in. "Whatever your thoughts on Arthur or his on you, he is
as concerned for my safety as you are." Elia sighed. "And he is partially correct. It is time to
return to the Keep."

As they rode, her Kingsguard knights flanking her and a retinue of twenty men-at-arms
spread behind them, Elia couldn't help but see the pain, weariness and oftentimes anger on
the faces of the smallfolk as they watched the Targaryen banner floating in the air. Damage
from the battle was still visible all around, from partially burnt buildings to the hard glint in
the eyes of children who had seen too much too early. Elia felt a pressure building in her
throat and sinuses, fighting off tears as she saw a boy no older than Viserys with a barely
healing cut from a blade across his tiny face.
The image of his young, ancient appearance stayed in her mind until long after they had
dismounted in the Red Keep. Ser Manfred and Ser Arthur followed her shoulder to shoulder
throughout the halls of the keep. The hallway was barely wide enough to hold the massive
expanse of Manfred Darke's shoulders on his own, much less beside another armored
individual, but neither man would stand for letting the other follow the Queen any closer than
they themselves were. When the trio neared the Queens chambers, Elia drew to a stop and
faced them, both standing a bit straighter under her scrutiny. "Ser Manfred, I have to ask you
to watch over Aegon for now. Ser Arthur and I have much to discuss." The big man's scowl
deepened but he turned to obey. "Don't worry, Manfred," the Queen called after him. "You're
still my favorite."

Elia knew by the flash of apprehension that crossed Arthur's face that the knight of the
Kingsguard was fully aware that this wasn't going to be a pleasant conversation for him.

To his credit he attempted to lighten the mood as soon as they had entered the Queen's
chambers, Elia striding to take a chair in her solar as he spoke while doing her best not to
stare at the section of floor where she had been informed the butchered bodies of Tanara
Vaith and Jonothor Darry had lain. "I don't see how you can tolerate—much less like—that
brute of a knight."

Elia took a seat, smoothing her dress as she sank into the cushioned chair before turning her
gaze on Arthur. She didn't offer the knight of the Kingsguard the chance to sit down,
something that clearly wasn't lost on the Sword of the Morning. "That brute of a knight
would give his life for me without a moment's hesitation. For me, not just the king. Manfred
would die for me or Aelor, for Aegon or Rhaenys, for Rhaella or Viserys; and he doesn't even
like Viserys. The man's loyalty is to the Royal Family, not just its head. To a bloodline, not
one man."

Arthur looked to the ground with a sigh, clasping his hands behind his back as he prepared
for the berating that was sure to come. "I know you are hurt, Elia. I do not blame you for
being so."

Elia waited a heartbeat for him to continue but the Sword of the Morning's mouth remained
closed, prompting a scoffing laugh to escape the Princess of Dorne's throat. "That's it? I
suppose it's more than I got from your closest companion, His Grace Rhaegar Targaryen."
Arthur said nothing in his King's defense, which suited Elia just fine considering she had
plenty more to say on her own. "I know we were never in love, but our marriage was a happy
one. Why did he throw it away? Why did he throw it away without at least a word of warning
to his wife, or at least a bloody letter?"

Arthur did open his mouth to reply this time but Elia waved him away, knowing that nothing
the Sword of the Morning could say would make much difference. He wasn't Rhaegar. Any
excuses he had for the King of the Iron Throne, however reasonable they might be—though
Elia doubted any answer could be reasonable in this situation—wouldn't matter to her.
"Never mind. You are sworn to secrecy or honor bound to silence or some other chivalric
excuse men use to lie to women. You are not Rhaegar, and you are not responsible for his
actions; you are responsible for your own." Elia let her rising anger bleed into her glare. "And
since you are responsible for your actions, you will answer this question honestly." Arthur
looked up to meet her gaze, raising an eyebrow. "Did the Stark girl come willingly?"

The Sword of the Morning's lips quirked up in the lightest of smiles. "Of all the things you
could ask, that is your question? Concern for Lyanna?"

"I wouldn't call it concern," Elia responded coldly, although it certainly could be called
concern. It was one thing if Lyanna Stark had willingly eloped with Elia's husband. If
Rhaegar had taken her against her will—a thought that would at one time have been
inconceivable of her husband but in light of recent events seemed damn near likely—it was a
completely different issue. "Consider it curiosity as to whether I should be furious at both the
King and the girl or just one of them."

Arthur shook his head ever so slightly. "Do you really think Rhaegar capable of such an
atrocity? Do you truly believe me capable of aiding him in it?"

Elia held his gaze. "I don't know what to think anymore, Arthur. Now answer me."

The Sword of the Morning stared for a moment longer before looking away with another
sigh. "Yes, Lyanna came willingly. We did not abduct her as the Starks claim."

"Claimed. Half of the Starks are dead now, thanks to the chain of events you and my husband
set off." Arthur grimaced, his gaze dropping to the ground again. At least he has the good
graces to be ashamed of some of the things he has helped in. That is much more than
Rhaegar ever offered.

The knowledge that Rhaegar wasn't holding Lyanna Stark captive lifted a weight the size of
the Seven Kingdoms off of Elia's shoulders. While the hurt and anger was still very much
there and in likelihood would be for the rest of her life, at least Rhaegar hadn't stooped so low
as to hold an innocent young girl against her will. Whatever his reasons for the sudden
betrayal, at least he hadn't taken complete leave of his once good character.

The thought of Rhaegar's shadowy motives brought up a whole other question, one Elia
hadn't asked yet due to Ser Manfred's nearly constant company. While she was very thankful
for and touched by the short giant's protectiveness, his presence tended to make Arthur keep
answers and explanations to himself for the sake of the King he served. "Why are we really
back in King's Landing, Arthur?"

"The King commanded it."

Elia scoffed again. "Yes, I realize Rhaegar commanded it. I'm asking why. And, maybe more
pressing to my mind, I'm asking why he commanded it while letting Aelor believe we were to
remain at Dragonstone."

Arthur still hadn't looked at her again. "How do you know Aelor isn't aware of the King's
plans?"

"Because Aelor wrote me saying we were to remain at Dragonstone for the remainder of the
war. And then, low and behold, you show up a few days later with another letter—nay, a mere
note,one that wasn't even addressed to me—from Rhaegar ordering my children and I to the
capital. Aelor doesn't keep secrets from me, and since he didn't mention returning to King's
Landing in his first letter after the attack or the ones since, it means he doesn't know."

Arthur raised an eyebrow knowingly as he finally met her eyes again. "You still keep a close
correspondence with your husband's brother I see."

Elia's response had quite a bit more bite to it than normal, mainly thanks to the odd way
Arthur's offhand comment made her stomach flutter. "Do not change the subject, Arthur
Dayne."

The Sword of the Morning shrugged nonchalantly, though his face flashed no small amount
of uncertainty. "I don't know."

"What do you mean you don't know?"

"I mean I don't know. I don't know how the King knew where you would be, I don't know
why he was so adamant that I return you here, and I don't know why he's keeping Aelor in
the dark about it all. Rhaegar refused to give me a reason either. He just abruptly ordered me
to take longboats and escort you to King's Landing from Dragonstone."

Elia furrowed her brow in confusion. "Were you already at Starfall? Is that where you're
holding the Stark girl?"

Arthur's disconcerted expression increased. "No. She's in Dorne, true enough, but not near
my childhood home."

"It would have taken you weeks to sail from the Elbow to Dragonstone." Elia's confusion and
discomfort grew as another comment of Arthur's sank in. "Wait a minute. If Rhaegar was still
with you, if he gave you the orders himself, how did he know we would be…It was Aelor, not
the King,who arranged our evacuation in case the city were attacked, he and Varys and Ser
Manfred. How did Rhaegar have any idea…"

Arthur's eyes, normally so completely confident in himself and trusting in Rhaegar

Targaryen, held the same confusion and disquiet that Elia knew was reflected in her own. "I
don't know, Elia. I was sailing from Dorne when the attack on King's Landing even
transpired. Truth be told I was as shocked to find you on Dragonstone as you were to find
me."

Elia slumped back into her chair, a certainly unqueenly thing to do but one she felt was more
than warranted at the moment. Her mind raced at this new influx of—impossible—
information. "That makes no sense, Arthur."

The knight of the Kingsguard nodded. "I know, Your Grace. I am as disconcerted as you."

Elia rose to her feet suddenly. "No, Arthur, this is impossible. There is now way for Rhaegar
to have known where we were or how we got there when he gave you your orders."
Arthur shrugged. "But he did. You were there, just as he said you would be." Arthur took a
few steps towards her, leaning in and lowering his voice although they both knew that would
do no good in the Red Keep were someone motivated enough to eavesdrop on their
conversation. "We both know of Rhaegar's past…insights."

Elia matched his tone, any lingering resentment towards the Sword of the Morning for his
role in Rhaegar's adultery temporarily forgotten. "I know, but this…this is inconceivable.
Targaryen's have a history of visions, yes, but they are supposedly no more than dreams,
vague images that can be interpreted a thousand different ways. They aren't premonitions of
occurrences weeks before they take place."

Arthur Dayne shrugged again. "We've always known Rhaegar has an otherworldly aspect to
him at times, and we've always known he's rarely ever forthcoming with whatever
'apparitions' he does receive." The Sword of the Morning leaned back slightly, violet orbs as
concerned as her own black ones. "I'm not saying that was the case, Elia; but nothing else
makes any sense to me."

Elia took a long, calming breath. "Did he mention anything else? Are there any other orders?"

Arthur hesitated slightly. "No. He asked me to bring you, Aegon and Rhaenys to King's
Landing. He made no mention of Queen Rhaella or Prince Viserys, which is why I was
willing to let them stay on Dragonstone under the protection of your uncle and the remaining
fleet." Arthur hesitated again, fighting a battle with himself that he lost in short order.
"Actually, he did mention one thing. He told me to protect you."

"That is your duty as it is, Arthur."

"No Your Grace; he asked me to protect you. You in particular."

Elia felt fear blossom in the pit of her stomach, and the impossibilities of the situation
coupled with Rhaegar's cryptic orders stoked it even more. "Why?"

The Sword of the Morning shook his head slowly, not even attempting to mask the grave
concern and worry in his violet eyes. "I don't know, Your Grace. I truly don't know."
 XIX

Aelor Targaryen had often wondered what ran through a man's mind when he crested a ridge
to face the steel of an enemy host. He'd known the feeling in small portions, experience from
the Parchments and Bronzegate and other skirmishes, but the slaughter at King's Landing had
been scattered and erratic. He'd never beheld disciplined lines of enemy armor stretching
almost as far as his eyes could see.

Now he had.

The rebel forces were exactly where the King had said they would be, facing the loyalist
across the river Trident, the prancing stag of Baratheon flying over the spears directly center
of the unnamed ford, higher than normal due to the recent heavy rains but still easily
manageable. Aelor sat Warrior four hundred yards off, a few dozen yards out of edge of the
tree line bordering the field leading to the waters, the army forming up behind him, and even
from that distance he saw the figure that he had centered nearly all of his hatred around.

Robert Baratheon sat a fittingly white stallion under the largest of the black stag on yellow
field banners, an antlered helm and his impressive stature singling him out even among the
forest of armor and helms. I've been hunting you for months. How wonderful it is to finally
bump into you again.

Aelor followed the line of enemies to his right, spying the iron studs on bronze field of
Royce, the six bells on purple field of Belmore, the silver arrows on brown field of Hunter
and, predominate to them all, the soaring blue falcon on white moon on sky blue field of
Arryn. To his left, the enemies right, he recognized the giant in chains on red field of Umber,
the merman on blue field of Manderly, the flayed man on pink field of Bolton, and of course
the running grey direwolf on white field of Stark. Ah, brilliant, we have a full house. We
wouldn't want anybody to miss the party now would we.

The King's sad, melancholy voice spoke to Aelor's left, Rhaegar pulling his equally large,
dark stallion to a halt beside Warrior. "I see they were expecting us."

Aelor grunted his agreement, putting aside his differences with his brother as well as he could
to focus on the upcoming battle. He gestured towards the forest of spears forming the front
lines, swordsmen behind them. The enemy was massed heavily in the center, wisely making
their line the strongest where the Targaryens would have to cross the river. While the ford
was fairly wide, its heavy use clearing much of the land fronting it as well as smoothing the
surface of the river underneath the shallow water to sand and small stones, there was still
only a limited amount of space that the loyalist would have to cross. "I'm sure they have
archers ready to rain death on us once we're in the midst of the ford."

Barristan the Bold, mounted to the left of the King on a stallion as white as his armor,
nodded. "It's what we would have done in their place, Your Grace."

"Once we're across the water their flanks will certainly swoop in on our own. We'll be
fighting a horseshoe." Aelor stretched his arms, flexing and relaxing his hands in rapid
succession. He felt the pre-battle adrenaline already coursing through his veins, the
anticipation of what was to come heightening all of his senses.

"Do you suppose Prince Oberyn made it into position?" Jon Connington, mounted on a
stallion as red as his hair, held his helm shaped to look like a screeching griffin under an arm,
as did both the Targaryen brothers and Barristan.

Aelor laughed shortly. "Trust me, Connington; Oberyn will be there."

Rhaegar looked to his brother, face slightly chastising. "I still believe it should be you in his
place."

Aelor shook his head, meeting his brother's identical eyes and holding them steadily. "As I've
said before, I've been fighting those bastards since the start of the war, and my armor and
helm are quite recognizable. They would notice if I wasn't here, and since everyone from
Robert Baratheon to the High Septon know I wouldn't miss this fight for all the gold in
Casterly Rock, it would alert them to what's truly happening. My place is here. Besides,"
Aelor added on as he patted his stallion's armored neck. "Warrior will want in on the action
from the beginning."

Rhaegar sighed, shaking his head in exasperation. "Why am I not surprised." Rhaegar looked
back to the enemy, taking a deep breath. "I suppose it is time. Jon, Barristan, give us a
moment." Connington obeyed without hesitation, whirling his red stallion to gallop back
towards the main lines, men from the Reach, the Crownlands, the Westerlands and Dorne all
preparing for the massive battle that was soon to come. Barristan followed him slightly
slower, clearly unwilling to leave the King when so near the enemy but duty-bound to obey.
Randyll Tarly had the infantry, ranging from inexperienced levies to battle-tested retainers.
Rhaegar and Barristan were to lead the second wave of attackers, once the vanguard had
gained a foothold on the opposite bank.

As for Aelor himself? Well, he was to lead that vanguard, as he always did. Not even
Rhaegar Targaryen could dissuade him from that.

"I should lead this charge, Aelor," Rhaegar protested again, despite knowing it was a useless
venture. "I am to die here, on this very day. Nothing you can do will change that."

"Maybe you're right," Aelor said, facing his brother again. "Maybe you will die here, though
I don't store much by your visions. I intend to see that you don't bring the entirety of the army
down with you. If you die in the initial volley half of the men will turn and flee before they
even managed to draw an ounce of the enemy's blood. Better the King lose his Hand than his
head."

"You mean more to the men than I do."

"Perhaps, but you are their hope for the future. You are their King. And I'm leading this
bloody charge, no matter your complaints."

Rhaegar shook his head. "Sometimes I wonder which of us thinks he's King."
"Obviously it's you, or we wouldn't be here in the first place."

The King of the Iron Throne held his brother's gaze for a long moment before holding out his
hand almost tentatively. "I know we haven't always seen eye to eye, baby brother, but you're
still my blood, and I love you."

Aelor eyed the King's extended hand, all of his brother's prophecies and blunders flashing
before him. But close on their heels were memories from when they were children, of
Rhaegar's brightest moments, from their escapades hiding in the secret passages from their
tutors and the countless trouble they had once stirred up, and Aelor reached out his gauntlet
to take the King's, squeezing it tightly. No words came to him, so he only nodded.

Rhaegar nodded back, giving his brother one last sad smile, before he wheeled the stallion
around and galloped towards the main lines.

Aelor took a deep breath, letting his eyes focus on the enemy preparing for the charge they
knew was coming. His adrenaline was increasing, as was his anticipation. It is time to do
what I do best. Aelor lowered his white flame helm over his head and set his broad shoulders,
funneling his increasing energy into his voice, roaring loud enough that he knew without a
doubt ever soldier at the ford, loyalist or traitor, could hear him. "Vanguard!"

With a roar of their own that Aelor felt even through the hundreds of pounds of horseflesh
underneath him his knights trotted forwards, lances angled upwards. His own veterans,
bolstered by the best knights chosen from the entirety of the loyalist army, took to his sides,
forming the wedge they had employed so often, both successfully and less so.

I needn't worry; there's a river to either side. Even Selwyn fucking Tarth couldn't flank me
here.

The ford was only a few dozen yards wide, Aelor's men keeping the wedge rather short, men
filling in the space behind the front lines. They all knew they were charging into the teeth of
the wolves, and each man knew he was likely to die, but they formed up on the Prince they
had followed many times before. Aelor took the lance Alaric brought him, pleased to see how
well the armor he had commissioned for the lad fit his lanky form. "Are you with me,
Alaric?"

The Langward lad gave the same answer he always did, smiling broadly. "To the death, Your
Grace."

"You're a good lad." Aelor turned to his other side, speaking before he even laid eyes on the
man beside him. It didn't make any difference, really; there was no doubt in his mind who it
would be. "And you, Ren?"

The Lord of Hollard Hall smiled through the visor of his spiked helm. Aelor couldn't really
see it, but he knew. "I was there when this war started. I aim to be here when it ends."

Aelor smacked the side of his arm against his breastplate, lance stabbing into the air as he did
so. "Strong shield."
Rykker did the same. "Stronger sword."

The Targaryen Prince kicked Warrior into action riding down the front of his line to the left
before doubling back to the right, standing in his saddle and plunging his lance into the air.
His knights repeated the gesture, roaring battle cries, reminding the Dragon of Duskendale of
that time a few months and a dozen lifetimes ago on the Parchments.

Aelor waited until they died down slightly before speaking, saying the only thing he knew to.
"Need I say a damn thing?" His men thundered out in response, Warrior adding his own
bellow to the cacophony of sound. "Well then, lads, let's get to it! Fire and blood!"

"FIRE AND BLOOD!"

With his houses words ringing in his ears, Aelor Targaryen kicked his stallion's flanks, four
hooves and a thousand voices carrying the Dragon of Duskendale into the heart of the Stag.

Whatever he thought of the Targaryens, he couldn't deny they made splendid sights.

Even from this distance, behind the lines of thousands of spears and swords, Eddard could
see the King and his brother as they rode ahead of the seemingly endless lines of loyalist men
marching clear of the forest. The King of the Iron Throne sat a black stallion, the rubies
arranged to portray the three headed Targaryen dragon sparkling in the new sunlight. Beside
him , seated on another black stallion that Targaryen warriors seemed to love, sat a broader,
taller figure, armor less ornate but no less striking. Aelor Targaryen, the Dragon of
Duskendale, looked every bit the warrior rumors had him to be.

"Look at them," Robert nearly spat, antlered helm already lowered over his head. Eddard
noticed his friend's hands were twitching, wanting nothing more than to grab the spiked
hammer slung across their owners back. "Murderers and buggering thieves, yet they have a
full army behind them, ready to die for their sins."

"They accepted our field of battle," Eddard said with a touch of respect.

"Of course they did." Robert's voice was as clear as Eddard had heard it in days. "They have
to bring their rebellious dogs to heel."

"The brother will lead the charge," Jon Arryn spoke certainly from the other side of Robert.
"Calvary, straight up the gauntlet into the center."

"Once they hit us, crash in on their flanks." Robert, whatever his faults, was in his element on
the battlefield. "The Rapist will likely bring the infantry up to press the progress made by the
other silver-headed git. We'll deal as much damage as we can before I bring in the second line
for a counter."

Ned turned his garron slightly to observe the thousands of mounted men, splendidly colored
Valemen knights on barded coursers, Riverlander warriors defending their homeland, and
Northmen heavy calvary in boiled leather and furs, all ready to lower lance and strike once
the loyalist infantry was engaged. Behind them, the reserve force of infantry lie in wait under
the command of his goodfather Hoster Tully, ready to both counter unforeseen threats and
shore up the advantage their own cavalry would gain.

The sight of the leaping trout adorning Lord Tully's helm brought with it the thought of
Catelyn, a surge of protectiveness washing over Ned. I wonder if she's given birth yet. It's
still too early I imagine, but what if… Eddard decided to forego that line of thought and
foolish worry before it could take root and distract him from the battle at hand, deciding to
focus all of his energy on the nearing clash that may well mean life or death for his child,
born or no. "Many of our men will get caught up in the charge. I know our reasoning, but it
still does not sit well with me."

"They know their duty, Ned," Robert consoled. "They're going to do theirs so we may do our
own."

"Vanguard!" The roar from across the river echoed even over the creak of leather and rattle of
steel surrounding Eddard, and with a cry hundreds of knights rode forward to form up on the
second son of Aerys.

"It is time." Eddard remarked to the other leaders of the rebellion, the men he considered
family, even as Aelor Targaryen's knights roared like demons.

"We will see each other again soon," Robert said, clasping Ned and Jon Arryn both on the
shoulder before riding back towards the lines of knights he was to lead. Nothing more was
said. Nothing more was needed.

"It's a good day for a fight," Greatjon Umber called as Ned returned moments later to the
center of his bannermen, smiling hugely. Umbers do everything hugely. The giant on their
sigil is quite suiting.

"We're soon to find out," Ned replied simply. Any other comments, inspiring words or cryptic
predictions, were lost as the Targaryen knights cried out once more. Eddard Stark, Lord of
Winterfell and the North, watched on with both anticipation and a fear in his gut that only
fools didn't feel. it is time. For father. For Brandon. For Lyanna.

Aelor Targaryen rode down the lines of his knights, standing in his saddle and thrusting his
warlance into the air as he called out to his men, the wall of armor returning his cries. Then,
with one final bellow of his house words, the Dragon of Duskendale charged, flying towards
Eddard and his men with the thunder of thousands of hooves accompanying him.

Warrior roared, barreling forwards much faster than a horse his size should be able too with a
brawny, armored knight on their back, much less when armored themselves. Aelor wondered
with that odd sense of detached thought he had during battle if there had ever been an animal
more suited to war than the destrier carrying his dragonlord towards the lines of enemy steel.
We're alike, it seems. We thrive in battle and chafe in peace.
Several dozen yards before they reached the waters of the ford he heard the distinctive
whistles, knowing what it was without any need of seeing it. "Shields!" He shouted, bringing
his own above his head as his men did the same, some having recognized what was
happening and given the command before even the Prince. The arrows all seemed to fall at
once, a thick mass of sharpened steel digging into dirt, shield, horseflesh and man. The
familiar but always disturbing screech of wounded horses filled the air even as Aelor felt the
impact of a few arrows digging into his shield and saw another deflect off the chainmail
blanket covering Warrior's black neck. Aelor barely had time to check that Alaric was still
beside him, three arrow shafts sticking out of the squire's own shield, before Warrior's hooves
hit water, the deafening rumble of the earth turning into an even louder splash of water.

"Lance!" The Dragon Prince called, though he doubted he could be heard. It wasn't like his
men needed the reminder, as they were nearing the enemy spears rapidly. Aelor lowered his
own lance as Warrior bore down on the unwavering line of Stormlander spearmen. We're
fighting brave men. Too bad they are all going to die.

A warlance was eight feet of hardened wood tipped with deadly sharp steel, and when
wielded by a strong man atop a destrier running at full speed there was no armor known to
man that could stop it outright. It could be deflected, however, knocked aside by a shield or
guided into a glancing blow by armor if the man on the receiving end knew what he was
doing. It was for that reason, aided by the need to satisfy the terrifying black hate Aelor
Targaryen carried into battle, that the Dragon of Duskendale drove his warlance into the face
of the spearman to his front, taking advantage of the man's halfhelm by plunging the steel
point into his eye socket.

Aelor's lance splintered as the spearmen vaulted backwards into his fellows, a foot of fire-
hardened ash jutting out of the now very dead man's right eye. The dragonlord instinctually
used the remnants of the lance as a club, bringing the black and white painted ashwood down
onto the helm of another footman even as he knocked aside a spear on the opposite side with
his shield. Realizing that without its point the lance was rather useless, awkward to swing and
too light to cause much damage, the dragonlord threw it at the same man, testing its prospects
as a blunted javelin even as he drew his sword. Poor. Looks like swordwork it is.

The effect of hundreds of mounted armored men crashing into you went beyond the physical
dangers, the shock breeding panic among inexperienced soldiers. Even so there was no
shortage of enemies to fight, and by the time the Northmen and Valemen expectedly crashed
into the sides of Aelor's men the Dragon of Duskendale's sword was bloody from crossguard
to point.

Warrior kept his hooves as the two drove deeper into the thick crowd of enemies, the
warhorse managing to avoid the forest of death in a way Aelor, while grateful, found
somewhat eerily humanlike. This horse is smarter than most of the nobles in Westeros. It was
true that trying to kill a knight's horse was considered dishonorable, but Aelor knew as well
as anyone that honor was the first casualty of war. The black destrier somehow managed to
stay alive, however, and for not the first time Aelor prayed to the Seven that the animal
would make it out alive. Funny. I should be praying for my men, for my brother, and here I
am praying for a bloody horse.
Aelor didn't feel guilty. He liked his horse, something he couldn't say about most of the
humans he knew.

Fighting men on foot from atop a horse made a knight a target, especially when that knight
was clearly a Targaryen Prince, but Aelor was no stranger to fighting multiple enemies at
once. Neither was Warrior, as for every man the Lord of Duskendale slew the stallion sank
his teeth into or kicked another, trampling over dead and wounded men alike with no sense of
discrimination. As Aelor roared, the battlelust flowing heavy alongside the blood of Old
Valyria, the horse did the same.

As man and mount were finally slowed to a near stop Aelor batted a sword aside and opened
its owners throat, using his advantage of height atop the stallion's tall back to swing down
with heavy force, hacking into shield and flesh and bone. He felt more than saw Rhaegar and
the infantry arrive, the mass of blades that had been focused solely on him dispersing as their
wielders suddenly had an influx of new Targaryen soldiers to worry about.

Aelor knew in the back of his mind that the battle was spreading all across this side of the
river, the patch of ground fronting the bloody ford not nearly large enough for tens of
thousands of men to wage war, but to him the world was reduced to the few feet around
himself and his mount. There were no tactics or stratagems useful here; this was an all-out,
bloody brawl, where a man's birth made no difference concerning who lived and who died.
Aelor knew without a doubt that nobles were dying the same as smallfolk, peasant and lord
bleeding out in churned up mud alongside one other in an odd sense of unity that was never
realized in life. Those lucky enough to still be alive and on their feet slew others, dropping
more and more corpses to the ground in deepening piles to accompany the dying in their last
moments. It was a bloody, awful process, nothing like the songs and stories, the stench of
blood, death, piss and shit filling the air, accompanied by clangs of steel, shouts of elation
and despair and horror, and the haunting screams of the dying.

Time meant nothing. It never did in battle, other than the truth that many men no longer had
any in this world. Aelor fought, swinging and stabbing and gouging, for seconds or minutes
or days. He shouted as he decapitated a peasant with a spear, cursed as he nearly lost his seat
atop Warrior, and roared as he killed and killed and killed.

Aelor didn't see the charge coming until it was too late. By the time he looked up, all he could
see was a knight with a blue anchor on his surcoat and a lance, not the banner he rode under
or the men to his sides. The Dragon of Duskendale brought his shield up, fear and rage and
battelust all bursting out in a choked cry, as the lance slammed into the oak and banded steel
shield.

The force was like a tidal wave, carrying the big Targaryen up and out of his saddle, the lance
splintering as Aelor found himself catapulted over Warrior's haunches and into the mud and
blood below.

Whatever notions Eddard Stark had had of war were complete and utter shit.

There was nothing honorable about this disorganized melee, men having at each other with
everything from swords to rocks, a peasant levy crouched over a downed knight with a boar
on his surcoat, smashing a head-sized stone into his face again and again and again, not
stopping even though the knight's legs had stopped twitching long ago.

Eddard couldn't watch long, finding another knight, this one without a sigil on his green and
white surcoat, charging down on him. Eddard blocked his overhead blow with Ice, the smoky
Valyrian steel of the greatsword he never thought he'd wield making the knight's blade spark,
before forcing his opponent's blade up and slicing Ice across his chest. The man's armor took
most of the backfoot blow, but even the castle-forged steel he wore couldn't stop the ancient
spellbound steel from chopping down into his shoulder. The man dropped to his knees, the
Lord of Winterfell staying his killing blow for a moment, but with a gurgled cry the knight
tried again to stab the Warden of the North. Ned avoided the nameless warrior's blade and
brought his own down, putting a stop to his weakening attacks permanently.

Beside him Greatjon Umber boomed out a laugh, slitting a Reachman's throat. He'd stuck by
Ned's side the entire battle, dismounting when Ned's own garron took a spear and slogging it
out on foot with his liege lord. He'd taken turns between laughing deafeningly and singing a
tavern song at the top of his lungs, shouting about a whore's tits even as he plunged his blade
through a footman's gut. On his other side little Howland Reed fought on valiantly, the
Crannogman wielding a small trident with unerring speed and accuracy while periodically
stopping to fire darts from the blowgun he stubbornly refused to abandon. Exactly when the
Lord of the Neck had appeared beside him the Lord Paramount of the North couldn't say, but
the tiny man was more than holding his own.

Aelor Targaryen's charge had hit hard and fast, the Dragon of Duskendale unleashing a level
of hell Ned Stark hadn't known existed. His brother the King's charge was somewhat less
splendid though no less effective, forcing the rebel forces back, more and more loyalist
knights and men splashing across the ford to make war. Eddard caught glances of the King of
the Iron Throne periodically, dragonwing helm distinctive, the white armor of a Kingsguard
close to him. Even on a riverbank surrounded by tens of thousands of men, he could easily be
distinguished.

So when Robert's charge swept across the battlefield, overrunning whatever forward progress
had been made by the loyalists in the center, Eddard knew exactly where he was going.
Antlered helm every bit as distinctive as Rhaegar Targaryen's dragonwings, Robert Baratheon
looked like a god among men, swinging his massive hammer like it weighed no more than
wooden toy, sending dead men flying all around him.

And heading straight for Rhaegar Targaryen.

"My lord Stark!" A voice shouted, and Eddard withdrew Ice from a man's chest—he didn't
even remember putting it there—as he turned to the voice. A knight of the Vale, three red
forts on his surcoat, staggered up to him, gesticulating wildly towards the forest a hundred
yards beyond. His left arm was hanging from his shoulder by a stubborn few ligaments,
flopping lifelessly as he neared. "The rear!"

Ned Stark looked from the horrifying appearance of the man towards the rear lines, and felt
his blood freeze even colder than it normally ran. Hundreds of men in orange and red,
mounted atop horses that could only be the infamous Dornish sand steeds or sprinting
forward on foot carrying throwing javelins, were emerging from the woods.
On our side of the river.

Eddard could only watch in terrified awe as the Dornish vaulted into action, aiming for the
rear of what remained of the rebel lines. His goodfather Hoster Tully was rushing to meet
them, but Ned could see that Tully had too few men. The Warden of the North looked once
more towards his best friend, the Stag of Storm's End slaughtering his way towards the
Dragon of the Throne, before turning.

"Lord Umber, the rear! Pull our men back to the rear!" He repeated the call, Umber and
others taking it up, a horn starting to blow to alert the rebel forces of the new threat, as Ned
Stark's Northmen turned to meet the new threat, their liege lord gripping Ice tightly and
leading his men towards the enemy.

May the Old Gods grant you strength, old friend.

How Aelor Targaryen was alive he couldn't say.

When a man loses his feet in battle he is finished, vulnerable to every enemy soldier in the
vicinity. A peasant with a dagger now had the advantage over a King with a longsword, able
to slip the blade into joints in armor before a downed man could regain his feet. So when
Aelor landed atop the mud and bloody corpses behind Warrior he had assumed himself dead,
enemy cavalry stomping over the dead all around him as their infantry closed back in. He'd
thought of Elia, of Aegon and Rhaenys, and wondered if they would forgive him for leaving
them and dying on this godforsaken riverbank.

But the blade had never came, the blow of steel sinking into his neck never landing. And here
he was, still breathing.

When the Dragon of Duskendale sat up on his rear, he saw why.

Alaric Langward, while undisciplined, had been gifted with a sword even when he'd first
began squiring for the Dragon of Duskendale, raw talent that few ever possessed needing
only a little refined training from superior swordsmen to turn the lanky youth truly deadly.
Aelor and Barristan the Bold had seen to that training, and it was paying off tenfold now.

The dragonlord's squire danced, spinning and slashing, removing one knight's hand and
landing a blow perfectly in the joint of another's armor, standing over his mentor and friend
like Storm End against a monsoon. The boy fought like a man possessed, slamming his shield
into a man's face before opening his throat. No matter the enemies that came against him the
squire fought on stubbornly, never wielding an inch, keeping the vultures from descending on
the Dragon.

Aelor watched in awe for a substantial amount of time before it dawned on him that he
should probably stand up.

Stand up the Lord of Duskendale did, joining his squire against the onslaught of enemy
swords. He'd lost his shield in the fall, the oak and steel useless anyway with a broken lance
sticking out of it, so Aelor felt free to use his armored left fist as another weapon. He
punched and gouged, using the armor of his forearm to deflect steel away as best it could.

A bellow caught Aelor's ear in a lull in the number of enemies around him, one sound among
hundreds in the din of battle, but Aelor turned back towards the ford, the cry catching his
attention entirely in a way only the fates could. There in the center of the blood red waters of
the ford, dismounted but both very much still alive, were Robert Baratheon and Rhaegar
Targaryen.

Warhammer whistled and sword shrieked, two Kings going head to head in the middle of a
raging battle. Part of Aelor's mind registered that most of his men had been forced back into
the ford and their original side of the river, he and Alaric being two of a few dozen stragglers
still left among the heaps of dead and dying on the opposite bank . Another part registered the
Dornish arriving, men from the rebel reserve and all along their lines turning to take the gift
Prince Oberyn Martell was about to unleash on them.

But the main part of Aelor's mind saw his brother the King locked in battle with a man who
hated him every bit as fiercely as Aelor hated that man. Rhaegar's premonition of his own
death rang in Aelor's ears, fear that it might come true overtaking the Lord of Duskendale.
Whatever thoughts Aelor had had that the Seven Kingdoms might be better off with Rhaegar
dead were suddenly nowhere to be found, an overwhelming sense to protect his blood
overruling whatever other thoughts Aelor might have ever had.

Before he knew it, Aelor Targaryen was running.

He cut down one, three, five men as he fought, barely noticing the faces or the lives they
entailed as he crossed blades and left them dying and dead in the bloody mud. All Aelor
could see was the King of the Iron Throne and the man whose woman he had stolen waging
their private war in the middle of a much larger one, trading blows at a savage pace.

Aelor fought his way towards them, cutting through the bloody melee to try and reach his
brother and King's side. The Dragon of Duskendale had seen no sign of Barristan, the famous
Kingsguard knight nowhere to be found, but he had no time to worry for the man who had
treated him like his own son all of Aelor's life. All he had time to worry for was the brother
that the dragonlord somehow knew was about to die.

A Northman wielding two axes with three buckets sewn into the furs covering his chest met
the second son of Aerys as he reached the ford, the water running as red as roses in the
summer, choked full of corpses. The northerner was big and strong, and unbelievably fast for
a man his size. Aelor found himself having to focus on the task at hand when one of the axes
nearly buried itself into his forehead, the Prince's instinctive step back all that saved him.

The northerner gave the Targaryen no time to gather himself, coming on in a flurry of axes
and roars that put even Aelor's to shame. The Targaryen Prince backpedaled, barely keeping
his feet under him as he warded off the axeman's attacks. I really miss my shield right now.
He had no defense beside batting the axe away with his sword and dancing from side to side,
unable to swing several pounds of oak and banded steel as a second weapon. A shield was
meant as a defense, but Aelor Targaryen had always been unconventional, preferring to wield
his defense as an offense, preferring to be the aggressor.
But right now he needed a shield for its Seven-sent purpose, because Buckets was much
better at dual wielding weapons than anyone had any right to be. It was hard for Aelor to be
the aggressor when he was barely managing to stay alive.

Aelor jumped to the side, nearly finding himself dead when he tripped over a corpse—or
maybe just a wounded man, Aelor didn't bother to see which—going to one knee as the
Northerner loomed overhead. Aelor managed to dive out of the way, getting his feet under
him again in time to ward off Buckets' next attack. The big, hairy man was growing
frustrated, snarling like a mad dog as he relentlessly attacked the Targaryen Prince, never
giving a thought to defense as he swung again and again, focusing solely on splitting the
dragonspawn in front of him in two.

That's when it clicked in Aelor's mind. As Buckets raised his right axe again, left already
diving in, Aelor did perhaps the dumbest thing he had done in a long line of recklessness.
The Dragon of Duskendale completely ignored the axe in Bucket's left hand, instead driving
his sword forward as hard as his adrenaline-fueled body could.

The Prince's blade sank to the crossguard in the Northerner's stomach, Buckets' face going
from enraged to surprised in the blink of an eye. The axe in his right hand remained
stationary, the northerner's eyes staring into Aelor's through the visor as the dragonlord
withdrew his sword and plunged it again into the big man's chest. Buckets sank to his knees,
never looking away, neither fear nor hatred in his dimming gaze but acceptance, as if the man
was at peace dying in calf high water turned red with blood hundreds of miles from home.

As the northerner's body slipped off his blade with a sickening slunk Aelor realized that
Buckets was at peace with death. A braver man than I. For the first time in his long line of
killing, the second son of Aerys felt guilt.

The Lord of Duskendale shook the feeling off as soon as it came however, turning back
towards the duel he had spent so long fighting to reach.

He knew even as it happened that he would never in all his days forget the overwhelming
numbness he felt as he turned to see the spike of Robert Baratheon's hammer drive into his
brother's chest, scattering the rubies that adorned the King of the Iron Throne's armor into the
shallow water of the ford.

Barristan Selmy had accomplished many great deeds in his life, from slaying the last of the
Blackfyres in the Stepstones to scaling the walls of Duskendale to save King Aerys
Targaryen, but the truth of the matter was that he was an incompetent shame of a Kingsguard.

Words could not describe the feeling of guilt of and failure that accompanied the colossal
boom of Robert Baratheon's warhammer scattering the rubies in Rhaegar's armor, the King of
the Iron Throne sinking into the red water of the ford alongside so many of his men and
enemies. Half of the men on both sides had seemed to stop fighting to watch the duel, and
when Rhaegar Targaryen fell, Barristan felt the spirit go out of the loyalist, much as his own
had fled. Men who moments ago had been fighting fiercely turned and fled, the rebel forces
giving out a great warcry as their new King raised his hammer, the body of the old collapsed
in the clogged ford at his feet.
In the odd way Ser Barristan had learned the Seven functioned in battle, he heard the roar of
black rage over the cries of elation by the rebels and the footfalls of fleeing men as the
loyalist army fled around the man in white armor. So did Baratheon, as the new kingslayer
turned to face it.

Aelor Targaryen was suddenly everywhere at once, raining blows down on a now-stumbling
Robert Baratheon and cursing with every clang of steel. Two knights tried to intervene,
coming in on Aelor's sides, but before Barristan could really grasp what was happening both
lay dead, the Dragon of Duskendale once again forcing Robert Baratheon back with sheer
savagery.

Baratheon had looked implacable when he'd fought Rhaegar, Barristan having been separated
from his King by an endless wall of enemies, unable to reach him no matter how many
Barristan slew and being forced to watch while batting away blades as the King of the Iron
Throne was killed. But against Aelor, Baratheon looked wholly mortal, hammer and shield
barely able to ward off the Prince's sword.

"The Prince!" Barristan called, feeling his hopes rise, taking heart in the second son of Aerys.
He shouted again, louder this time. "Look to your Prince!" Others took the call, a few in the
massive number of fleeing men slowing to look. Barristan limped, wound to his thigh
throbbing, to the nearest horse—many knights and animals had died, but there was still an
abundance of loose coursers running loose—and pulled himself on top. Kicking the bay's
flanks, he galloped to head off the retreating mass of loyalist survivors, shouting at the top of
his lungs. "Prince Aelor! Targaryen! Look, look to your Prince! Fight for your Prince!" More
and more took up the call, the emboldened loyalists battling with a new fervor as Aelor and
Baratheon savagely dueled over the dead bodies in the ford.

Slowly, one or two at a time, men turned direction, stopping the headlong retreat from the
battle and beginning to come to the relief of the stalwarts who had never turned tail to run.
Barristan rode the unfamiliar stallion side to side, shouting, pointing with his bloody sword,
slowly turning the retreat of broken men into a charge of revitalized ones. Some of those
fleeing couldn't be stopped, the horrors they had seen driving them from the field like
panicked livestock, but more returned to the battle than did not, and Barristan cantered his
borrowed courser back towards the ford, accompanied by the shout of thousands of
invigorated men rushing to their Prince's aide.

Aelor was fairly certain they were losing the battle, but he didn't care.

He swung his sword again as hard as he could, borrowing a page from Buckets book and
going full offensive. Robert Baratheon, hammer still crimson with his brother's blood, was
bigger than Aelor, and in all likelihood stronger, a mountain of muscle that, in his yellow and
black livery, reminded the second son of Aerys of a much shorter Gregor Clegane. Aelor was
no small man himself, several inches over six feet and by all means a strong man in his own
right, but Baratheon had a few inches and several pounds of muscle on the Targaryen Prince.

That didn't make a lick of difference at the moment however, as the Dragon of Duskendale
was fueled by a hatred and battlelust that surpassed anything even Baratheon could feel,
sword moving faster than Aelor had ever swung before, snarling viciously with the
reverberations of each blow his sword struck on the Stag's hammer or shield.

Aelor didn't think about Rhaegar, dying or dead behind him. He didn't think of anything. The
Prince's mind was almost blank, instinct and years of training dictating his every move,
adrenaline keeping his legs turning, hatred continuously spitting out curses at the man
opposing him. There was a pain in his right hip, one he hadn't noticed until he'd been
sprinting towards Baratheon, but the dragonlord paid it no mind, focused on driving his blade
into Robert Baratheon's chest and watching the life fade from his storm blue eyes.

Baratheon regained his center after a few moments, managing to go on his own offensive
with a vicious swing of his hammer. As Aelor had noted in the detached part of his mind,
Baratheon was strong, amazingly so. To try and block or redirect a blow from that hammer—
a feat that would be near impossible for Aelor in his current shield-less state—was a certain
way to die, the blunt force of the hammer's broad side or the spiked point of its other able to
either penetrate or crush armor, muscle and bone. Aelor spun away and struck, his sword only
catching Baratheon's shield but his fist colliding with the Lord Paramount of the Stormland's
antlered helm. That didn't deter Robert from his newfound aggression, however, another one-
handed swing of the mighty hammer nearly crushing every rib Aelor had. The Prince dodged
away, swinging his bloodied sword hard for Baratheon's head as the hammer's momentum
carried the rebel leader off of balance for a moment.

Baratheon twisted his head aside, the blow not killing him as intended. It did however neatly
lop off one of the antlers, sending the shaped steel flying off into the chaos of a battle that had
picked up in intensity all around them.

With a deep roar—theirs is the fury, afterall—Robert came on again, using his shield as a
battering ram, his hammer as, well, a hammer, and Aelor was finally forced on the full
defensive, dodging both spiked and banded steel, striking back every so often but mainly
reduced to avoiding the whistling death Baratheon had served Rhaegar.

His body betrayed him, in the end. The pain in his hip had increased throughout the short but
savage duel with Robert Baratheon, and when he took a step to the side, setting his feet a
touch too wide, a hot, burning shock of a pain shot down his leg. Aelor gasped, his knee
buckling, leaving him awkwardly splayed on a knee and foot as Baratheon's hammer swung.
Aelor tried to bring his sword around out of instinct even as he twisted his body, the hammer
catching his blade just above the pommel and wrenching the ruby crossguard from the
Dragon of Duskendale's hand.

Aelor could only watch as his trusted blade spun end over end into the mayhem surrounding
him, his hands now empty. The Prince tried to gain his feet, but his awkward stance and the
pain in his hip—Buckets bloody axe, he realized absently—wouldn't let him. He turned his
head to look back at Baratheon, the rebel leader standing over him, tossing his shield aside
and gripping his hammer two-handed. With a roar Robert swung, the hammer hurtling
towards Aelor's head as if in slow motion.

Elia's face came to mind then, as it often did in moments of both weakness and strength.
What the dragonlord wouldn't give for a chance to make her laugh one last time. Rhaenys and
her dolls, most of which Aelor had begged, borrowed or stole for her, soon followed, the little
olive-skinned girl's giggles accompanying the smile of her mother. And then Aegon, too
young yet to have done anything to endear Aelor to him but somehow having managed to do
so anyway, a small bundle of blankets and silvery hair that Aelor knew in his heart would
make the greatest king Westeros had seen since Jaehaerys the Conciliator.

He wanted them to know he loved them, and that he was sorry he hadn't made it back. He
wanted to hold them one more time, to tickle Rhaenys and pinch Aegon's nose and kiss the
ever-loving fuck out of Elia. All of those thoughts and more ran through his mind in the split
second it took that hammer to reach his head, Baratheon's roar ringing in his ears.

The strength had to have come from his loved ones, because the Seven knew it hadn't come
from his body. Aelor ducked, the hammer whistling overhead, his hand darting to wrap his
fist around the emerald dagger on his belt. With a roar of his own The Dragon of Duskendale
shot up into Baratheon, forcing himself between the Stag's arms and inside his guard. The
dagger in the Dragon's fist flew high above both their heads before plunging deep into the
gap between helm and breastplate, sinking to the hilt.

For a moment the two warriors stood helm to helm, screaming at each other at the top of their
respective lungs, Robert's hammer hanging in the air in his left fist off to the side, his right
gauntlet somehow having grabbed Aelor's shoulder. Time stood still as Robert's war cry
turned into a gurgle, blood filling his mouth and throat and lungs, the Dragon of Duskendale's
dagger sank deep into his neck. The hammer in his left hand, still held out as if confused that
it hadn't just smashed a Targaryen's brain all over the Riverlands, began to shake before the
hand holding it lost its once incredible strength and it splashed to the water.

Aelor Targaryen released the dagger that had struck so true and stepped back, Robert
Baratheon sinking to his knees in the mud and blood and water. With a bloody cough the
dying warrior cursed the Targaryen name one last time, before toppling forward to land face
first in the crimson ford.
 XX

Eddard knew Robert was dead the moment it happened, even as he blocked the blow from
another Dornishman; the cry that burned through both the rebel and loyalist ranks soon after
simply confirmed it.

Hoster Tully's reserve had taken the brunt of the screaming Dornish charge, most of his men
cut to bloody pieces as they bought time for Eddard to turn his Northmen and counter the
surprise strike. Just how the Dornish had slipped thousands of men behind them undetected
was baffling, but here they were, full of vim and vigor and raising one hell of a ruckus.
Eddard slung this particular Dornishman's blade aside before cutting his throat, turning as a
voice called his name.

"My lord!" Another knight, this one a merman of Manderly and possessing both arms,
pointed to the main battle of the ford. Valemen and Stormlanders were beginning to flee, their
spirit for the fight waning as the life of their leader had, the previously broken loyalist
attacking with a new vigor, a new life. A man in Kingsguard white rode a courser in their
midst, directing the main force through the gap of the right where Eddard had had to pull his
men from. They broke through the thin remaining forces quickly, turning and beginning to
roll up the center as more and more rebels fled.

As Eddard saw it he had two options; finish the Dornish and turn to take on the weary
loyalist, or quit the field. Robert is dead. Our claim is gone. Thousands of men have died for
a personal disagreement between a few, and now most of those few are dead The only one
remaining is me. It was all a bloody waste. A waste of tears, a waste of blood and a waste of
his life.

Eddard decided enough lives had been lost.

"Greatjon!" The Umber cut his song off mid-sentence, cracking one more skull before turning
to his liege. "Enough lives have been lost. Sound the retreat. You have the rear guard; hold
the line until most of our force is away, then make a fighting withdrawal."

The giant plainly didn't like the whole idea of retreating. "We can win this, boy!"

"Too many have died already. Give the command."

As the horns blew, Valemen, Riverlanders, Stormlanders and Northmen all beginning to flee
the field, Eddard helped solidify the Greatjon's line. Keeping the Dornish attack from turning
the withdrawal into a route was easier than expected, as the loyalist men who flanked the
main lines made no attempt to pursue, and the Dornish seemed to have had their fill of a fight
as well, their 'attack' not nearly as fierce as it had been mere minutes before.

As the rebels to the Iron Throne fled past him, leaving thousands of their dead sprawled
across the grounds behind them, Ned Stark couldn't help but feel he had failed. Failed his
friend, failed his bannermen, and failed his family.
I am sorry, father. I'm sorry Brandon.

I'm sorry Lyanna.

"Your Grace."

Aelor Targaryen didn't move. He hadn't since Baratheon fell, not moving an inch as the rebel
lines were finally broken.

"Your Grace."

The Dragon of Duskendale stood motionless on a slaughter field, staring down at the back of
a now dead Robert Baratheon. Blood was dribbling down his armor at his hip, his once
pristine black armor now crimson with blood and brown with mud. Barristan reached out a
hand gently, wary of a sudden reaction, though just what Aelor would do without any weapon
remained to be seen.

It turned out he had no need to worry. The second son of Aerys didn't move an inch when
Barristan the Bold's hand lightly rested on his shoulder, still staring down at the body of the
usurper king. Barristan felt a stab of panic, worry that the boy he thought of as son was more
severely injured than the very painful but not life threatening gash on his hip. The
Kingsguard disregarded his own injuries to step to the front of Aelor, looking him over with a
quick eye.

When the Prince spoke his voice was quiet and hoarse. "I'm fine, Barristan."

Relief flooded Barristan the Bold, though it was tainted by the dead tone of the Lord of
Duskendale's voice. "Your helm, Aelor."

The Prince finally looked up, the violet of his eyes barely visible around Aelor's dilated
pupils. Barristan understood what was happening at once. He's in shock. "My what?"

Barristan took a firmer grip on the Prince's arms. "Your helm, Your Grace."

Fingers were suddenly pulling the white flame crest up and over the dragonlord's head. Alaric
Langward, ever the dutiful squire, stood behind his mentor, his once youthful face now
showing no trace of the boy he had been so recently, replaced by the firm eyes and jaw of a
man who had seen the worst the world had to offer. "Easy, Your Grace."

Aelor finally twitched, looking as if he was waking from a dream. If he were, reality was
surely a shock. The ford was clogged with the dead, the bodies thick enough in places that a
man could walk across the river Trident without ever touching the water. Both riverbanks
were much the same, though the bank where the rebels had waited was by far the worst.
Loyalist men, the victorsif a chaotic slaughter like this could have one—Barristan didn't
believe it could—were already looting, a flock of bodies scoping the ford near where the
King of the Iron Throne lay dead. Those men, mostly peasant farmers who normally barely
had enough to eat much less any idea of wealth, were frantically searching the water for the
rubies Robert's hammer had smashed from Rhaegar Targaryen's breastplate, paying no
attention to the body that had been their King.

Nor did they pay attention to the wounded lying all around, their screams and moans a
cacophony of terrible sound around a horrible scene.

"How…how many men are left?" Aelor was looking side to side slowly, though he dutifully
stopped and drank when Alaric pressed a waterskin to his lips.

"We don't know, Your Grace."

Too few, my son. Too bloody few.

Three thousand knights had charged down a wide ford with Aelor Targaryen, punching a hole
that over twenty thousand soldiers had filled.

Eighty-three of them lived.

Ser Balman Byrch was found halfway under his horse on the far side of the river, a dirk
through the eye of his visor. Lord Elwood Harte, the last of his dynasty, had fallen less than
ten feet from him, a spear in his gut, the young man's hands wrapped around its shaft as he
leaned against the belly of a dead courser. Sers Willis and Alester, two of his most veteran
household knights, had died together, Alester's head in a slumping Willis' lap, the latter
having bled out from his own wounds while trying to comfort his old friend. In truth none of
Aelor's personal retinue seemed to have lived, men Aelor had handpicked from all over
Westeros dying together for the Prince they served.

Only that Prince had survived; that Prince, a squire and a black stallion.

Warrior had found his master as Aelor stood supported by Barristan and Aelor in the middle
of the ford, clopping over dead bodies carelessly as it emerged from the field of corpses. The
destrier was red from muzzle to hock, the twin white warring dragons on the cloth of his
chainmail blanket turned crimson. He, much like his master, was battered but still alive,
nudging the Targaryen with his head as if to apologize for letting him fall off.

Aelor was glad his horse had lived. Very little else had.

Rhaegar Targaryen, the first of his name, was being carried from the field by Jon Connington,
the Lord of Griffin's Roost bawling uncontrollably. The red haired knight had slain Denys
Arryn, heir to the Vale, in single combat on the far bank, but he looked nothing like an
accomplished warrior now, face as red as his flaming hair as tears cut furrows down his
grimy cheeks.

Aelor watched dry eyed. He'd recovered his senses, enough to order a maester away to more
severely wounded men when he came and asked about his hip, but his body still felt numb.

As teams of men combed through the bloody carnage, healers descending to try and save any
lives they could after so many had been lost, Aelor only watched, survivors clinging to each
other or themselves as they tried to cope with what had just occurred. Prince Oberyn, a
wound over his right eye, had ridden by for once without a word, heading for his tent and his
paramour. Randyll Tarly had taken temporary command, keeping the survivors from
straggling away while also organizing a guard, though the rebels had to be suffering from the
same symptoms as the loyalists.

Aelor had let him. He hadn't budged from his stance beside the body of Robert Baratheon,
and he wouldn't. Not until they found him.

When they finally did Aelor had required Alaric to help him move, his hip a throbbing pain
that became shooting when he put nearly any weight on it, but move he had.

Lord Renfred Rykker had ended up on the far left of the ford where the water was still
relatively deep, back leaning against the rebel riverbank while his waist and legs were
submerged in the deepening water of the river Trident. His once blue surcoat was now blood
red, the broken lance in his left shoulder embedded deeply. A sword was shoved in his side,
under his ribs, though his hands still clutched his warhammer, refusing to surrender the
weapon that adorned his family banner.

Aelor knew before he even reached his old friend that there was nothing the maesters would
be able to do.

The Prince dropped beside his childhood companion's side, the cold water soothing his hip
even as the scene before him tore apart his heart, taking the Lord of Hollard Hall's hand in his
own. Renfred's full black beard was speckled with blood, twin trickles of it trailing down
from the corners of his mouth. His breathing was labored, chest rising and falling heavily, its
rattling sound giving away the blood slowly filling his lungs.

Aelor shook his head. "Dammit, Ren."

The big man turned his head to look at his best friend, despite the pain doing so obviously
caused him. It took him several moments to speak, and when he did his voice was pained,
though stronger than a dying man's had any right to be. "Did we win?"

"Yes friend. We won."

"Baratheon?"

"Dead."

Rykker nodded. "Good."

Aelor felt the burn of tears in his eyes, though he didn't let them fall. "I'm sorry, Ren."

Even when dying Rykker managed to raise an eyebrow in bemusement. "For what?"

"This. All of it."

The Lord of Hollard Hall shook his head. "This isn't your fault, Aelor. All men must die; now
it's my turn."
Aelor swallowed, fighting to keep his composure. "I'll care for Malessa and the babe.
Anything they ever want they'll have."

Rykker's eyes stared into his liege lord's, bloody lips smirking. Only Ren could grin as he
dies. "Hell, I know that." The smirk became pained, a round of great bloody coughs wracking
Renfred's body as his eyes shut tightly before opening again once the coughing fit passed.
Rykker released Aelor's hand, shakily trying to grab his liege lord's wrist. Aelor obliged him.

Renfred Rykker looked into his childhood friend's face one last time. "Strong shield."

All of Duskendale was lodged in Aelor's throat as he squeezed Renfred's wrist tightly.
"Stronger sword."

He smiled a bloody grin. "You're damn right." His body convulsed once, twice, three times,
and then the life faded from Renfred Rykker's eyes.

Aelor Targaryen wept.

 XXI

The rider bearing the flag of truce appeared to Eddard Stark as a gift from the Old Gods.

The rebel forces had left thousands of their numbers dead and wounded on the field. The total
count still hadn't been made, no one entirely sure who was dead or missing in the aftermath
of the chaos they had all been subjected to.

All Eddard knew was that Robert was dead, Jon Arryn was wounded and Hoster Tully was
missing.

The Lord Paramount of the Vale and second—and only living—father to Eddard had taken a
dagger slash to his calf, struck by a no name knight whom Arryn thought to be dead. The
man most certainly hadn't been, ignoring the fact that his leg was gone and he was bleeding
out rapidly to strike from his lying position and sink the dagger into Arryn's leg.

The wound was superficial, merely making it hard for Jon to walk. The much more
dangerous blow to the Lord Paramount had been the death of his heir Denys, the Darling of
the Vale, struck down by Jon Connington at the ford. Lord Arryn hadn't been able to recover
his body, and that fact weighed on Eddard's close friend as heavily as the man's death.

Whether Hoster Tully was dead or captured no one could rightly say. None of his retainers
had returned, having taken the brunt of the Dornish charge. None of the survivors could
remember him being struck down, yet he hadn't fled the field with the rest of the
Riverlander's. It was reasonable to assume he was dead, as much as it pained Eddard.

He was somewhat indifferent to his goodfather as a person, but he would have liked his child
to have at least one grandfather. The way things seemed now, after the bloody fight of the
ford, he or she may not even have a father.

The rider bearing the white banner rode in at dusk, the shouts of his approach echoing
through the camp. It was a single man, riding a bay courser while leading another workhorse
hauling a cart. Eddard and Jon Arryn waited in the center of the camp, Arryn using a broken
spear shaft as a makeshift crutch, the Greatjon, Bronze Yohn Royce and other various nobles
and bodyguards with them as the rider was directed to them, watched warily by the weary
men in the camp.

As he approached, Eddard realized the envoy was a lad, no more than six and ten. Tall but
lanky, he was dressed in a magnificent set of plate armor, scrubbed clean. Recently at that, if
Eddard had a guess, for nothing had been clean after the Battle of the Trident; not armor, not
weapons, and not the participant's souls

The boy reigned up several paces away from the men gathered to meet him, his face trying
not to betray the nervousness he had to be feeling when surrounded by men he had been
trying to kill—and who had been trying to kill him—hours before. "I come with a message
from Prince Aelor Targaryen, Lord of Duskendale."
Greatjon scoffed, regarding the boy atop the horse with derision. "Targaryen sends a green
boy to parlay? Does he mean to insult us, sending a whelp in his own place?"

The lad wisely didn't rise to the Greatjon's ribbing. "I was instructed to speak with Lords
Eddard Stark and Jon Arryn."

"I am Jon Arryn," the Lord Paramount of the Vale said quietly. He gestured towards Eddard.
"This is Lord Stark. Who are you, son, and why did Targaryen send you instead of another?"

The boy straightened. "I am Ser Alaric Langward, squire to Prince Aelor during the battle
and knighted shortly afterwards." The lad was quiet a moment, his voice soft when he spoke
again. "I suppose he sent me because everyone else he trusts is dead, courtesy of your
lordships."

"He is not the only man to have lost friends and family." Lord Jason Mallister of Seagard said
pointedly. The handsome man with the winged helm had lost his brother Thaddeus to King
Rhaegar's second wave, having slain three minor lords to avenge him.

"Ser or bloody not, you're a boy," the Greatjon reiterated, pushing the lad's control.
"Targaryen insults us by sending half a man to treat with us."

"Peace, Greatjon," Bronze Yohn Royce cut in, eyeing the lad. "If he was Targaryen's squire,
he is man enough to be here. We knocked the Prince off of his stallion during Robert's
charge. Thiswhelp as you call him fought off some of our best men to give Targaryen time to
regain his feet."

Langward's chest swelled at that, pride evident on his face though he tried to conceal it. He's
more man than boy, if Bronze Yohn is correct, but still part boy nonetheless. Eddard cleared
his throat, regarding the teenager with an emotionless face as he spoke. "What word does
your Prince have for us?"

Langward's voice took an even tone, obviously repeating words he had rehearsed in his head
for hours. "Prince Aelor offers your Lordships the opportunity to reclaim your dead. Come
morning, you may send a burial detail of no more than one hundred fifty men to the ford,
where you will be left in peace to claim what bodies you wish. Whomever you leave shall be
cremated alongside our own dead at dusk tomorrow." The new knight gestured towards the
horse and cart slightly behind him. "He sends this as a token of his goodwill." Langward
looked directly at Jon, his tone becoming somber. "It is your heir, Lord Arryn."

The Lord of the Vale didn't move for a long moment, face completely expressionless, before
turning his head in the direction of Bronze Yohn Royce, who instantly exited the half circle
of rebel leaders to quietly step to the cart's side. He looked over the lip of the cart for a
moment before turning back to his liege lord, nodding softly.

Jon Arryn's jaw worked silently for a moment more before he spoke quietly, a few of his
bodyguard joining Royce at the cart to retrieve the body of Denys Arryn. "Give him my
thanks."
Alaric Langward nodded. "Prince Aelor also invites Lord's Stark and Arryn to discuss peace
terms while the bodies are claimed, on this side of the river though far from the edge of the
forest. He agrees to fifty men in your personal guard, though he will bring double that due to
the burial party and the location of the meeting. He invites a single representative from the
Stormlands in lieu of a Lord Baratheon."

Lord Roose Bolton, pale eyes unblinking, stared at the boy. "And how do we know it isn't a
trap?"

Ser Alaric turned to meet the Lord of the Dreadfort's odd eyes evenly, the slightest touch of
anger in his own. "Prince Aelor is a man of his word."

"A Targaryen being a man of his word? Har!" Greatjon's scorn was met with several
murmurs of agreement from the other lords surrounding them.

Eddard, however, believed the lad. "I have met Prince Aelor on more than one occasion.
Whatever his family's faults, he does seem to be a man of honor, and he is consenting to
meeting us when we have the advantage, however slight."

"So he is a fool as well as a madman," boomed fat Lord Benedar Belmore.

"He is neither," Jon Arryn said quietly but with a hint of steel in his voice that stopped his
bannerman's sniggers instantly. Jon Arryn looked back to Ser Alaric. "You made no mention
of the Riverlands."

The young man shrugged. "We already have a representative from the Riverlands; Lord
Hoster Tully is our prisoner."

Brynden Blackfish Tully, so far having remained quiet, instantly spoke up. "Is he injured?"
Eddard found the apparent concern from the Blackfish odd, considering he had never seen the
Tully brother's at anything other than each other's throats.

"We found him unconscious from a fall from his horse, but otherwise unharmed."

The Blackfish grunted, satisfied. Eddard looked to Jon Arryn, who met his eyes and held
them for a moment before nodding. The Lord of the North then nodded in turn to Ser Alaric.
"Tell Prince Aelor we will be there at dawn."

If their war had accomplished nothing else, it had at least aged Aelor Targaryen at least a
decade.

As he rode towards them on a massive black stallion, surrounded by a hundred men of his
choosing, Eddard saw that the Dragon of Duskendale looked almost nothing like the young,
full of life youth he had been at the Tournament of Harrenhal, when the foundations had been
laid for the war they were currently fighting. He still carried the air of authority Ned
remembered, his shoulders still strong and broad and back still straight in the saddle, but his
face was that of an older man than one and twenty. A mostly healed scar sliced down his right
eye, framed by his silvery beard grown bushy and untrimmed. Some scars added to a man's
handsomeness. This was not one of those scars, though his face still held traces of its
Targaryen beauty; this scar was a vicious gash that drew the attention of all those in contact
with the Dragon Prince. It almost made him look more sellsword than Prince, brilliant black
armor and destrier aside.

Until he spoke, that was. Then there was no doubt he was of royal blood.

"Lords Stark and Arryn, I am glad you came. Let us put an end to this bloodshed." The
Dragon of Duskendale looked to his right, where Ser Barristan Selmy sat a white courser
beside Hoster Tully, the Lord Paramount of the Riverlands tied to his saddle like a common
bandit. The Prince nodded, and Selmy withdrew a dagger to cut Tully's hands free. A thin
Dornishman atop a sand steed to Tully's other side, undoubtedly Prince Oberyn Martell,
slapped the lord's courser lightly on the flank, prompting the horse to trot the few dozen
paces between the two sides to pull up beside the Blackfish. The two brothers looked at one
another only a moment before both turning to look back at the loyalist.

"Prince Aelor," Jon Arryn began. "I want to thank you for returning Denys' body to me."

"Enemy or no, the man fought bravely. He deserved to rest with his own."

"And Robert?" Ned asked quietly.

Aelor Targaryen met his eyes, violet on gray. "His body resides in my camp."

Roose Bolton cocked an eyebrow. "Are we not allowed to claim his body as well?"

Targaryen cocked his own brow. "Are you a Baratheon? No? Then you don't have a claim, do
you?" the Prince let his words hang a moment before continuing. "He hasn't been mutilated,
nor will he be. I will consent to his body being entombed at Storm's End, despite my personal
desire to remove his head and place it on a spike on Maegor's Holdfast." The Prince's eyes
confirmed he meant what he said, though he leaned back slightly in his saddle to regard the
others. "That is assuming we can put an end to this nonsense here and now, of course."

Arryn nodded ever so slightly. "What are you thinking?"

"Surrender," the Dragon of Duskendale said instantly and firmly. "Yours, here and now. This
war was started over the personal disagreements between a few men. Most of those men are
now dead. Thousands have already died; I see no need for thousands more to join them."

Tully grunted. "There will be repercussions."

"Of course there will. For all of you, though some of you will fare worse than others."

They waited for a moment for the Prince to continue, but the Dragon of Duskendale simply
met their gazes evenly. Jon Arryn broke the silence. "What do you mean?"

Aelor spoke calmly and confidently. "You, Lord Arryn, didn't surrender your wards when
your liege lord ordered it."
"That liege lord killed my father and brother, as well as one of Jon's kinsmen," Ned pointed
out. "He meant to do the same with us."

"Yes, he did," Aelor said with a nod. "You didn't let me finish, Lord Stark. My father was an
unfit king, though still my father. My brother also made more than his share of mistakes, and
the realm has bled for it. I'm not saying you were not justified in revolting, my lords, but the
truth remains that you did revolt. You revolted against a dynasty that has ruled for close to
three hundred years, and you lost."

Greatjon scoffed. "We haven't lost yet. There's still an army behind us."

Aelor shrugged at the big Umber. "You're right, there is, one likely equal to my own. But how
long will it remain there?" Aelor leaned back in his saddle, perfectly aware that he was in
control of these negotiations. "Your claimant through Rhaelle Targaryen is dead, and with
him died your only chance to pass this off as a war of succession instead of conquest.
Robert's brothers are both being besieged by Lord Mace Tyrell and the Redwyne Fleet; while
I hear they are holding out impressively, it can only go on so long. If you were to decide to
continuously rebel, you would have to fight through me and my army to even have a chance
to reach them, something we all know would take months to do if you could even succeed.
By then, Stannis and Renly would either be in Lord Tyrell's custody or dead of starvation;
either way, their own claims would be gone. So tell me, with no Baratheon, who among you
would be crowned King?"

Aelor turned to look at Lord Tully. "You, Lord Tully? Your ancestors were petty kings, only
raised to their position of power by Aegon the Conqueror. Why should the other great houses
follow you?" He turned to Jon Arryn. "You, Lord Arryn? Your ancestors arrived as Andal
invaders and have ruled the Vale for generations, but you were only ever kings of one
kingdom, not seven." Finally the Dragon of Duskendale turned to Ned. "And you, Lord Stark.
You have ruled the North for six thousand years or longer, but you don't even follow the same
gods as the rest of the realm. How long would the High Septon and zealots allows you to rule
them?" The Prince began alternating his gaze among all of the men present. "Sure, were you
to successfully eliminate my bloodline, your cooperation and friendship with one another
may well let one of you rule. But what about your sons? What about your sons' sons? How
many generations before one of them realize that their King has no right to be their King, and
starts another war that ends more lives? How long would they in turn rule before another
decides it should be him? Tell me, my lords, where would that cycle of death and blood end?"

"What right do Targaryen's have to rule us all?" Shot back Bronze Yohn Royce.

"The right we took and held for three hundred years. Targaryen's united the realms, placing
them under one banner. While we haven't always ruled well, we have withstood threats from
our own kinsmen and from countless other threats, and we have done it for three hundred
years. That is a precedent that holds sway among many, my lords; even you cannot deny
that."

"A precedent set by dragons." Hoster Tully pointed out. "And all the dragons are dead, boy."

"No, Tully," Aelor Targaryen said, eyes burning with a fire that Eddard had only ever seen in
the blood of Old Valyria. "The Dragons are most certainly not."
There was silence for a long moment before Selwyn Tarth, the representative of the
Stormlands, spoke up. "Say we wanted the Kingdoms to separate again, each ruling under the
family that ruled them three hundred years ago?"

"There has been a King of the Iron Throne, proof that one man can rule all seven kingdoms.
Again I ask, how long before one of your descendants decides that should be him, and starts
more bloody battles that throw the entire continent into a chaos that would be ripe for the
raiding by the Ironborn, who would once again rape and pillage unchecked with no one to
temper their lusts? Tell me, where would those battles end?" Aelor Targaryen shook his head.
"No, my lords. The only hope for your families, not only now but in the future, is to end this
conflict today. Bend your knees now, and I promise I will take into consideration your
reasons for rebelling." The Dragon of Duskendale's violet eyes began to burn again, his
scarred but regal face growing dark. "If you decide to continue this war, however, when I
defeat you—and I will defeat you—there will be no such consideration. I will reclaim what
you tried to take from my family with fire and blood; the blood of you and your kin, down to
the very last drop."

A quiet hung over the field then, only interrupted by the sounds of the burial party recovering
dead rebel nobles all around them. The rebel leaders glanced among one another as Aelor
Targaryen and his men looked on in silence, the tension in the air clear.

Eddard moved first, taking the same motions his ancestor Torrhen Stark had three centuries
ago. Ned slid off of his garron smoothly, scared as any man would be but inwardly confident
that this was the right course of action for his family and his people. Aerys, the man who
killed my father and brother, is dead. Rhaegar, the man who kidnapped my sister, is dead.
Aelor, my only chance at seeing my sister again, is offering terms we won't see again if we
continue to fight and lose. Whatever happens to me, this is best for my people. For my sister.

For my child.

Eddard Stark, Lord Paramount of the North, walked smoothly to stand a few paces in front of
Aelor Targaryen's black destrier, meeting the Prince's eyes for only a moment before
dropping to his knee, head bowed. He heard others follow his lead, a great hulking presence
appearing at his right that could only be the Greatjon, a muffled curse accompanying the
action that Eddard was sure the big Umber didn't like but was following his liege lord in. A
few moments later another sank to his knee to Eddard's left, the grunt of pain accompanying
it confirming him as Jon Arryn, Lord Paramount of the Vale.

Before long, each rebel saddle was empty, the space between the two sides filled with
kneeling men. Sitting above them all Aelor Targaryen watched, face impassive but heart, for
the first time in months, at peace.
 XXII

The King was dead.

Elia Martell read and reread the first line of Aelor's message over and over, her stomach
hollow. Rumors had of course been filtering into King's Landing for several days, but the
parchment in her hand confirmed their authenticity. Rhaegar Targaryen, the first of his name
and her husband, had been slain in a shallow ford of the Trident by Robert Baratheon, who
had soon after followed his hated enemy into death at the hands of the Dragon of
Duskendale.

He's dead. After everything, he goes and gets himself killed. My husband is dead.

Elia blinked slowly several times, unable to get past the first line of Aelor's letter. She was
certain there was important information contained in the following lines; was the war still
going? Had her brother survived? What of Ser Barristan? Those questions and their potential
answers took a backseat to the overwhelming fact that her husband, adulterer he may be, was
dead, and the ramifications that fact brought with it.

My son is the King of the Iron Throne.

The mere thought terrified her. She had always known Aegon would one day be Lord of the
Seven Kingdoms, but she had anticipated the crown passing to him when he was a man, not a
child. She'd anticipated Aegon having children of his own to succeed him and a lifetime of
grooming for the role as King. She'd anticipated him being ready.

But no. Aegon was a baby, woefully unprepared for anything other than his next meal and
nap, yet now he was suddenly saddled with the pressure of containing a massive realm at war
with itself. Well, she supposed he wasn't truly saddled with that responsibility, at least not
yet; it would fall to Aelor, and to Elia herself.

Fear ate at her as the thought of her son being a king continued to settle. Child kings
normally didn't fare well, and while Elia knew in her heart Aelor cared too much for his
nephew to attempt anything untoward, her mind also knew that it was likely many lords
would call for Aegon to be usurped by his uncle. Would someone attempt to push that agenda
along by removing the Infant King through less than legal methods? Did this mean Rhaenys
was heir to the throne, or was that now Aelor?

Elia didn't know. It was all too much, this sudden change of events. What she wouldn't give
for it to be a year ago, when events such as these seemed impossible.

It took her a long period of time to be able to read past that first, damning line that brought so
many emotions booming in all at once—she felt she should cry, yet she did not—that she had
to go blank for a moment, reading Aelor's words as if his opening statement wasn't there.

It didn't work of course. There was no getting around the death of a king, much less when
that king had been your husband and father to your children.
She did finally manage to finish Aelor's short, concise letter, a very to-the-point update on
events. Rhaegar and Robert were dead. Renfred too, the great big man that had been Aelor's
constant companion since they were toddling children. She felt a deep sadness at that; the
man's widow Malessa was due any day now, a pretty if plump woman whom Elia had found
to be almost unbearably sweet. Her father Lord Buckwell had been in charge of King's
Landing when the Princess of Dorne arrived, a competent if not quite gifted regent. He had
acquiesced to her taking over almost as soon as she'd docked, and had been doing his upmost
to be of help since.

Now his daughter was a widow though not yet nineteen, pregnant with the child of a man it
would never meet, a situation similar but so much worse than Elia's own. The Queen of the
Iron Throne—or was it now Dowager Queen, though she was only six and twenty—had
always heard war was terrible, but now she saw just why.

Many others had died too it seemed. Her brother was alive and well, something Elia thanked
the Seven for, but two of the three Byrch brothers were now dead, as well as every knight in
Aelor's personal retinue. Various other lords she had once known personally had lost their
lives as well, corpses over the quarrel of a few men.

If she hadn't been ready for Rhaegar's death, she certainly hadn't been ready for news that the
other rebellious lords had surrendered. A relief, as palpable as her fear for Aegon, flooded her
body at the news that this stupid war that she had helped start was now apparently over. Is
this all it took, the death of a few important men to end it? Why did so many thousand
innocent ones have to die as well, if their death is all it took?

Regrets, hopes and fears dominated the Dornishwoman's thoughts for hours as she sat in her
solar, dawn turning to afternoon, Elia shooing away Ashara when she entered to check on her.
She said nothing to her close companion, but her presence alerted her to the fact that this
news must be spread. Aegon was now a King, ready or not, and Rhaegar had meant much on
a personal level to more than just Elia.

Arthur Dayne happened to be on duty outside her chambers, a convenient if unwanted truth
that gave her no time to think of how to handle it. Arthur had been Rhaegar's best friend and
closest confidant, and vice versa.

So when she blurted out word of the King's death, knowing not in her own personal turmoil
how to soften the blow, the handsome knight of the Kingsguard turning as pale as his armor.

"D…dead?" Arthur, normally the essence of composure and chivalric grace, stumbled back
against the wall, unable to stand straight under the weight of the news. "How?"

"Baratheon killed him. Aelor in turn killed Baratheon." Elia, feeling as untethered and hollow
as the Sword of the Morning looked, could only watch as the knight buckled slightly, unable
to root herself from her spot to grab him.

"The King…"

"Is dead, Arthur. My husband is dead." Elia finally managed to break herself from her
turmoil-induced paralysis, stepping up to place her hands on Arthur's shoulders. "Aegon is
your King now, Arthur. You owe it to Rhaegar to protect him every bit as well as you would
have his father." The Sword of the Morning nodded shakily, battling to find his inner
equilibrium. "Go to your King now. His protection is paramount."

Arthur stood to his feet, breathing slowing, recapturing his balance and calm disposition.
"Rhaegar instructed me to watch you particularly, Elia."

"I'm instructing you to watch his son. Go, Arthur."

It took a good amount more of haggling, the familiar bickering giving them both a bit of a
tether in the pit of turmoil that was about to engulf the city. Arthur did eventually go, and Elia
found herself wandering, thinking over all that had happened and all that might. The war
ending was a great thing, she knew, but it was only one of the problems that faced her son.
Would the Lords call for another Great Council, trying to replace an infant with a proven
warrior? Where was Lyanna Stark?

It was all too much, which is probably why she didn't see the men in time.

They were dressed in the livery of the guards of the Red Keep, five burly men climbing the
stairs from the lower levels to enter the empty gallery Elia found herself wandering in. While
that in and of itself wasn't unusual, the man who followed them closely certainly was.

He was filthy and haggard, once shaved head now covered in gold and white hair that gave
proof to his balding state, but there was no mistaking Tywin Lannister. The white armored
being behind him, equally as filthy but with a much fuller head of hair framing a stupidly
attractive face, was also easily recognizable.

This was all odd. Jaime Lannister was supposed to be in the Westerlands, recovering at his
home of Casterly Rock from injuries sustained while trying to defend the Mad King from the
freakish assassin and his pig-like partner who had infiltrated the Red Keep during the
attempted Sack of King's Landing. Yet there the young man stood, unkempt but standing tall,
no sign of an injury anywhere in his stance.

And his father? Well, Tywin Lannister was supposed to be in the black cells, rotting for the
attempted murder of her children. And her.

Elia's mind connected the dots too late. A big hand grabbed her shoulder, whirling her
around. The dagger didn't feel sharp as it plunged into her stomach behind the force of
another apparent guardsman; no, it felt more like she'd been punched, the blade plunging
deep and driving her breath from her lungs. The reeking, clearly not-an-actual-guard who
wielded it withdrew the blade and drove it again, once, twice more, Elia only able to stare at
her killer as her body weakened, finding herself dropping to her knees before falling on her
side, curling up as pain started wracking her body.

Just when Tywin Lannister approached to stand over her she wasn't sure, her vision going
hazy. Her hearing, however, remained clear. "Kill the boy and his sister."

"My lord, we need to get you out of here."

"They will not be ready for an internal threat. The dragon thought it had the lion defeated. It
is time to prove otherwise. Kill the infant."

"Father…"

"Now."

As Tywin Lannister sneered down at her one last time, Elia started to laugh, a choked, awful
sound. She was dying she knew, but laughing seemed like such a good idea. In Lannister's
need for revenge he was sending his men to their death. Arthur Dayne, the Sword of the
Morning, was guarding that boy Tywin was planning to kill. Manfred Darke, the squat, fierce
knight with the strength and toughness of a boar, was with Rhaenys, and he would protect her
to the very end.

Those men were going to die, and Tywin Lannister was going to follow. Even if he managed
to escape the city, Aelor would track the old lion down if it took the remainder of his life.

Elia knew she wouldn't see her son grow into the great king he would be. She wouldn't see
her daughter marry, her grandchildren grow, or be able to finally kiss the face of her dead
husband's brother, something she never realized she wanted so much until that moment. She
was going to die here on a stone floor, killed by a man with the pride of a thousand kings.

And it was okay.

Her children would live, their would-be killers chopped down by two of the greatest knights
she'd ever met. She knew it in her heart, just as she knew she was going to die. Her son
would be King, guided by his uncle who loved him. Her daughter would be a Princess, with
more dolls than dresses thanks to that very same man.

Elia realized something in her last moments that she had never understood; no matter the
world's troubles, no matter its constant state of terror and turmoil, it would all, in the end, be
alright.

Something soothed her as the darkness closed in, a wave of calm and tranquility she hadn't
felt since before the Tourney of Harrenhal. Elia Martell, so haunted and hurt in life, was
finally at peace.
 XXIII

True to his word, Aelor Targaryen has taken into consideration the reasoning behind the
rebellion.

The Prince and a few of his handpicked men had proposed and bickered for hours while the
rebellion leaders waited out of earshot. A pair of pavilions and tables had been drug across
the ford being slowly cleared of bodies for the key players on both sides to sit, still firmly in
neutral ground. There was no guard on them, nor had their weapons been taken, leaving the
Prince's implications clear; if a Lord Paramount had a change of heart he could leave and
continue the war, though the Dragon of Duskendale had made it perfectly clear that his first
offer of terms would be his most lenient.

For Eddard Stark, they had been lenient indeed.

When the rebellious lords had been summoned, they entered the Prince's pavilion to find
Aelor seated at the head of the table, Barristan Selmy slightly behind his chair on one side
and Alaric Langward on the other. Five other men sat the table as well, though three chairs
were left open for the three Lord Paramount's, men Eddard learned were Randyll Tarly of
Horn Hill, Jon Connington of Griffin's Roost, Cleyton Byrch of Byrch Hall, Oberyn Martell
of Dorne and Kevan Lannister of the Westerlands.

All of the men in the tent watched as the Lord's took their seats, Aelor speaking directly to
Eddard once all of the men had done so. "Lord Stark, your reason to rebel was stronger than
anyone else here. We have not forgotten that." Aelor stared at him for a long moment, eyes
thoughtful. "Your wife is with child, yes?"

Fear for that child plunged like a dagger into Eddard's heart, though he managed to keep his
face impassive and firm. "Yes, Your Grace. She will be due soon."

Aelor nodded. "When the child is five namedays old, he or she will come to King's Landing
as a ward of the crown, serving as a companion to King Aegon if it is a boy or Princess
Rhaenys if it is a girl. From that age on they will alternate yearly between King's Landing and
Winterfell, living one year in the Red Keep before returning North for a year to learn the
customs of its people. This will continue until he or she is six and ten, when the crown will
choose a suitable marriage."

Eddard waited for more, but none came. "Is…Is that all, Your Grace?"

Aelor shrugged. "As I said, your reasons for rebelling were the strongest of them all. Half of
the Starks were wiped out by my family, and you would have lost your head as well if you
hadn't called your banners. As it is, we will require ten hostages from the North, children of
your high lords between the ages of eight and six and ten and of different houses, to serve as
pages or squires for five years to ensure your bannermen do not revolt against either the
crown or you."
Targaryen gave Eddard no time to comment, turning his attentions to Hoster Tully. "This will
serve a dual purpose with you, Lord Tully, as the child will be your first grandchild. Your
involvement in the war was driven strictly by ambition, not slights and offences against your
family. I offered you a royal marriage to either of your daughters, and you bypassed it for a
chance to marry them both into two other regions. You saw an opportunity to increase your
family's standing, and your ambition drove you to try and take it. You failed."

Eddard's goodfather remained calm, meeting the Prince's eyes. Aelor held them, own eyes
burning, as he continued. "Your son Edmure will be sent to King's Landing as soon as you
return to Riverrun, to serve as my squire until I deem him fit to knight. Your bannermen will
also offer ten hostages of the appropriate ages, all of different houses, to serve where the
crown sees fit to place them. A marriage will be decided by the crown for Edmure as well.
Your daughters will remain untouched with their husbands, though it was argued that an
annulment between Lord Jon and Lysa may have been warranted, but the vassalage of
Harrenhal and its own subsequent vassals is hereby retracted, Lord Walter Whent now a
direct vassal of King Aegon the Sixth."

Tully took it all calmly, nodding when Aelor was finished. "I accept these terms."

"I imagined you would." Aelor turned to face the final lord Paramount, Jon Arryn. "Your role
in the rebellion was also somewhat understandable, though not as much as Stark's. Your lords
will also provide hostages, and any child of your union with Lysa will have the same
situation as Lord Stark's own firstborn. The Vale will forfeit a quarter of its foreign trade
revenue over the next five years to the crown for war reparations."

Arryn slowly nodded. The second son of Aerys sat back in his chair, eyeing them all. "I find
these terms to be more than generous, but I believe they are just since you willingly bent the
knee when you could have prolonged this war for months. You have my word, for what it's
worth to you, that the hostages will be treated well and cared for as is befitting of their
stations, serving as squires or ladies-in-waiting and educated by the best tutors in King's
Landing. You rebelled against the crown, something that won't be forgotten, but my family
forced your hand, and that cannot be forgotten either. If one or more of you find these terms
unacceptable, you will be free to return unharmed to your men and continue this war, though
I believe you know the punishments I will dole out if you do. If you all however agree, I as
Hand of the King welcome you back into the King's Peace."

Each man looked at one another, Eddard meeting his goodfather's eyes and tilting his head in
question, as Tully would be the most weakened afterwards. The Lord of Riverrun inclined his
head, and Eddard turned back to the Targaryen Prince. "We accept."

Aelor nodded. "Excellent, my lords. Let us put this conflict behind us.

"A question, Your Grace," Jon Arryn said. "What of Stannis and Renly?"

The Dragon of Duskendale glanced to the table for a moment before looking up. "They
followed their brother's lead, as is expected of younger siblings. I cannot fault them for that.
There will be reparations for the Stormlands of course, including hostages—I intend Renly to
foster either with me or a loyalist house—but I am not cruel. Robert is dead, as is my brother.
The younger Baratheon's will not be unjustly punished for the elder's actions."
He looked to Ser Kevan as well, the Lannister knight watching the proceedings quietly. "The
Westerlands will be reprimanded as well, Lord Tywin in particular, but Ser Kevan and his
men served us faithfully on the Trident. Details will be worked out once peace is assured. I
know my father has damaged the Targaryen name, as did my brother, but I intend to repair
those damages promptly."

The Prince of the Iron Throne stood, Eddard noting as he himself and the others lords gained
their feet that Aelor had to brace himself on his chair to do so. He was injured as well, it
seems. "Go to your men, my lords. Stand them down, speak with them on these matters. I will
send a retinue of men led by Lord Tarly to gather the names of those hostages you decide
upon, and will visit your camp at nightfall to straighten out any details left lingering. Thank
you, my lords, for seeing sense."

The men nodded, turning to shuffle out of the tent. "Lord Eddard, remain a moment," the
Prince called softly. Jon Arryn met his eyes before nodding and leaving the tent, cane in
hand. "Oberyn, Barristan and Alaric remain as well. The rest of you leave us. Lord Tarly,
prepare your men and escort the lords back to their camp."

Once the tent had emptied, Prince Aelor limped to stand in front of Eddard. "I know the
question burning in your mind, Ned." He turned to the map across the table, lightly placing a
finger in northern Dorne. "And I have your answer. I do know where Lyanna is."

The soar of hope in Eddard's chest was dulled by the look on the Targaryen's face as he
turned to face him again. His tone was somber as he spoke, violet eyes dull. "But there is
something you must know first."
 XXIV

By the third man Ser Manfred Darke of the Kingsguard was fairly certain he had gathered all
the information he was going to, but he interrogated and killed the rest of them anyway.

Five men had been captured in the murder of Elia Martell and the attempted murders of
Aegon and Rhaenys Targaryen. Five of them had been wounded by Ser Manfred and Ser
Arthur Dayne, yielding once they'd been bled, and the sixth had surrendered when he realized
he was suddenly all alone with two infuriated knights of the Kingsguard.

It was determined that ten men had infiltrated the Red Keep dressed as Targaryen guardsmen,
stealing their way to the Black Cells to free Lord Tywin Lannister and his son Jaime. Eight
had been sent to kill the new King of the Iron Throne and his sister, the last two preceding on
with the Lannister patriarch and his apparently very-much whole son. Those eight had been
expecting one Kingsguard knight, and with eight to one odds they had an advantage over
even a white cloak. What they'd gotten, however, was two Kingsguard knights, and if it
weren't for Manfred and Dayne both deciding they needed as many alive as possible, the
murderers would have to a man died outside the nursery.

The fight had been brutal, quick and entirely one-sided, but by the time the eight had been
subdued and Elia Martell's body found the remaining Westlanders were gone.

Dayne had been inconsolable. While Manfred didn't care for the pompous, flowery cunt, he
wished the man had been brought low by something other than the death of sweet Elia. He'd
bloodyliked the Dornishwoman, and Manfred as a rule hated everyone. When he'd found her
body curled in on itself in one of the first level gallery's, her thin form in a pool of her own
blood, he'd never felt such failure or pain in his life.

He could only imagine what the Prince would do when he arrived.

Lord Buckwell had taken over regent duties again, seamlessly to the citizens of King's
Landing. They'd kept both the death of the King and Queen quiet so far, though rumors of the
former's death had been circulating for days. Manfred had led a detail of guards after the
Lannisters, but the two men had disappeared without a trace. He'd scoured the countryside for
miles around, Varys and his little birds or whatever the hell they were called searching just as
ardently, but all he had gotten out of it was an even worse disposition than normal when he
finally returned to King's Landing.

Arthur Dayne hadn't gotten anywhere with the prisoners, but even when interrogating a
murderer the knight was held back by notions of honor and kindness. Manfred had no such
inhibitions, and combined with his foul mood he had gotten answers quickly.

Those answers had led him here, to the maester's tower.

Manfred didn't give enough fucks to keep this quiet. He flung the door open, storming into
Grandmaester Pycelle's chambers, Donnel Buckwell and his mustache close behind him. The
King and Princess were with Renfred Ryker's new widow and Ashara Dayne, locked in her
chambers surrounded by ten guardsmen Manfred knew were loyal—trusted was too strong a
word, because fuck everyone—and Arthur Dayne, all on high alert.

Five other guardsmen spread out, Manfred caring not a whit for what he smashed as he
bulled through the maester's chambers, throwing open additional doors and pulling up his
mattress, searching everywhere for the aging man. With a bellowed curse he threw the
mattress aside. "Find him! Find him now!"

A crash sounded overhead, and Lord Buckwell instantly started moving. "The rookery,
Manfred!" The knight of the Kingsguard was short with short legs, but he overtook the taller,
middle-aged regent before the Lord of Antlers could even reach the stairs. More sounds came
from upstairs as he ascended two steps at a time, the squawk of ravens that Manfred found so
bloody annoying accompanied by another crash. When the knight of the Kingsguard came to
the rookery door he found it unsurprisingly barred from the inside, meant to buy Pycelle
more time.

In most cases it probably would, but Manfred was too pissed to let a measly barred door stop
him. He lowered his boulder-like shoulder and charged, splintering the wood as he burst into
the rookery room, door hinges squeaking and ravens squawking. Pycelle, dressed in the robe
and chain of the Citadel, grey beard long and actions panicked, shuffled towards the release
window of the rookery, a large raven on his arm, its legs strapped with a rolled parchment.

Ser Manfred Darke let out a roar as he charged forward, drawing his sword from its sheath as
the maester reached the window, Pycelle letting a panicked shout escape his lips. The
treacherous teacher stuck his arm out of the opening, the great black bird perched there
opening its wings to take flight.

Manfred Darke had never hit truer in his extensive life of swordplay. His blade darted out of
the window, his massive form shoving Pycelle's infirm one out of the way, bringing his blade
down as hard as his bulging arm could. His blade cleaved completely through the raven's left
wing and part of its head, killing the bird instantly, sending its carcass and whatever message
it bore spiraling down towards the courtyard.

Manfred didn't watch its body long, propelling his sword arm backwards to smash an elbow
into the Grandmaester of the Citadel's nose, Pycelle shouting out in pain as bone and cartilage
was crushed, the blow knocking him backwards to the ground. With a curse of rage the
knight of the Kingsguard hurled his sword aside, intending to break this traitor one bone at a
time. Pycelle tried to scoot backwards, moving much quicker than the maester normally did,
one hand on his ruined nose. Manfred grabbed him by his robe, pulling the whimpering old
man up with one arm as the big knight drew his right fist back.

"Manfred, stop!" Buckwell shouted as he ran into the room, chest heaving, causing the ugly
knight to hesitate. While he by no means liked Buckwell, Manfred didn't quite hate him
either, and the dealings they had had in years past as Aelor's bannerman and sworn sword
respectively had fostered some level of respect in the knight for the competent, calm Lord of
the Antlers.

"Why the fuck should I?" Manfred shot back, barely able to keep from tearing the
whimpering, pathetic traitor in his grasp into multiple chunks of dead turncoat.
"Because we need to know what else he has done, and even you can't get answers from a
dead man," Buckwell reasoned, ignoring Pycelle as he tried to caution Manfred.

"I'll just break a few bones."

"He's older than even me, Manfred. The shock that comes with broken bones might kill him."
Donnel Buckwell maintained eye contact. "Prince Aelor is mere days away from the city.
He'll want more than a few words with this piece of shit as well, wouldn't you say?"

Manfred cursed inwardly as Buckwell played the only card he knew for certain would work.
It still took everything the newest knight of the Kingsguard had to stop from breaking the
Grandmaester's bones one by one, but Manfred finally dropped the whimpering man to the
ground. "We'll take him to a cell, somewhere nice enough to keep the fucker alive."
Guardsmen filtered around Lord Buckwell to do as they were ordered, lifting the crying
traitor up by his arms.

Manfred glared at him as they started to drag him away, following closely behind. "And
someone get that damn raven's body. We need to see what else this piece of shit has done
beside help kill the Queen."
 XXV

King's Landing had both changed and stayed the same.

The streets of King's Landing had slowly regained their bustle, the terrors of the attempted
pillage still evident in places but slowly being forgotten. That bustle slowly died again,
however, when the royal party started down the street, Aelor at its head, the wagon and its
boxed burden behind him. The bells of the Sept of Baelor began to ring, confirming to the
citizens crowding the entire street what they'd been hearing as rumor.

The King was dead. Long live the King.

Aelor's army was setting up camp outside the city's gates, Randyll Tarly in command, the
rebel forces under strict orders from the three Lord Paramounts to follow Tarly's commands
as ardently as they would their own. Stark, Arryn and Tully were father back in line, bringing
up the end of the somber procession as they went forward to swear fealty to King Aegon the
Sixth. Rhaegar, dead now for days, had been cremated at the Trident, as was Targaryen
tradition. His armor, sword and shield, however, were displayed on the wagon, along with the
crown his brother had seldom worn in his short reign.

The normally loud streets were quiet, all eyes on the empty suit of armor or the Prince riding
in front of it, scarred face solemn and just a touch impatient.

Aelor was ready to see Elia again. He was ready to hold Aegon and tickle Rhaenys. The
Seven did he want to just gallop on ahead, but tradition demanded he escort his brother's
'remains' to the Great Sept of Baelor. He knew that was dreadful of him, to so desperately
want to shrike this last duty he could perform for his brother, but Rhaegar was dead.
Whatever their differences that still pained Aelor greatly, but he didn't see how escorting an
empty suit of crushed armor would make any buggering difference.

Yet escort he did, Barristan, Oberyn and Alaric all riding abreast directly behind the wagon.
The streets cleared before him, Warrior's massive form appearing as a stone splitting the
current. Aelor's hip throbbed, the injury already beginning to heal but still buggering
annoying, but even that discomfort was nothing when he thought of holding Elia.

Aelor knew there would be quite a bit of political fallout over any relationship the two might
form, especially if it were to form too soon after Rhaegar's death, but the second son of Aerys
couldn't find it in himself to care in the slightest. He'd killed dozens of men, lost dozens of
friends and lost two brothers—one of blood and one of choice—to keep Elia and the children
safe. The Seven themselves couldn't stop him now.

Only, it seemed they could.

As soon as Rhaegar's armor was to the Sept Aelor had kicked Warrior into a canter, the
citizens of King's Landing diving out of the way of the thundering warhorse and his rider.
Thoughts of Elia filled his head as he nigh on flew towards the Red Keep, the capitulated
lords forgotten, the pain from Buckets—Theo Wull, of the northern clans Aelor had learned
—axe completely forgotten. The gates to the Red Keep were barely opened in time for the
Targaryen Prince to gallop through it, the second gate at the end of the drawbridge of
Maegor's Holdfast the same.

Aelor had reined up, jumping off of Warrior's back with barely contained excitement from the
prospect of seeing Elia and the children after more than half a year of war, when he saw Ser
Manfred Darke and Donnel Buckwell approaching from the Holdfast, their faces somber.

"Manfred," The Prince called cheerily. "It's been a long time."

"Yes Your Grace." The ugly man replied, eyes downcast. That struck Aelor as odd, because
Manfred never looked downcast. Barely-contained rage was much more his style.

"Bloody hell, Manfred, what's wrong? The war is over, friend, and that white cloak suits
you!"

"The war is not over, Your Grace," Lord Buckwell said, his eyes also on the ground. "I fear it
has only begun."

A feeling of dread chased the excitement he had felt mere seconds ago away. His smile
disappeared, replaced by a concerned frown even as Oberyn, Barristan and Alaric galloped
into the courtyard. "What has happened?" Aelor demanded over the clop of hooves.

"Tywin Lannister and his son have escaped, Your Grace," Manfred said. "Fucking Maester
Pycelle smuggled in men dressed as our own buggering guardsmen."

"He then sent ravens to all of Lannister's bannermen remaining in the Westerlands, ordering
them to rally at Casterly Rock," Buckwell cut in. "It only stands to reason he intends to fight,
especially considering he doesn't know the other rebellious lords laid down their arms."

Aelor's face hardened. "He will still fight even after he finds out." Aelor cursed. "We should
have killed him before we left King's Landing." Aelor shook his head, anger at the audacity
of the lion and the treachery of the maester burning in his stomach, but a wave of relief was
on its fringes. He had been expecting much worse from the appearance of his two loyal men.
"This is a setback, but it is not the end of the world, friends. Lannister cannot possibly hold
out against us, no matter his numbers."

"There is more, Aelor," Buckwell said. He opened his mouth to speak, but words seemed to
catch in his throat.

Manfred delivered the news, as blunt in speech as he was in all other aspects. "Elia is dead.
Lannister had her killed as he fled, and tried to have the children killed as well."

Everything went cold all at once. Aelor Targaryen heard the choked cry from behind him,
knowing in some recess of his mind that it was Oberyn, but Manfred's statement was all he
could think of, the words visualized in his mind's eye, staring at them for ages. Elia is dead.
Manfred's stony voice rang in his ears, delivering the message again and again. Elia is dead.
The entire reason he was still alive, the very thing that had given him the strength to defeat
Robert Baratheon, had been ripped from his clutches at the very last. Memories sprinted
through his mind, from the first time he had seen the Dornish Princess to the last, and every
time in between.

Something snapped in Aelor at that moment, his fists clenching as he stood to his full height,
face no longer a man's, replaced by the feral savagery of a dragon. "I'm going to burn them
all." He said, voice low but clear. "I'm going to burn them all."

The storm that shook the eastern coast of Westeros that night seemed to give tidings of what
was to come.

The wind blew Barristan Selmy's cloak wildly, the thundering rain singing as it forcefully
beat against his white armor. Twice he had to wrestle his horse back under control after the
palfrey spooked at a loud clap of thunder, eyes white with terror, and he'd had to shout at the
gate guard from less than a foot away to be heard. It was truly a shit time to be riding, but
Barristan had a mission. It wasn't given to him by a member of the royal family but instead
his own conscience and a fear for the man he thought of as a son.

Aelor was no longer Aelor. He hadn't done anything drastic yet, but Barristan knew the man
better than anyone, and Aelor Targaryen was no longer in his right mind. Barristan knew as
well as anyone the eccentrics that could come with the Targaryen name, having seen it
firsthand during the reign of Aerys, but Aelor had always had his head set firmly on his
shoulders, never showing the madness that so often manifested in his family. Aelor had been
the brilliant side of the Targaryen coin.

Except for in his blackest rages. In those, even the Dragon of Duskendale was...unstable. His
battlerages were different, those brought on by adrenaline and the need to protect his loved
ones, and those didn't worry Barristan the Bold. But the other type, the type that Aelor let
fester and grow until his life's goal became the destruction of whatever he had centered that
rage on...those concerned the knight of the Kingsguard. He'd had that hatred for Robert
Baratheon, and he had gotten his satisfaction by killing the man in the ford, but this new rage
didn't seem to be focused on just Tywin Lannister. No, it seemed to be focused on the
Lannister name in general.

And that terrified Barristan.

Elia's death had come at the worst possible time. While Barristan was devastated to learn of
the Dornishwoman's murder and would be the same under any circumstance, the blow it dealt
Aelor so soon after the death of his brother and lifelong friend could not be underestimated.
The second son of Aerys had dropped into the blackest rage Barristan had seen, the very
name Lannister making the Prince clench his fists and grit his teeth. The Red Viper was by no
means helping, Oberyn in his own anger at his sister's murder calling for the head of every
Lannister they could find, even those currently serving in the loyalist army.

Aelor had denied him so far, but Barristan knew. Barristan knew it was only a matter of time
before Aelor's fury and anguish would make him buckle to the Prince of Dorne's insistence,
and then even Ser Kevan, who was innocent of everything except being Tywin's brother,
wouldn't be safe.
That is why Barristan was riding in the middle of the night in a raging storm. Aelor may be
able to save his family from his father's damages, but he couldn't save himself from his own
anger. That fell to Barristan, and the knight of the Kingsguard could only pray that Aelor
would someday forgive him.

Ser Kevan's tent was in the middle of the Westermen, its flaps latched down against the
raging storm but with light from candles or a lantern inside casting shadows on its walls.
There were nog guards posted, what with the war thought to be over and the army merely
waiting for Aelor to bid them leave to go, so Barristan reached the flap unopposed, slapping
his hand against the canvas quickly.

It took several moments for Ser Kevan to untie the flaps and usher him in, moments that felt
like lifetimes to Barristan. As soon as he stepped into the dry, noticing several other men
seated in the large tent who could from their looks only be Lannisters, he whirled back
towards Ser Kevan. "You need to go, my lord."

Kevan furled a brow. "Go?"

"Your brother and nephew escaped the black cells with the help of Pycelle. They have gone
to the Westerlands to raise the remaining men there."

Kevan's face grew even more confused, trying to make sense of what Barristan was saying.
"Jaime? He was wounded defending…"

Barristan cut him off, voice betraying the urgency of his words. "No he wasn't, and there isn't
time to explain." Barristan reached out to place his hands on Kevan's shoulders, staring him
in the face as he spoke to make sure the Lannister knight knew the implications of what he
was saying. "Tywin had Elia Martell killed. He tried to do the same to King Aegon and
Princess Rhaenys, but was stopped. Aelor is out of his mind with grief and anger, and Oberyn
is no better. They want blood; Lannister blood."

Kevan stepped back in shock. "But we here have served faithfully—"

"I know that, and somewhere deep inside so does Aelor, or you'd be dead already. But until
Tywin is brought to justice, no Lannister is safe. For the love of the Seven, Kevan, flee, return
to your family and take them somewhere far away from all of this until it is over, until Aelor
is himself again."

"My brother…"

"Killed an innocent woman and tried to kill her small children, one an infant. Nothing you
can do will save Tywin, Kevan; he has sealed his own fate. The only thing you can do is hide
your family until all of this is over. When Tywin is dead Aelor may be able to see sense
again, but until then you must run." Barristan turned to the other Lannister men, who were in
varying steps of standing up. "Run, all of you. Take your families and hide. Go, now!"

To their credit they needed no more prompting, Kevan and the others scrambling to obey.
Barristan watched them as they pulled on boots and grabbed swords before rushing out of the
tent, horses neighing even over the massive storm as they were hastily saddled and kicked
into action, riding out into the whirling winds and rain.

Barristan calmly remounted his own palfrey as soon as Ser Kevan was gone, turning it to
anxiously trot back towards the city of King's Landing.

He could only hope his actions hadn't just cost him his head.
 XXVI

Aelor's rage was terrifying to behold, but it certainly made things happen quickly.

The Dragon of Duskendale was the obvious choice as Aegon's regent, all agreed, and in that
capacity he was moving quickly. Everyone knew it was solely so he could pursue the
Lannister's sooner, but none were complaining as more was getting done in a few days than
normally got done in a few months.

Aegon Targaryen, the sixth of his name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar and the First Men,
Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm, had been crowned two days after
Aelor's arrival. There had been no grand ceremony, no feast, no nothing, merely a heavy
guard of fifty men-at-arms and three Kingsguard knights escorting a carriage through the
windblown streets in a steady rain, the strong winds from the hours before having subsided
but leaving debris scattered across the wet streets.

Inside that carriage the King of the Seven Kingdoms had slept in the arms of Ashara Dayne,
oblivious to what was around him, his sister Rhaenys squirming restlessly in her uncle
Aelor's lap. The toddler, unlike her brother, was fully aware of Elia's absence, having
developed enough of a vocabulary in the months Aelor had been gone to repeatedly ask after
'mama'. It had broken the Targaryen Prince's heart each time, increasing his rage at the
Lannisters with each syllable.

He was truly going to kill them all. Every last one.

A few lords had grumbled that a Great Council was necessary, the implication clearly to
crown Aelor Targaryen instead of the baby Aegon, but all whispering had stopped when the
Dragon of Duskendale had caught wind of it. He'd reacted violently, informing the lords and
ladies gathered in King's Landing that Aegon was King and would remain so, stating in no
uncertain terms that he would remove the tongue of anyone who suggested otherwise.

It was King Aerys-esque, but also superbly effective. No more whispers were heard.

The rebellious Lord Paramount's had sworn fealty to the Infant King soon after the simple
coronation, though their intent to depart afterwards was postponed. Each had sworn the
remnants of their men to Aelor and the loyalist army, to track down and defeat the murderous
Lannister. There was an underlying current of hope that good service in the coming battles
would result in a diminution of the already lenient reprimands made, though whether or not it
would happen even Aelor hadn't decided on.

The Small Council had been chosen quickly, only missing a master of ships, whom Aelor
claimed to have chosen already but hadn't given the name, and a Grandmaester, soon to be
chosen by the Conclave at the Citadel. Pycelle's head now rested on a spike along the walls of
the Red Keep, joined by those of the other eight Lannister men responsible for Elia Martell's
murder. The old man's death had been carried out by the dead Queen's brother Oberyn, and
Barristan could only suppose it had been agonizingly slow.
Bronze Yohn Royce had been appointed master of laws, a gesture intended to start binding
the wounds in the realm the war had torn open. The Lord of Runestone was highly competent
and respected, as well as a suitable man for the duty, and it proved that Aelor didn't intend for
any bad blood to remain between the once opposing forces. Barristan himself was standing in
for Lord Commander Gerold Hightower on the small council, his sworn brother still with the
Stark girl in Dorne. Lord Wyman Manderly, already portly and likely to become much more
so, had been appointed the Master of Coin. The Lord of White Harbor seemed much more
shrewd and capable than Barristan's original impression of the man, and his family's devotion
to both the Starks and the Faith of the Seven made his presence both signifying and prudent.

Varys had retained the role of master of whisperers, his circle of contacts and the power he
could wield invaluable, though Aelor clearly held the spymaster partly responsible for the
Lannister men's infiltration. The Spider had partially made up for it by placing most of his
assets into tracking the movements of the Western bannermen, giving the loyalist crucial
information concerning who had received ravens, who hadn't, and who was obeying them.

To a man the early reports indicated they all were.

"There is nothing he can do, surely he must see that," Bronze Yohn was saying. "We have
nearly sixty thousand men outside of the city, with fifteen thousand more finishing the siege
of Storm's End. At best Lannister can raise thirty thousand, and that is a stretch. His retinue,
half of his lords and their retinues all either died in this very city or currently serve us."

"Can their loyalty be trusted?" Asked Manderly, his chair pushed farther from the table than
the others to account for his belly.

"As much as yours can, Lord Treasurer." Varys gestured towards the window of the Small
Council Chambers. "Half of the men outside were not so long ago fighting the other half."

"My liege lord bent the knee to the Targaryen name and bid me serve them," Manderly shot
back. "The Manderly's owe the Starks a debt we cannot hope to repay, and as such I will
serve where told until the day I die."

"I believe you, Lord Manderly," Aelor stated calmly from the head of the table. "Our war is
done, the reprimands lenient. I hold knowledge of Lord Stark's sister's whereabouts, and the
men who harmed his family so are dead. He is with us, and Lord Royce and his liege Lord
are the same. Tully by default is with us as well, as he is too closely tied to the others to join
Tywin on his own." He glanced at Barristan ever so briefly before returning his gaze to the
men surrounding the table before him. "The men of Lannister blood have all fled, but their
soldiers remain behind. They will not forsake us; they are already on the favorable side."

"The other lords follow Tywin Lannister because of fear," Lord Varys chimed in. "Fear is a
great motivator, and after the Reyens and Tarbecks all of the Western lords are too afraid for
their houses to dither from Lord Tywin's command."

The Dragon of Duskendale looked to another man at the table, grim faced and stern. Randyll
Tarly didn't hold a traditional seat on the Small Council but Aelor seemed to have created one
for him, having repeatedly referred to the Lord of Horn Hill as Chief General, making it clear
that supreme command of the loyalist force should Aelor fall would pass directly to the
balding Reachman. It was a prudent move Barristan knew, rewarding the Reach with a spot
on the Small Council as well as selecting a man born for the role. Tarly was as adept at tactics
as Aelor was at swordplay. "Lord Tarly, what do you suggest?"

The grim man stood, leaning over the table slightly to rest his finger on the red flag
representing the seat of House Lannister. "According to both the captured letter and Varys'
spies, Lannister is rallying troops at Casterly Rock. He knows he is outnumbered, but he also
knows he has no choice but to fight on after Queen Elia's death, so fight he shall. The
mountains and hills of the Westerlands give them a defensive advantage, one I am sure
Lannister will use."

"What is your suggestion?"

"Our army is mustered and ready to move, giving us time Lannister doesn't have. All we need
is to gather enough supplies to feed our men, and I already have convoys traveling through
the Reach for that purpose." Tarly moved his finger away from Casterly Rock, placing it on
King's Landing. "I suggest a two-pronged attack. The main force of forty five thousand will
travel down the Gold Road like so, subduing Deep Den and any other castles necessary along
our path." He slid his finger along the intended route as he spoke. "A second force of fifteen
thousand will enter the Westerlands here." This time he gestured towards where the
Westerlands bordered with the Riverlands west of Riverrun. "The Golden Tooth has a stout
defense, but the raven the big Kingsguard knight killed bore the message to them, so they
will be lagging behind the others and a force of mostly cavalry could reach them in time to
assault before they are prepared. Once the flanking force is through, the main force will
engage Tywin in the flats surrounding Casterly Rock and Lannisport, allowing the flankers to
descend on him from another direction."

Bronze Yohn, a decent tactician in his own right, nodded his approval. "It will be similar to
the Battle of the Trident, where your Dornishmen forded farther upriver and came in on our
rear."

Tarly nodded curtly. "Lannister will be caught on two sides, and in the flats his defensive
advantage will be gone. There is one setback, however. Lannister is smart, deadly smart, and
once he realizes the battle is lost he will likely pull a chunk of his forces back into Casterly
Rock. Any attack on that castle would be suicide, even if we had six hundred thousand men.
It has never been taken before, and for good reason."

"And Lannister is too smart to be drawn away from his true advantage," Barristan agreed.
"Even if we don't reach him in time to catch him in the flats, he will only venture far enough
to ambush us in the hills of the Westerlands, all the while maintaining a clear line of retreat
back to his seat of power."

"Our numerical advantage can be countered." Tarly spoke only to Aelor then. "Decisive
action is required, Your Grace."

"It will be like then Stormlands again, Your Grace," Barristan said. "Try to remove the Lion's
claws before they can sink into you."
Aelor stared into the map, eyes unfocused in thought. "Lord Tarly will have command of the
main force, as is his place as Chief General. I will lead the flanking force. Lord Royce, Lord
Manderly, I will need both of your assistance in selecting the strongest knights and horsemen
from the North and Vale. My own best men were wiped out at the ford. Send word to Lord
Tully to do the same." Aelor gestured to Storm's End. "I will send Lord Eddard Stark and
Lord Cleyton Byrch with a thousand men to lift the siege of Storm's End. Hopefully Stark
can talk some sense into Stannis Baratheon, for Renly's sake if nothing else. Once done, Lord
Mace will have orders to march to the Westerlands post haste, to reinforce our armies there.
Lannister is outnumbered but certainly not beaten, and I will not lose him due to being
overconfident."

It went unsaid that Stark had other business to conclude afterwards in Dorne, though
Barristan suspected every man present was aware. "When do we leave, Prince Aelor?" Tarly
asked, ever focused on the task at hand.

"Three days. That will give me time to select the best riders as well as settle things here in
King's Landing."

Lord Randyll nodded. "With the Prince's permission I will begin preparations immediately."
Aelor waved his hand and Tarly swiftly exited the room.

"Lord Royce, the City Watch is in shambles after Lannisters raid. Your first duty as master of
laws is to reorganize and resupply the men, though your choices are momentarily restricted
due to the army's proximity to departure. Ser Manly Stokeworth, the former Commander, was
killed in the Sack, and there hasn't been true time to select a successor since. Promote
internally for now, though the Seven know what caliber of men you have to choose from. We
will focus on rebuilding the Goldcloaks as soon as Lannister is subdued."

Lord Royce nodded, rising to his impressive height. "It will be done, Your Grace."

Aelor turned to Manderly as Royce followed Tarly's footsteps out of the door. "Lord Qarlton
Chelsted, your successor, displeased my father and lost his life for it. That leaves you, Lord
Wyman, in a difficult position, as no one has a notion of where our finances lay and it is your
job to find out. Your duty is more difficult than even Lord Royce's, though I trust you are
more than capable. Lord Eddard spoke highly of you, and you may recruit as much assistance
as you need."

Lord Manderly nodded and rose, grasping quickly that the meeting was over and this was his
dismissal. "I will begin at once, Your Grace." The portly man smiled knowingly. "I will
consider any debts owed to House Lannister as 'soon to be paid'."

Aelor grinned ever so slightly. "I do believe you will thrive here, Lord Wyman."

Lord Varys had risen with Manderly. "I will continue listening for the song of my little birds,
Prince Regent. The Westerlands are alive with their music." Both men, portly Northerner and
bald eunuch, exited the chamber.

Barristan found himself alone with the Prince. The knight of the Kingsguard had made no
secret of what he had done, informing Aelor the next morning of his actions. The Prince had
said nothing, though the betrayal in his eyes had torn into Barristan's soul. The fact that Aelor
had yet to move, coupled with the tenseness that had seeped into his shoulders, suggested to
Barristan Selmy that the Prince intended to discuss it now.

"Go ahead, Your Grace."

To Barristan's surprise, Aelor merely looked at him for a moment, his voice calm as ever
when he began to speak. "I don't think I will, Barristan. You betrayed me, warning Kevan
Lannister and his blond cunt cousins that I was going to kill them when I had made no such
action."

"Yet."

Aelor shot to his feet. "Who are you to judge the Dragon? They killed Elia, yet you allow
them to run? Need I remind you that you serve House Targaryen, not House Lannister? Or
are you a treacherous snake, like fucking Pycelle?"

Barristan kept his voice calm. "They didn't kill Elia; Tywin did. Ser Kevan fought loyally for
you, as did his kinsmen present. I serve House Targaryen and House Targaryen only, Aelor,
you know that."

"Do I?" The Prince's voice was calming, though the enraged—and, Barristan's realized in
horror, crazed—glint in his violet eyes did not vanish. "Two of my brothers are dead, one of
blood and one of choice. My household knights and retinues, friends all, are to a man dead.
The woman I loved was stabbed to death for being in the wrong place at the wrong time, as
well as for marrying the wrong Targaryen. And my father, the one I chose, not the one who
sired me, allowed the men who killed her to flee." Aelor shook his head. "Tell me, what in
this life do I truly know anymore?"

Barristan found his heart being shredded at the Prince's words. "Aelor, Ser Kevan…"

"Is a Lannister," the Prince spat. Barristan could only watch him as the Prince stood
straighter. "You will remain here when we march, to guard King Aegon and Princess
Rhaenys alongside Ser Arthur Dayne. Ser Manfred will accompany me on the campaign."

The knight of the Kingsguard instantly felt a jab of concern, not only for the Prince's life but
also for what he may do were Barristan not there to restrain him. "My place is with you,
Aelor."

The Dragon of Duskendale's voice was as cold as the tendrils of fear growing in Barristan
Selmy's stomach. "Your place is where the King deems fit. As his regent, I deem it to be
here." Aelor walked towards the door, leaving his mentor to watch after him in torment, only
pausing under its frame to toss one more comment over his shoulder. "Do not enter my
presence again unless called for, Ser Barristan."

Without another word, his son walked through the door.

 XIX

Malessa Rykker had taken the news of her husband's death well. It was to be expected, as she
had only known Renfred Rykker marginally and spent a grand total of fifteen hours with the
man once married. While she had been suitably saddened for the loss of her unborn child's
father, Aelor knew it was far from the bitter mourning he himself had fallen into upon Elia's
murder.

But as the Prince heard her cries from outside her chambers, he briefly wondered if she had
the worse end of the deal.

Malessa's labor came on quickly in the middle of the night, the midwives that her father
Donnel had kept permanently at the Keep entering and exiting the room rapidly as the Prince
tried desperately to stay out of the way. Aelor had requested to be notified as soon as his best
friend's widow went into labor, and now found himself leaning against a wall at the end of
the hall outside. Lord Donnel, still in rumpled bedclothes, paced the hall in worry, hands
wringing. Aelor had given up trying to calm the first time grandfather, instead tucking
himself into a corner out of the way.

He wished for the thousandth time that Renfred was here. His friend had slogged through
months of bloody campaign for the child only now coming into the world, dying in a
nameless ford for its future. And for Aelor, which is why the Prince was here now. I promised
you your child would want for nothing, Ren. I meant it. Strong shield old friend, wherever
you are.

When the first cries of a newborn filled the hall, only slightly muffled by the walls of the
Keep, Aelor thought Lord Donnel was going to faint, the middle aged man and his mustache
going stock still. It took several minutes, during which even Aelor became concerned, before
the door opened, revealing to the Prince's surprise a harried looking Ashara Dayne.

The raven haired, violet eyed woman smiled warmly at Lord Donnel, turning her body to
present to him a small bundle, though it wasn't nearly as small as Aelor was expecting. Even
from his position at the end of the hall Aelor could see the newborn's face, red and angry
looking, glaring out of the swaddles at its grandfather.

"It is a boy, Lord Donnel, and healthy as can be."

Donnel stared at the bundle, his lips turning up at the corners ever so slightly. "Seven hells
he's big."

Ashara laughed lightly. "The biggest baby the midwife has ever delivered. Malessa did
beautifully, and is recovering well." Ashara Dayne offered him the child, smiling even more
when Buckwell took the child with the practiced hands of a father.

The former handmaiden to the Queen then turned her eyes to the Prince, though how in
blazes she spotted his black clothing in the dim torchlight he couldn't say. "She is naming the
child Aelor."
Emotion hit the Dragon of Duskendale as hard as Gregor Clegane's fist had months ago. He
swallowed once, twice, three times before he could manage a word. "Aelor Rykker?"

Ashara's face was warm, her smile just a tad sad as she approached him, Lord Donnel braving
the birthing chamber behind her with the new Lord of Hollard Hall. "Malessa said it was
Renfred's wish. He wrote it in his last letter to her, written the night before the Trident."

The Dragon Prince had to look away, not willing to let Ashara watch as he composed
himself. When he finally looked back he had returned his scarred face to normal, though his
voice had an edge to it that even he himself heard. "Renfred always did have a poetic streak
somewhere in that bloody big body."

Ashara leaned against the wall beside him, laughing lightly. "He truly did. The child is big; I
daresay he will be a near twin to Renfred when he is in his prime."

Aelor snorted out a laugh. "I'd best keep Rhaenys on a tight leash then when they get older
then. Renfred was a six and half foot menace to every young woman in the Keep and half the
older ones since he was fourteen, be they pretty or not." The Prince turned to appraise the
shorter woman beside him. "Why were you in there, exactly?"

Ashara shrugged, turning her violet eyes to meet the similarly colored ones of the Prince
Regent. "Malessa is a sweetheart, and we have grown close since she came to the capital at
the onset of the war. She was understandably scared and in need of a friend, so I obliged her."
Lady Dayne's face fell quickly, a pained expression crossing her face as she looked away to
stare at the floor. "I was there for Elia with both Rhaenys and Aegon."

A wave of raw pain tore back through the Dragon of Duskendale, followed closely by the
black hate that always accompanied it. He said nothing, clenching his jaw and staring
sightlessly ahead, the face of his brother's wife flashing across his mind to turn those waves
of pain and hate into a near storm.

Fire and Blood, love. I will avenge you with Fire and Blood.

Ashara's soft voice cut through the maelstrom forming in his mind. "What will become of
Malessa now that Renfred is gone?"

Aelor cleared his throat, though in truth he needed to clear his mind. "I promised Ren I would
care for them both, and I shall. The babe—"

"Aelor."

"Aelor is the Lord of Hollard Hall now. I will kill any who threaten his position as such,
though the only other member of House Rykker still living is Ser Jaremy, now a sworn
brother of the Night's Watch and subsequently disqualified from any type of inheritance."

"And Malessa?"

"Lord Buckwell will have a say, as will Malessa herself of course, but I suppose she will
marry again, whether to a knight or lord I could not begin to guess. If she for whatever reason
doesn't she will always have a place here in the capital."

Ashara nodded, seemingly pleased. "Good. She is a sweetheart, and deserves happiness."

"She'll have it, I promise you." Aelor turned to glance at Ashara. "What of you?"

"Me?"

"You. Elia is…gone. What is holding you here?"

Ashara Dayne smirked slightly, shooting the Prince a face that told him the answer should be
obvious. "I thought you would know that, Prince Aelor. It is the children. Aegon and Rhaenys
have no parents, though they certainly don't lack loving family members. I was here when
they were brought into the world, and I would see Elia's children live happily for the rest of
their days."

Aelor turned his gaze back down the hall, jaw clenching again. "That is noble of you, Lady
Dayne."

"No more noble than you, Prince Aelor. Any other man with your power and influence—not
to mention your family name—would be a king by now, surpassing the mere child ahead of
him in the line of succession. I daresay most of the lords wouldn't even bat an eyelash."

Aelor's lip curled. "I would never do Elia the dishonor, nor my brother. Aegon is the rightful
King of the Iron Throne, and I will remove any who take issue just as violently as I can."

Ashara Dayne let the silence drag out for a moment before her soft voice spoke again. "You
loved her, didn't you."

It was a statement, not a question, and Aelor saw no point in pretending it was incorrect. He
continued to stare ahead, his own voice coming out as faint as whisper. "Yes."

Out of the corner of his eye he saw Ashara nod, joining the Prince in staring down the hall
without actually seeing anything, both of their minds lost in thought. The silence dragged on,
the shuffle of the army of midwives Donnel Buckwell had recruited as they one by one left
the new mother and her newborn son to try and salvage some sleep. Through the window
behind him the sky was already beginning lighten, dawn nearing rapidly.

When she spoke again, it was so quiet that Aelor nearly didn't hear it. "Does it make it better
or worse that she loved you back?"

Aelor swallowed, eyes falling to the stone beneath his feet. "Both. It makes it both."

His mostly sleepless night turned into a long morning.

The Small Council reconvened not long after the messenger arrived, Aelor only glancing at
Barristan briefly when the representative of the Kingsguard entered. Aelor thought he was
too numb for anything to affect him overly much anymore, but the news the man of House
Sunglass brought him very nearly did.
The members of the council had no sooner gathered than Aelor delivered the news. "My
mother is dead."

A shocked silence held the chamber for a moment before Barristan spoke. "Queen Rhaella?"

Aelor nodded shortly. "The child came on the first night of the storm. A girl, healthy and
strong. My mother didn't live long after delivering her, but she lived long enough to name her
Daenerys."

"Daenerys Stormborn," Varys said quietly. "How is Prince Viserys?"

Aelor grimaced. "He is apparently inconsolable. Prince Lewyn has tried to care for him, but
Viserys is reacting violently to any attempt at contact. I am sending orders back to Prince
Lewyn to bring both my sister and my brother to King's Landing as soon Daenerys is old
enough for travel." Aelor sighed. "Which brings me to the next order of business; our fleet is
gone."

"Gone?" Lord Royce asked, thick eyebrows furrowing.

"The storm was particularly savage at Dragonstone. The entire Royal Navy was destroyed.
The messenger was only able to bring word via a commandeered fishing boat. It is reasonable
to assume the Redwyne Fleet sieging Storm's End was similarly damaged."

Randyll Tarly's voice was, if possible, even more grim than usual. "The fleet at Lannisport
was most likely undamaged, meaning Lannister has superiority at sea. If the Redwyne Fleet
was similarly damaged, Lannister will have free reign."

"No, he won't."

Aelor's voice held nothing but confidence, something that was decidedly lacking on the other
councilmen's faces, barring Varys who knew precisely what the Dragon of Duskendale was
talking about. Royce didn't, and voiced his confusion. "Your Grace?"

Aelor nodded confidently. "Trust me, my lords; Lannister does not have control of the sea. It
has been taken care of. Our main order of business is rebuilding the Royal Navy for future
use." He turned to Manderly. "Lord Treasurer?"

Lord Wyman had a stack of parchment before him, his fat fingers inkstained from consistent
use of ink and quill over the last few days. "We still have much work to do, my lords, but
inquiries have been sent to the Iron Bank of Braavos concerning potential debts. The current
vaults in the treasury are still being inventoried, but I can begin arranging the delivery and
hiring of necessary materials and craftsmen to the location of your choosing at once."

Aelor nodded. "We have the facilities here in King's Landing. Begin working out contracts on
lumber and craftsmen. We will determine the number of ships to commission as soon as the
war in the west is over."

Wyman nodded. "It will be done."

"Ser Barristan." Aelor said his former mentor's name with no small amount of ice in his tone.
The knight of the Kingsguard met his eyes. "Your Grace?"

"Jaime Lannister's position as a member of the Kingsguard is obviously at an end, whether he

dies fighting the crown or is executed afterwards a mere side note. Compile a list of potential
Kingsguard candidates while we are away on campaign."

Aelor could see Barristan wanted to insist on coming, but the knight had the self-restraint to
merely nod. "It will be done."

Varys took the opportunity to speak up. "My birds tell me Lord Lefford has yet to call his
banners, still seemingly unaware of what has occurred thanks to Ser Manfred. The flanking
force should be able to reach the Golden Tooth long before they are ready."

Aelor nodded. "Excellent. The army will depart tomorrow, gentlemen. Lord Donnel
Buckwell will maintain regency of the city. This was a short meeting intended to inform you
of my mother and the Navy's demise." Aelor stood. "We will adjourn until the War in the
West is won."

Lord Royce spoke up again. "Prince Aelor, if I may ask, the Lannister navy—"

"Will not be a concern for much longer, Lord Royce." Aelor smiled, a cold, angry thing. "I
promise you that."
 XXVIII

Tywin Lannister truly hated having his offers thrown back in his face. King Aerys the Mad
had done it to him twice, when the Lion of the West offered his maiden daughter Cersei first
to Rhaegar and then to Aelor, with the intention of his grandchildren sitting the Iron Throne
one way or another.

And now it seemed Quellon Greyjoy had done the same.

Words could not describe the feeling Tywin had had when he'd learned the rebel lords had
bent the knee to Aelor Targaryen mere days before he escaped the black cells. The Lion of
Lannister still had thirty thousand men in the Westerlands, having taken only his personal
retinue and the retinues of several of his lords to King's Landing for the sake of speed. He'd
intended on using those thirty thousand to link up with Robert Baratheon's army and utterly
annihilate the dynasty that had insulted the Lion so, killing every Targaryen man, woman or
child. It was why he'd sent the men after the boy Aegon and his sister after they'd killed the
Martell woman, who had had the misfortune of being at the wrong place at the wrong time.

But even that feeling of anger paled in comparison to the one he had now. He had barely been
in Casterly Rock a day when he sent an envoy to the Iron Islands, offering the last region
unaffected by the war mountains of gold for their aide in overthrowing a dynasty that had
grown only stronger during Tywin's imprisonment despite the death of two kings. He had
patiently awaited their response, rallying his bannermen outside Lannisport—a mere mile
from his seat of power at Casterly Rock—as his son and heir Jaime scoured the hills of the
Westerlands for potential places to ambush the Royal army. Now, at last, he had his answer.

It came in the form of his burning fleet.

The ships at Lannisport, over thirty galleys and several smaller craft, had been raided during
the night, put to flame by the sleek longships of the Ironborn. Their raid had been quick and
vicious, laying credence to the Ironmen scum's experience at pillaging, not a single ship or
her crew spared, burned to the watermark and sinking to the bottom of the port.

It was particularly damning considering Tywin had, however briefly, had naval superiority.
Reports from his spies in the capital—and he still had many, even with his puppet Pycelle
reduced to a rotting head on a spike—had reported the Royal Navy and Redwyne Fleet had
both been severely damaged by the massive storm that racked the eastern coast. While Tywin
knew his best strategy was to fight defensively in the favorable terrain of the Westerlands, he
had been tempted to board his ships and wreak havoc on the lands of the Targaryen loyalists.

He'd hoped the Ironborn would assist him. Instead, they'd assisted the second son of Aerys.
Tywin knew the Targaryen whelp had struck a deal first, a truth that irritated the Lion all the
more.

While their attack had been a surprise, they'd had no hope of carrying Lannisport. The city
was too well defended by its curtain walls and highly trained City Watch, and with Tywin's
swelling armies camped in the flats outside her gates they'd have been hurled back into the
sea. Quellon Greyjoy seemed to know it too, and subsequently had settled for burning the
fleet and pillaging the few locations outside the city before pulling back to his longships. The
reavers had vanished almost as soon as they arrived, doubtlessly sailing for other locations
along the coast of the Westerlands.

Already his coastal lords were restless, fear for the families they'd left relatively undefended
a constant threat to the stability of his force. Tywin knew many harbored doubts of whether
there was even a flicker of hope in this war, only the fear of his reprisal should they dither in
their duty—something Tywin had made a point of instilling in his bannermen—keeping them
in line.

Matters were made only worse by the lack of response from Lord Leo Lefford of the Golden
Tooth. None of his men, outriders or retinue, had made an appearance, and reports indicated
they had yet to be raised. The Targaryen armies were on the move, having left King's
Landing a month earlier or roundabout that time, but his scouts were not returning, being
systematically picked off by the Targaryen outriders.

In truth, they had backed the Lion into a corner.

It was time to show them that a predator was never more dangerous than when trapped.

"Tybolt." One of his countless Lannisport cousins, Tybolt Lannister bore all the normal
Lannister features, from golden hair to attractive build. A supposedly pious man—though
Tywin knew he had an utterly cruel streak, one he was about to use—he had taken particular
offense to the Ironborn raid, considering the 'heathens and their fish god' to be utter devils,
the wrongs of the world made into flesh. The Lord Paramount of the Westerlands had told
him the attack was all Aelor Targaryen's doing, and the one dimensional mind of Tybolt had
as expected developed a hatred for the second son of Aerys as a result.

Tywin could work with hate. Sometimes it was nearly as good a motivator as fear.

Nearly.

"My Lord?"

"The spikes. Do it."

Tybolt Lannister smiled cruelly. "At once, my lord."

His cavalry covered a lot of ground in a short amount of time, and he soon found himself
entering the foothills east of the Golden Tooth.

Edmure Tully, a stocky boy of twelve, wasn't proving near as useful a squire as Alaric had
been, but the lad was learning and Aelor supposed he couldn't ask for much more than that.
The heir to the Riverlands was mainly here as a hostage after all, and Aelor knew he should
be thankful for the lads desire to be of help.

Still, you'd think the lad would at least know how to properly rub down a horse.
Aelor reprimanded Edmure gently, for the third night in a row showing the lad the correct
way to rub down a stallion after a long ride, before adjourning to his tent. Alaric had earned
the knighthood Aelor gave him at the Trident, surviving when many much more experienced
men had died despite his youth of five and ten. He'd saved Aelor when Baratheon's charge
had unhorsed him, holding off men twice his age and experience while the dragonlord
regained his feet. As a knight the lad was entitled to his own pavilion and squire, yet he still
slept in the same corner of Aelor's tent as he had when he was a squire, sharing the space
with the Tully boy.

Alaric had proven near as loyal as Manfred Darke, the mean knight that Aelor knew was
rather poorly suited to this particular venture. The squat man, despite his knighthood, hated
horses with a passion—though in truth Manfred hated most things with a passion, so it
shouldn't have been surprising—and rode like the boulder he was. As they lead the column
through the Riverlands Aelor was constantly buffeted by the big man's curses as he swore at
his bloody stupid courser, the bloody stupid wet, the bloody stupid Lannisters and any other
bloody stupid thing the knight could think of to complain about.

This was a duty much better suited for Barristan, but Aelor wasn't having that.

Oberyn Martell was seated at the table in Aelor's tent, Ellaria Sand as always in his lap. The
bastard of Uller had taken a motherly interest in both Aegon and Rhaenys, assisting Ashara
with their care during their brief stay in the capital, but she had followed Oberyn back on
campaign when the cavalry had ridden out. Aelor had gotten the notion that she followed
Oberyn everywhere the Prince of Dorne went, and while their clear intimacy made the
dragonlord happy for his friend, it also tore at his heart.

Another figure sat the table near Alaric, methodically slicing off hunks of the salted pork
before him with a dagger. Baelor Hightower, the heir to Oldtown, was commonly known as
Brightsmile due to his attractive features. In his late mid to late twenties, he also was no
slouch with a sword, proving so at the Trident. He had been one of less than a hundred men
to survive from Aelor's front line—all of whom were with the cavalry now—slaying in single
combat both the Vale Lord Wydman and his heir among others. Those facts had led to a
healthy dose of respect for the Reachman from Aelor, and the Hightower knight had slowly
been integrated into the command chain.

"The scouts?" Aelor asked as he entered, armor clanking. Most knights forsook their heavy
plate when battle wasn't nearing, the steel plates capable of pinching all sorts of areas a man
didn't want pinched, but Aelor felt at home in his. The armor had nearly become a second
skin, as familiar to him as the sword and dagger sheathed at his waist.

Oberyn reached a hand out to Hightower, the very same man he had dubiously christened
'Breakwind' when he and Elia had visited Oldtown in search of potential betrothals. While the
nickname had certainly ended any chance of Baelor being a suitor, Oberyn and the Hightower
had developed an odd friendship, and Brightsmile sliced off a hunk of ham and handed it to
the Dornishman.

All of Oberyn's friendships are odd, I suppose. Hell, my friendship with Oberyn is odd.
"My outriders claim there is no sign of a force at the Golden Tooth," Oberyn said as he
popped the salted pork into his mouth. "The man hasn't even raised levies."

"Ser Manfred killed the raven to him, we know, but Lefford surely must know by now what is
going on." Brightsmile offered another slice of the ham to Aelor as he took his own seat, the
Dragon Prince waving it away and instead reaching for pitcher of wine.

"A war is certainly a hard thing to ignore," Aelor agreed.

"Do you suppose he intends to let us march through?" Alaric had grown more vocal after his
knighthood, at times even a bit cocky, but he was still a good lad at heart, and he had thrown
his entire being into learning strategy. Aelor knew quite well he was a poor choice as a
teacher, much better with a sword than with a formation, but the Prince Regent was trying to
improve as well, learning as much if not more than Alaric did.

"Perhaps," Oberyn said. "Maybe all of Tywin Lannister's vassals aren't as afraid of him as
everyone seems to believe."

Brightsmile was methodically destroying the chunk of ham, prompting Aelor to wonder just
how a man who ate as much as the heir to Oldtown could maintain his thin figure. "Maybe
they aren't all stupid. Any man who believes the Lannister's have a chance in this are fools,
especially after the Greyjoys came through with their end of the bargain."

Aelor took another gulp of the Arbor gold. "As loathe as I am to admit it, if any man can turn
this situation around to his advantage it is Tywin Lannister."

"He'll have a hard time turning this one around," came the stone breaking voice of Ser
Manfred as he stomped into the tent, white armor shining and face shockingly less of a scowl
than normal. It was still very much a scowl, showing his hatred of everything with every line
and contour, but for Manfred Darke the expression very nearly passed for a smile. "There is
someone here to see you."

Lord Leo Lefford was every bit as scared of Tywin Lannister as the next man, but he wasn't
stupid.

Middle-aged and greying, Lefford felt no shame in admitting his fear of his liege lord. Only a
complete idiot wouldn't fear the Lion of the Rock, Lannister both fiercely intelligent and
utterly ruthless. Leo had been there when they'd redirected the river to flood Castamere,
knowing that every Reyne inside, man, woman or child, would die. Tywin Lannister's face,
even in his youth, had shown no sense of remorse as the waters flooded the underground
castle, only the clenched-jaw sternness he had shown in all the years since.

Leo's fear had begun then, and it had only grown in the decades after.

But enough was enough. The Lord of the Golden Tooth was unsure why he hadn't received a
raven as the other Lords of the Westerlands had seemed to—though he was willing to wager
it was due to the men he was about to meet—but the fact remained that he had not, and by the
time he had learned that the war had reached the Rock reports had begun pouring in that a
Targaryen host was nearing his lands from Riverrun.

Tywin Lannister would have his head and the heads of all his family, few as they were, if
Lord Leo was to forsake his liege lord, but Tywin Lannister was miles away at Casterly
Rock, and Prince Aelor Targaryen was at his doorstep.

The decision wasn't nearly as hard as one might expect.

He'd taken no one with him and offered no explanation when he'd ridden out of his small but
stout castle guarding the pass through the mountains. He hadn't said a word, other than
ordering his castellan to assist as best he could Leo's daughter Alysanne should he never
return, saddling up and riding down the valleys and spurs of the foothills he ruled to the
Targaryen camp.

The sentries were good, shouting out warnings for him to identify himself long before he saw
any sign of them. Dornishmen, they had eyed him warily when he'd identified himself, one
disappearing and bringing back a Kingsguard knight. Lord Leo couldn't saw what the white
cloak's name was, but he was perhaps the broadest and ugliest man the Lord of the Golden
Tooth had ever seen this side of Gregor Clegane.

He was certainly a sharp contrast to the figure the Kingsguard led Leo to.

Aelor Targaryen had all the Valyrian features Lefford had heard about, violet eyes, silvery
hair and fair skin. Taller than average with broad shoulders, he looked every bit the warrior
Prince rumor had him to be, down to the scarred countenance and the authoritative air that
hung around him. His scar was an undeniably ugly thing, broad and jagged, but the beauty
the blood of Old Valyria so often possessed was still visible beneath it.

Alysanne would be enamored with him, Lefford knew. That was when his plan began to
formulate.

"Lord Lefford," The Targaryen Prince said, flanked on one side by another Dornishmen and
the other by a tall, fairly attractive man a decade Leo's younger. "As you might imagine, this
is quite the surprise."

Leo bowed at the waist. "Prince Aelor Targaryen. I see you have an army nearing my castle."

The Prince cocked his head slightly to the side. "Your eyes certainly don't betray you, though
I wonder if perhaps your mind has. Normally, a man doesn't ride unaccompanied and without
a flag of truce into an enemy's camp."

"And who said we were enemies, Prince Aelor?"

"Your liege lord Tywin Lannister, for one." The dragonlord gestured to the Dornishman
beside him. "Prince Oberyn for another."

Leo met the Prince of Dorne's eyes, holding Martell's slight glare easily. You are a man to be
feared, Prince Oberyn, that I know, but your glare has nothing on Tywin Lannister's. "I do not
blame him. I heard of Princess Elia's murder around the same time that I learned you were
nearing my lands. I am sorry for your loss, though I myself had no hand in it."

The Red Viper said nothing, though his glare lightened ever so slightly. Targaryen spoke for
him, tone both intrigued and wary. "Why are you here, Lord Lefford?"

Leo turned to the Targaryen. "I will admit, if I had been aware of this new development in the
war sooner I likely wouldn't be. As it is, I received no raven from Lord Tywin until it was far
too late to prepare for you and your knights. I don't intend for my people to suffer and die
because I was ill informed."

The Dragon of Duskendale pointed behind Lord Leo, where the short and stout Kingsguard
knight stood with his hand on his sword. "You have Ser Manfred Darke to thank for that. He
cut the head off of raven meant for you."

Leo glanced at the scowling knight briefly. "That is quite the shame, at least for Tywin
Lannister." Lefford turned back towards the dragonlord. "But I daresay it was a blessing for
you."

The Prince nodded lightly. "Go on."

"As I'm sure your scouts have reported, I have not raised my levies. The Tooth is a stout
castle, and even with only my retinue and household guard to defend it you and your men
would have quite the battle on your hands to breach it. But you would breach it, sooner or
later, and I and my family would be held accountable for my liege lord's crimes."

The Prince of the Iron Throne nodded again. "Yes, you would."

"Call me cowardly if you will, but that doesn't sit well with me."

Prince Oberyn Martell spoke for the first time then, still sizing Leo up. "It is not cowardly to
admit fear."

The other man, who still hadn't been introduced and Leo wasn't going to ask after, nodded his
head in agreement. "Nay, it takes its own kind of courage."

Leo charged on. "Your father was not a good King, Prince Aelor, and I understand the
reasons behind this rebellion. But your father is dead, as is your brother and the man he
insulted. My liege lord made his own mistakes, ones that he cannot redeem himself of, and I
don't intend my family to suffer for his follies." Leo gingerly sank to one knee, the old arrow
wound he'd taken in the Stepstones flaring up with the motion. "The Golden Tooth is yours,
Prince Aelor, as is my sword and the swords of my men."

Aelor Targaryen nodded, gesturing for Lord Leo to rise. With a grunt the Lord of the Tooth
did, cursing for the millionth time the Tyroshi who shot him. "You are a smart man, Lord
Lefford."

Prince Oberyn's tone had lost its venom, turning curious. "You would willingly disobey
Tywin Lannister? I thought all you Westerlanders feared him."
Leo shrugged. "I do fear him, more than I fear either of you, Princes. But Tywin Lannister is
miles away and you are right here, with a larger army as well. If I am to be afraid, I would
fear the dragon at my doorstep rather than the lion in the leaves."

Aelor Targaryen was smiling. "You are a blunt man, Leo Lefford. I daresay I am going to like
you." The Dragon of Duskendale gestured to the open pavilion behind him. "I suppose you
would like a glass of wine? It seems customary for these sort of agreements."

Leo Lefford smiled lightly. "I would very much like one, Your Grace." He turned around to
gesture the way he had come hours earlier, the moon silhouetting the growing hills and
mountains behind him where deep within his castle lay. "But I believe I have a much more
comfortable venue."
 XXIX

The view from the Golden Tooth was stunning, Aelor had to admit. It made him all the
gladder he hadn't had to burn it.

Lord Leo had arranged a quick feast for the officers the night after he had ridden to the
loyalist camp, his men barracking around the stout Golden Tooth castle. Aelor and his
cavalry lost three quarters a day of riding by remaining here, but it would be no more than
they would have lost if they had been forced to take the Tooth by force. Besides, this way
was much less bloody.

Aelor wanted blood of course, but only that of Lannisters. All of the Lannisters.

Lord Lefford had given Aelor quarters in one of the corner towers, overlooking the foothills
they had climbed that very day. They were simple but comfy, and a thousand times better
than the tent he'd grown used to over the last months. While Aelor had grown as comfortable
in the middle of a war camp as he was in his grand chambers at Duskendale, he certainly
appreciated the forgotten feel of a featherbed after nearly a year on a cot.

The Seven must know how his levies and men-at-arms managed on the ground, because
Aelor certainly didn't. Always being offered the best sleeping arraignments was probably his
favorite privilege as a Prince, odd as that may be.

Not that he was using the four-poster bed, however. It was closer to dawn than dusk, the feast
below having been over for hours, but Aelor Targaryen sat awake on the simple balcony of
his room, a chalice of barely touched wine in his hand. He didn't really understand it, this
inability to sleep. Throughout the war, no matter who he killed that day or which of his
friends died, he had never struggled to rest at night. When he cut down his first man years
ago, the pig looking outlaw of the Kingswood Brotherhood, he'd slept fine that night, even
after having to heave his breakfast all over his boots. When he'd cut the throat of the squire in
the Stormalnds, a lad barely old enough to shave the peach fuzz on his face, he'd gotten a full
night of rest afterwards. Even after his brother the King, Renfred and damn near everyone
else had died all around him at the Trident, his sleep hadn't been disturbed.

But ever since his return to King's Landing weeks ago, when he'd learned of the murder of
Elia, the night had become no friend of Aelor Targaryen's.

He rarely got more than three hours sleep anymore, and that only coming in spurts. Alaric
had noticed his liege lord's twisting and turning from his own cot, asking more than once
after the Prince, but Aelor assured him every time that he was more than fine.

Only he wasn't fine. Barristan could see it—had seen it—and that was why Aelor had left
him in King's Landing. He didn't want to be fine, not when he had so much to do. Not when
there were so many lives to take. Barristan had seen him for what he was, and taken the first
of his revenge from him.

Barristan had seen Aelor as the Targaryen he was.

Forsaking sleep gave a man all the time in the world to think, and it was only then that the
Prince of the Iron Throne let himself lose control. Aelor knew he wasn't himself anymore, not
truly, but he didn't want to be himself. This being he was now, whoever or whatever it was,
liked to think that Aelor Targaryen wasn't capable of what it planned on doing. It liked to
think that Aelor Targaryen was a good man, not the type of man who planned the wholesale
slaughter of a family, most of whom were just as innocent in Elia's death as he himself.

Somewhere inside him Aelor—the true Aelor—knew that as the fallacy it was, but he
allowed this other being its fantasies.

His father was a madman wholly and completely, his brother another though to a lesser
degree, and so was Aelor in his own way. He was as much a Targaryen as they, and Targaryen
was just a synonym for lunatic after all. He was going to kill every Lannister high or low, as
Aegon had the Iron Kings of House Hoare, as Maegor had the House of Harroway, as Aerys
had the Darklyns and Hollards. The propensity to undergo the utter destruction of those who
angered him ran in his blood as strongly as madness, and Aelor was fully content with using
one to achieve the other.

The Lannisters were going to die. If it caused Aelor every last shred of sanity he had, so be it.

With a sigh the Dragon of Duskendale stood, downing the remaining wine in a few gulps.
The full moon and it's thousands of stars made for a beautiful sight, but most beautiful things
only reminded him of Elia, further empowering the dark abyss that overtook his mind. With
one last glance at the hundreds of campfires dotting the hills around the Golden Tooth, the
dragonlord turned to reenter his chamber, intent on trying to salvage a few slivers of sleep
from amidst the endless tossing and turning to come.

With a surprised grunt he pulled to a sudden stop. There was a woman in his bed, and he
couldn't for the life of him remember leaving one there.

Aelor didn't quite know what to make of that situation, even as the being he became at night
fled and was replaced by the true Dragon of Duskendale. While he knew in his heart that his
erratic thoughts were only growing in madness, Aelor was still fairly certain he would
remember a woman if he'd been with her.

Especially one as pretty as this. His mind may be slipping, but the rest of him most assuredly
wasn't.

He knew who she was of course. Alysanne Lefford, only child and heir to the man whose
castle he currently stood in. Seven and ten, her skin was tan from hours riding in the sun,
figure long, slender and undeniably attractive. Golden brown hair cascaded to frame the
pillow she was laying against, and Aelor didn't need to be in his right mind to see just how
much the thin shift she wore left to the imagination.

Months ago Aelor wouldn't have needed any more invitation than that. Renfred had been the
true philanderer in their youth, Aelor much more in control of his body than his closest
friend, but the Prince was a male gifted with the physical appearance his bloodline was
known for, and he had used it in the past.
Now though, even as his body started to react as it always did, his mind leapt to Elia, and the
wave of lust that washed through him was purged of his bloodstream almost as soon as it
arrived. The woman on the bed, fair and willing as she might be, was not the one he longed
for. While the practical, logical part of his brain argued that the one he longed for was dead
and gone and reminded him that it had been over a year since he'd felt a woman's touch, any
spark of passion the sultry figure on his pillow would normally bring forth was extinguished.

He loved Elia, gone though she may be, and this woman wasn't her.

Aelor grunted, now firmly back in his right mind, his body rid of the potent influences of
both madness and lust. His voice came out firm and cold. "Let me guess; you're here to
soothe the battle worn Prince amidst this brutal war, working your way into his good graces
and bed, hoping that he'll be tempted by your feminine charms and marry you in a tizzy of
passion."

Alysanne's voice was clear and confident, and not the least bit ashamed as she shrugged.
"Sure, if that is what suits your fancy."

Aelor raised an eyebrow in mild curiosity. "What suits yours?"

"I was thinking more along the lines of fucking your brains out, but I suppose the whole
'soothe and seduce' thing will work if it must."

Despite himself Aelor snorted a laugh at her bluntness. "You're not a bit shy, are you."

Alysanne cocked her brow. "Should I be?"

Aelor shook his head ever so slightly, instinctively looking her over once more. "No, I
suppose you shouldn't." With another shake of his head, he put firmness back into his voice.
"But I'm afraid you're looking in the wrong chambers, my lady."

Alysanne Lefford leaned forward, dark eyes meeting the Prince's violet ones as her lips
smirked seductively. "Am I really? Because I could have sworn you looked just like Aelor
Targaryen, Prince Regent of the Iron Throne. Tell me, my apparently non-royal friend, where
might I find him?"

Aelor scowled ever so slightly. I hold nothing against her for being willing to take what she
wants, but you'd think the lady would take the hint. "Funny, but I'm not interested, girl."

The heir to the Golden Tooth eyed the Lord of Duskendale for a moment, sultry smile still on
her face, before she suddenly exhaled quickly, shoulders slumping in relief. "Thank the Seven
for that."

Aelor had never been more confused than in that moment as Alysanne Lefford slid off of the
bed, thrown off not only by the abrupt change in the Lady's intentions but also her demeanor.
As the Lady of the Tooth stood on her bare feet she hugged her arms to herself, the sheer
brazen confidence she'd displayed mere moments before nowhere to be found. In place of the
seductress there now stood a shy, uncomfortable looking girl who couldn't meet the Prince's
eyes.
He supposed he looked like an idiot standing there with his mouth slightly agape in his
confusion. "What the hell?"

Alysanne didn't look up, staring a hole in the warring white dragons stitched on the shirt
covering the Prince's broad chest. "I…I'm sorry, your Grace. I'll…I'll go."

"Wait a damn minute," he blurted out as she turned to flee, his words stopping her dead in her
tracks. In hindsight he wasn't sure why he even said the first ones but he soon found himself
saying more. "I'm fairly certain you're not the same person you were half a minute ago. I'd
like you to explain that to me."

Alysanne turned slowly, eyes still downcast, face blushing in the light the full moon cast
through the windows and balcony doors Aelor had left open. "I'm sorry, Your Grace."

"You've said that, but you most certainly weren't sorry a moment ago." The woman said
nothing, continuing to stare at his chest, when something clicked in Aelor's head. He shifted
back slightly as realization hit him. "Lord Leo commanded this, didn't he."

Alysanne could suddenly meet his eyes again, concern for her father dripping from each
syllable. "Please, Your Grace, he only…"

Aelor held his hand up to cut her off. "Easy, my lady. If you truly think you are the first lady
commanded by their father to try and seduce an unmarried—or even married—Prince, you
are gravely mistaken. Some 'noble' ladies didn't even need their father's command." He stared
at her a moment, cocking his head slightly to the side. "I'm just surprised you agreed to it. It's
clear to me you had no desire for this."

A fire lit in her black eyes, visible even in only moonlight. This girl has as many
personalities as I do soldiers. "It's not like I had much choice." She spit the words out like
venom, momentarily taking the Prince of the Iron Throne aback. Her hands, while still
hugging her arms to her chest, clenched into fists as she spoke, betraying just how adamant

Aelor eyed her warily, wondering if there was a murderous personality amongst her others
and debating whether he should make a move for his dagger on the table beside the bed.
"Why wouldn't you?"

Alysanne Lefford sorted shortly. "You must not know much about the life of noble ladies,
Prince Aelor." She blushed when she realized her tone, concernedly looking to the Prince
again and blurting out an apology. "I'm sorry, Your Grace."

Aelor waved it away, intrigued. "You're right, I don't have a bloody clue." When she didn't
speak again, he prompted her further. "Why don't you tell me."

Alysanne Lefford twisted her brow in confusion. "Why do you care, Your Grace?"

Aelor shrugged, crouching to open his chest of belongings that Edmure had dutifully placed
in the Prince's room before making his way to the tent of his uncle Brynden, where he was to
bunk. That was all well and good, because the Seven knew what the boy would have done
had he seen Alysanne Lefford in that moment. "I normally wouldn't, but as you might have
noticed I'm not exactly getting much sleep." Pulling out another of his shirts he tossed it to
the confused looking young woman. Good, at least I'm not the only one rattled by this
encounter. He gestured for her to cover herself with it, something she hesitantly did. "Your
father is expecting you to be here for the night, and while I'm not interested in what he had in
mind for us to be doing in that amount of time, I'd hate for you to suffer his wraith for 'failing'
in that regard."

It took a few more minutes of prompting and nudging, but before too long Aelor Targaryen
had a candle lit and a glass of wine in his hand, Alysanne Lefford seated across from him at
the small table in the chambers.

She was certainly her father's daughter, blunt in speech and—after he'd finally convinced her
he wasn't going to execute her—uncaring for what offences might be taken. A high-spirited
woman, she complained bitterly of how her father hadn't allowed her to train with sword and
shield, how she detested the fact that a woman was seen as inferior to a man, and most of all
about how much she hated needlework.

And she truly hated needlework. Alysanne Lefford could give Manfred Darke a few pointers
on how to properly express revulsion.

She did most of the talking, especially after she grew comfortable with the Prince, allowing
Aelor to sit back. Her conversation, as well as being interesting and entertaining, helped keep
the other being that slipped into his mind at bay. He focused on her words, not allowing his
mind to wander to the unsavory thoughts they always found, replying when necessary and
sometimes when not. Time passed, unheeded by the Targaryen Prince or his companion, so
much so that the full moon disappeared to be replaced by the lightening of dawn.

Aelor was actually doing the talking when he first noticed the signs that light was nearing,
answering the thousandth question Lady Lefford had had about Warrior. "It looks as if dawn
is near, my lady. I suppose I should escort you back to your chambers. We wouldn't want
your honor to be questioned, even if your father is seemingly uncaring for it."

"What of your honor, Prince Aelor?" She asked, the Prince's shirt still draped over her
smaller frame.

Aelor laughed lightly. "You need not worry, Lady Lefford. No one has any thoughts of my
honor. I'm a Targaryen, and such I'm expected to take what I want, honor be damned." Aelor
snorted. "I suppose they're right."

It had been meant in jest, but Alysanne clearly hadn't taken it that way. The girl had proven
sharp of wit and tongue but also disturbingly perceptive of what the Prince actually thought,
not just what he was saying. "Nonsense. You didn't take what you wanted a few hours ago,
even though as a Prince many would feel you almost entitled. That was an honorable action."

Aelor waved her off. "Perhaps, if one wishes to take it as such. But trust me, my lady, I've
done too much to be a man of honor anymore."

Alysanne's eyes bored into his own. "Like what?"

Aelor shook his head with another snort. It took him a moment to realize she was serious.
"You don't want to get into this, my lady."

"Yes, I do." She didn't look away, clearly intent on an explanation.

The Prince was taken aback by her stubbornness, though he supposed he shouldn't be after
their conversation during the night. "Alright," Aelor said slowly, violet eyes daring her to
hold them as he spoke. She did. "I've killed more men than I daresay you've met. I wanted a
handmaiden of my brother's wife, so I took her. Eventually I wanted my brother's wife
herself, and were it not for Tywin Lannister I would have taken her too."

His voice rose slightly as his eyes began to burn. "I wanted Robert Baratheon's life. I took it.
And now I want Tywin Lannister's and every other Lannister's be they innocent or not. And
all the knights of Westeros won't stop me from taking those too." Aelor abruptly stood. "I
have enjoyed our conversation, Lady Lefford, but don't think for a moment I am the
honorable Prince I'm sure your father talked me up to be."

Alysanne said nothing as she stood, Aelor escorting her to the door. He opened it, checking
the hall outside for any wandering eye of a servant who may give the pleasant if nosy young
lady beside him trouble she didn't deserve, and stepped aside to allow her to exit.

She turned in the midst of the doorway, young face looking up into the Prince's sagely. "One
more thing, Prince Aelor. You said you weren't a man of honor, going on about all the things
you wanted that you took. You forgot the one thing you didn't want, the one thing that proves
you are not as bad a man as you think yourself to be."

Alysanne Lefford gently prodded him in the chest, face deadly serious. "You didn't want the
crown. You didn't take it, even when you so easily could have. How many men, Targaryen or
not, can say that?"

As his young friend left him standing in shocked silence in the door to his chambers, Aelor
Targaryen couldn't help but think that Elia would have liked her.

The next morning, as Prince Aelor Targaryen rode out of the Golden Tooth at the head of the
column, he had Leo Lefford ride beside him. "You have a lovely daughter," Aelor said to
him, looking over at the only bannerman to defy Tywin Lannister.

Leo smiled smugly. "Thank you, Your Grace."

The smug smile disappeared with the Dragon of Duskendale's next words. "If you ever make
her attempt something she so clearly doesn't want to do again, I'll kill you."

The rest of the morning ride passed in silence.

 XXX

The Tower of Joy was an ill-suited name for the stack of stone that greeted Eddard Stark's
eyes.

A single round tower, it had been raised atop a point in the midst of the Red Mountains, a
rather splendid view of the Prince's Pass and the deserts of Dorne. But all Eddard Stark saw
as he and his companions, forty men of both the North and the Reach, rode up the narrow
mountain trail was his sister's face, wondering if it would be the same or an entirely different
Lyanna to greet him—or if she'd even greet him at all.

Or if he even wanted her to.

Aelor Targaryen had told him the truth, the truth that had changed everything. Brandon had
ridden into King's Landing demanding vengeance for an abduction that hadn't been an
abduction, eventually losing not only his life but the life of their father as well. Eddard had
ridden to war not only to save his head but to recover his sister, who had been taken against
her will by the heir to the throne.

Only she hadn't been taken against her will. Half his family dead, all over a
misunderstanding Lyanna had helped facilitate. Eddard was as aware as anyone of Robert's
lusts; he'd seen Mya Stone, Robert's bastard, with his own eyes. He was also aware of
Lyanna's opposition to the match, as his only sister was anything but subtle.

But for Lyanna to have run off with Rhaegar Targaryen without a word, starting a chain of
events that led to thousands of men dying…Eddard simply didn't know what to think.

He really didn't know what to think when he looked to the trio of midwives he'd brought
along. Aelor had told him bluntly of the condition Rhaegar had left his sister in, of the child
of a King growing in Lyanna's womb. It was just another decision in a years' worth of
decisions that Eddard didn't know how to handle, though in truth this particular one had been
taken from his hands. Prince Aelor had made it clear that the child once born was to be
brought to King's Landing, where it would be raised alongside Aegon and Rhaenys as a
Prince or Princess.

Ned Stark wasn't sure if the Prince Regent's plans included his sister or not, but he highly
doubted it. A blind man could see the Prince held Lyanna partially to blame for all that had
transpired.

The Dornish scouts that Prince Oberyn had sent to show Eddard and his party the way
reigned up as they crested the mountaintop where the Tower stood, and Eddard soon saw
why. Two men in white armor, the remaining knights of the Kingsguard, stood shoulder to
shoulder in its doorway, hands on their swords, faces impassive even as forty mounted men
formed a half circle around them.

Lord Walter Whent, formerly a vassal of the Riverlands and now a direct vassal of the Iron
Throne, rode his palfrey to the front. "Oswell."
Oswell Whent, distinctive helmet bearing a black bat with spread wings under one arm,
nodded at his brother. "Walter."

"I suppose you are aware the war is over."

Gerold Hightower the White Bull, Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, answered for him.
The aging, broad-shouldered man had reportedly been there when Aerys burned Eddard's
father, having been sent to find Rhaegar shortly afterwards. Rhaegar had returned months
later while the White Bull had not, the reasons for it now clear. "We hear it is only
beginning."

"You hear wrong," put in Lord Cleyton Byrch, the direct vassal of Duskendale that Aelor had
sent with Eddard. The main was rumored to be vexingly arrogant, but he had lost both of his
brothers during the war and had spoken very little since.

Eddard nodded his agreement. "Lannister will fall in time."

Whent looked at Ned then. "Lord Stark, I suppose you are looking for your sister."

The Lord Paramount of the North nodded. "You suppose right."

"She is here," the Lord Commander admitted. "Our King ordered us to protect her at all
costs."

"Your King is dead," said Ethan Glover, voice vicious. He had ridden with Brandon and his
party to King's Landing that faithful day a lifetime ago, the only survivor of the retinue. Aelor
Targaryen had released him from his captivity at the request of Eddard, and it was clear the
lad held quite a bit of disdain for Hightower. It is to be expected; the White Bull was the one
to throw him in his cell.

"Your new one resides in King's Landing, awaiting your return to swear fealty." Eddard
prodded his garron forward slightly. "Lyanna is my sister. If you were to guard her, it should
not be from me."

"You and your armies killed the King," Whent replied, face and eyes still utterly calm. "You
were his enemy."

"Yet I am not yours," Eddard responded, meeting the Kingsguard impassive demeanor with
an icy one of his own. "I have bent the knee to King Aegon; many of my bannermen now ride
with Aelor Targaryen's army. There is no fight here."

Hightower was appraising the three matronly women hanging back. "I see King Rhaegar
informed his brother of her condition." His eyes fell on Eddard. "She is in the later stages
now; riding horseback may harm the babe."

Eddard nodded. "We are prepared for that. I just want to see my sister."

Whent and Hightower glanced at one another for a moment, the Knights of Kingsguard
conversing without ever speaking, before Hightower looked back to Ned. "She is in the top
room, Lord Stark," The Lord Commander said, the knights stepping aside. Ned dismounted,
waving his men to remain there, and hesitantly stepped into the tower.

The second he saw his sister he knew he'd forgive her. His anger at her foolish flight was still
present, even underneath the layers of ice Eddard Stark used for blood, but the relief at seeing
her alive in that moment overruled everything else.

Lyanna was at a window on the other side of the tower from the entrance, staring out over
what Ned was sure would be a fantastic view. Dressed in a green gown that certainly wasn't
of Northern make—not that he blamed her considering he was sweltering in his furs—the
swell of her stomach was absolutely unmistakable, particularly on a frame as slight as hers.

She didn't turn, though she was surely aware of his presence. "Lyanna," he spoke quietly, still
standing in the doorway, ecstatic to see her whole yet hesitant to fully enter.

Her voice was small and soft, words that certainly wouldn't have described it a year ago.
"Ned." Another silence hung thick in the air, one Eddard didn't know how to fill and Lyanna
didn't seem to want to. The Lord of the North could only stare at the side of his sister's face,
full of words he wanted to say yet unable to manage a single one of them.

Lyanna Stark sighed after a long while, breaking her gaze from whatever it was she was
seeing outside to finally look at him. The young fire Ned remembered was gone, replaced by
a weary, haunted glaze to her grey Northern eyes. She turned herself to face him squarely,
resting one hand atop her heavy belly as her lips quirked into a sad smile. "I hear you are the
Lord of Winterfell now."

Ned only stared for a moment, wondering how in the name of the Old Gods that was the first
thing she said, before slowly answering her. "You hear right."

His baby sister nodded, looking down. "Rhaegar told me what happened to father and
Brandon."

A spark of anger melted a sliver of the ice in Ned Stark's veins. "Rhaegar must have told you
a lot of things."

Lyanna didn't look up to meet his eyes again, instead speaking in that same small voice. "He
did. He told me many things; wonderful things."

Eddard momentarily wanted to raise his voice, but the look of guilt in his sister's face and the
tone of defeat in her voice killed it quickly. Instead he took a small step into the chamber, still
several paces away but closer than he had been. "I suppose the Kingsguard told you of what
happened."

This nod was smaller than the first, even smaller than her voice. "Robert killed him. And then
Aelor Targaryen killed Robert."

"Yes."
Another silence descended, broken a few minutes later again by Lyanna. That is all well and
good; I haven't a clue what to say. "Is the war over?"

Eddard took another, almost imperceptible step towards her. "No. The Prince Regent is in the
Westerlands, chasing Tywin Lannister after he murdered Elia Martell."

A flash of guilt, so potent it took Eddard aback, flashed across the She Wolf's face at the
mention of the woman she had been meant to replace. "Rhaegar told me Aelor loved her."

Eddard nodded, though Lyanna wouldn't be able to see it as her eyes were still locked on the
ground. This isn't the Lyanna I once knew; this isn't my sister. "He did."

"That was how he justified it, you know." Lyanna moved her eyes from the floor to look out
the window again, though she kept her body facing Eddard. "He said Aelor would love her
more than he ever could; as much as he loved me." A tear, only one but enough to tear at
Eddard's hardened heart, slipped down her cheek. Lyanna never cries. "He said she loved him
too."

He swallowed. "I never truly met her, but I believe she did, yes."

Eddard managed another two shuffled steps before she broke the next silence. "Benjen?"

"He is the Stark at Winterfell. You know as well as I there must always be one."

Lyanna nodded lightly. "I feared he had seen the battlefield as you have." He saw her
swallow before she spoke again. "Robert's brothers?"

Eddard knew it was a diversionary tactic, one meant to keep the conversation away from all
that she had done, but he obliged her anyway. "They nearly starved to death in a siege, but
Stannis listened to me for the sake of Renly and surrendered. Mace Tyrell is escorting them to
King's Landing." He stepped within an arm's length of Lyanna though he didn't reach for her,
instead noticing how her entire body was shaking. He spoke again to give her more time to
compose herself. "You likely have a niece or nephew by now."

That statement finally drew her gaze back to her brother. "I do?"

Eddard nodded. "Catelyn Tully and I were married soon after the war started. She would have
been due to the birthing chamber two weeks ago."

Lyanna smiled, a quivering one but a genuine one as well. "I'm so happy for you, Ned." The
smile lessened. "Will anything happen…I mean, since you surrendered will there be—"

"There were repercussions," Ned cut in gently. "Or I should say there will be; hostages to
serve in the south, including my own child annually, but altogether more than we could have
hoped for. Prince Aelor favored leniency. He knows the war was brought on by only a few
men."

Lyanna's voice broke, though she kept the unshed tears he could see from falling. "And me."
Eddard could say nothing, as her statement was true, no matter how much it pained the both
of them. Instead the Lord of the North gently reached out to lay a hand on his sister's arm.
It was as if a dam had burst, his usually strong and stubborn sister breaking into sobs that
wracked her body and Eddard's heart, her hands clutching at his woolen coat. Eddard did the
only thing he knew to, taking his sobbing sister in his arms, paying careful mind to keep from
applying pressure to her swollen belly.

The Lord of the North wasn't good at expressing his feelings through words—that had always
been Brandon's specialty—so he didn't try to. Eddard didn't reassure her with statements of
her innocence that weren't true. He didn't tell her it was all over now because it certainly
wasn't, not with a royal bastard growing in her belly. All Eddard Stark did was hold his sister
as she cried, her sobs shaking them both. It was all he knew to do.

And, though he didn't realize it, it was enough.

 XXXI

"…Prince Aelor…"

The Northmen had those they called Dreamwalkers; Greenseers, wargs and mystics, they
were both honored and reviled. As a boy, the second son of Aerys had often wondered what it
was like to be one, to live in the eyes of another while maintaining one's own conscious.

Whatever it was like, it sure as hell wasn't like this.

He kept hearing his bloody name, which was particularly annoying since all he wanted was to
sleep. Something kept shaking him as well, which just increased his annoyance. Mumbled
voices, soft hands and the sound of pen on parchment would occasionally infiltrate his
blissful unconsciousness, and with each interruption he grew more and more angry, desperate
to stay in this dream world.

The real world held nothing but pain and bitterness anymore, while his dreams held her.

He'd been sixteen when he first saw her, stepping off the sleek Dornish ship at the docks of
King's Landing, an orange billowed dress waving in the wind. She was surrounded by dozens
of other Dornishmen, among them her savage-looking brother, but all Aelor had seen was
her. She'd been the most beautiful thing he'd ever laid eyes on.

He'd been fighting the Brotherhood with Barristan Selmy when Rhaenys had been born,
though heavens knew he'd have preferred to be with her. Aelor knew as well as anyone how
inappropriate it would have been, but even at a young age Aelor didn't much care for
propriety. When he'd finally returned after the Brotherhoods fall he'd been utterly in awe of
the small, olive-skinned baby in her arms, never feeling a stronger sense of joy than when
he'd first held the babe, even as his brother pulled her mother into an embrace.

Aelor had been there for Aegon. None of them knew it of course, that daft code of what was
appropriate and inappropriate keeping him from the birthing chamber itself, but he'd been
there. He'd waited, from her first cries to Aegon's, mere feet away in the hidden corridors of
the Red Keep, a wall of stone between them. He'd felt terror unlike any other when he'd heard
the maester's and midwives frantically working to stop her bleeding after the now-King had
been born, and relief of equal potency when they finally had. He had very nearly decided to
knock the wall down, though the Seven knew he'd have been useless even if he'd been in
there.

In hindsight, Aelor wondered just how he'd remained oblivious to the fact that he was
hopelessly in love with her for so long. He was certainly—and painfully—aware of it now.

"Prince Aelor." This voice was louder, and combined with the hand firmly shaking his
shoulder chased away the fuzzy nowhere of unconsciousness.

And with it fled Elia.

Aelor Targaryen blinked his eyes against the sudden light, a sudden pain in the back of his
head making him squint and curse in pain. "So you're finally awake," spoke the smooth tones
of who could only be Oberyn Martell. Aelor squinted his eyes, the disorientation slowly
wearing off. As his vision cleared, he realized he was in a tent laid out on a cot—presumably
his.

Ellaria Sand leaned back, sharp eyes watching his movements. "It is about time you woke."

With a pained groan Aelor slowly sat up, hand going to the point of pain on the back of his
scalp, realizing that his head was bandaged. Ellaria placed a precautionary hand on his chest,
steadying him as a wave of dizziness overtook him for a moment.

The Red Viper of Dorne leaned forward from his slouching position in a chair. "I'd be careful,
Targaryen; you have quite the knot on the back of your silver head."

Aelor grunted as he felt around the sizeable knot, absently patting Ellaria's arm with his other
hand to thank her for her assistance. "What the hell happened?"

Oberyn's tone became much more vicious. "Tywin Lannister happened."

Alaric Langward's voice came from the other side of Aelor's tent. The Prince Regent looked
to see the young knight stretched out on his own cot, his right leg a bloody mess of red
bandages both below and above the knee. "Spikes, Your Grace; pits of them, at the foot of the
hills leading out of the mountains of the Golden Tooth."

Oberyn's voice dripped with his distaste. "The bastards threw bridges of woven branches over
them, heavy enough to support a man but not a two-thousand pound warhorse with a knight
atop it. They covered the bridges with rocks and soil, and we were moving too fast towards
their flank to notice the odd look of the ground before it was too late."

Aelor cursed mightily, rage at the Lannisters making his blood boil and his head ache. He
remembered it now, the memories flashing back to him in a rush. They'd poured from the
hills like flame from the maw of a dragon, thundering towards the Lannister formations side
even as Randyll Tarly's infantry marched on their front. Aelor had never felt rage of the same
caliber before, the sight of the Lion banner driving him into a frenzy he could only sate with
killing. Warrior had been particularly worked up, bellowing the stallions customary battle
cries as they near on flew towards the Lannister lines.

Alaric had been on his right, Brightsmile his left, until suddenly they hadn't been. He
supposed it was sheer luck or the work of the Seven that Warrior avoided the first of the
traps, though he highly doubted it was the latter what with the genocide he planned nightly.
Aelor had grown familiar with the shrill shriek of dying horses, though one never grew used
to the gut-wrenching sound. Even so, the cacophony of bellows and animal screams as
coursers and destriers fell, their unprotected bellies impaled on spikes of iron and fire-
hardened wood, was scarring, and the dragonlord knew he'd never forget its terrible sound for
the rest of his life, however long or short it may be. The horrific scene had been compounded
as the second lines of knights, unable to slow their mounts in time, fell into the same traps,
crushing those underneath and driving the poor men and mounts of the first line further onto
the spikes.
Words couldn't describe it, for there were none awful enough.

His great behemoth of a horse had been all that saved him. Warrior was smarter than most
men the Prince knew, bringing his massive frame to a stop inches before he stomped
headlong onto another trap, rearing up. While that had saved them both from crashing
headlong onto near certain death, Aelor had been completely unprepared for it, vaulting off
of the stallions back upside-down.

It had all went black then.

Aelor cursed again under his breath. "How many lived?"

"Of our flanking force? Roughly two thirds. They rained arrows down on us as soon as we hit
the pits."

Alaric grunted. "Suffice it to say our attack stalled."

Aelor glanced at his former squire's leg. "How bad is it?"

The Langward knight's voice turned somewhat bitter, taking the Prince aback. He'd never
heard anything approaching anger in Alaric's voice before. "Two spikes drove through the
flesh. It twisted oddly and broke."

Ellaria spoke for the first time, ignoring Aelor's attempt to wave her away and dabbing at his
forehead with a wet cloth. "We don't know if it will heal properly or not, but there is always a
chance, Alaric." She turned to stare at him, seeming a lifetime older than him even though in
truth there was only a couple of years between the two. "Do not lose hope."

Alaric looked to the ground, jaw set, though he nodded. "Yes my lady."

Aelor cursed himself for a fool. "I should have known there would be a trap." A sudden
thought occurred to him, bringing his blood back to a boil instantly. "Did Lefford—"

"No," Prince Oberyn cut him off with a shake of his head. "I had the same thought, but Lord
Leo knew nothing. His stallion ran into a pit as well, though the other knights and horses
below him let him escape with only a few bruises and a blow to the head similar to yours."

Aelor looked out the flap of his tent, seeing Casterly Rock, the fortress literally carved inside
a small mountain, in the distance. "What is our situation?"

Oberyn stood, pouring two chalices of wine and handing one to both Aelor and Alaric before
retrieving another two for himself and Ellaria. "Brightsmile," the Prince of Dorne said as he
worked, "is crippled; one leg was crushed by another knight's courser after his own mount
was spiked. They had to amputate it at the knee, and there is a still a chance he might not pull
through. The Kingsguard knight is alive and well, his inabilities to properly ride making his
courser pull up well before the pits."

"He braved the volleys of arrows to carry you back to safety, Your Grace," Alaric put in. "He
then came back for me, pulling a dead knight off of me as easy as moving a saddle before
lifting me off of the spikes." The freshly wounded boy looked down. "I didn't think he even
liked me."

"Manfred doesn't like anyone, not even me," Aelor told his young friend. "But somewhere
beneath the layers of hate and violence is a good man."

"Tarly and the Northmen saved the day," Oberyn continued on, undeterred. "Your chief
general committed his reserves to cover our own men while the Wolves broke their left with a
savage charge. Some big fellow, half a giant with a voice like a warhorn, led them."

"Jon Umber," Alaric filled in for the Prince of Dorne.

"In any case, Lannister was more than prepared for us. He used his own reserves to cover
their retreat. Tywin, his best men and most of his lords seemed to have pulled back to
Casterly Rock, while the rest made it into Lannisport and managed to close the gates, dealing
a heavy toll with archers from their walls before Tarly called off the attacks. Their casualties
were overall light."

Aelor nodded, blood nearly singing with the need to cut Lannister throats. "Did Warrior
survive?"

The Red Viper snorted. "Of course he did; it would take more than a few spikes and Tywin
Lannister to kill that horse. Your Tully squire is caring for him at this very moment, and is
still quite vexed you didn't allow him to join the charge." Oberyn looked Aelor in the eyes
intently. "I'll gladly pay any price you want to breed that stallion to a sand steed mare. The
foal will either be utterly useless or utterly unstoppable."

Aelor grunted, taking a sip of his own wine, head throbbing. "We'll negotiate later, and you'll
regret offering any price I want. Are siege weapons being built?"

Oberyn nodded, taking a gulp of his own, Ellaria finally finishing fussing over Aelor and
Alaric and returning to her normal position in Oberyn's lap. "Yes, catapults, trebuchets and
siege towers. Tarly has sent messengers to the Ironborn with orders to blockade Casterly
Rock and the Lannisport docks, though they have already sunk every galley once moored
there."

Aelor nodded again. "Our special gift?"

"Currently in Oxcross, heading this way come nightfall. They'll be here long before we have
the capacity to implement them."

The Prince of the Iron Throne hadn't taken his eyes off of Casterly Rock. "Excellent. I want
outriders to check every crevasse surrounding the Rock; there is bound to be a few unknown
tunnels for just such an occasion. Patrols, randomized and often so the Lannisters have a
limited chance of sneaking through. We'll handle Lannisport first and then focus on the
Rock."

Aelor began to move to get off of the cot, but Ellaria Sand was instantly shoving him back
down. "No no. You need to remain abed for a while longer."
Oberyn stood. "I will bring Tarly and the ugly white cloak back with me, as well as a few
other advisors. We must be cautious, as much as I detest the sheer thought. A lion is never
more deadly than when cornered."

Oberyn turned to exit the tent, throwing one more comment over his shoulder as he moved
like a panther out into the maze of tents and bodies. "He certainly proved it today."
 XXXII

Quellon Greyjoy didn't seem to think like most Ironborn, but he certainly looked the part.

The Lord Paramount of the Iron Islands stood six and a half feet tall, shoulders broad as a
bull. Closer to sixty than fifty, the effects of age and a life of hard activity were beginning to
show in his grey hair and weathered face, but his frame still obviously held great strength.

He came ashore half a mile away from Lannisport, where two thirds of his fleet had returned
from reaving the West to blockade the port. The remaining ships were doing the same where
the mountain of Casterly Rock met the water of the Sunset Sea, on the three great caverns the
Lannisters used as a small, private dock. Twenty men accompanied him, armed with spears,
axes and looks of disdain.

Aelor had ridden to meet him, leaving the mass production of siege weapons and war
councils for the first time in a week. Manfred and Oberyn accompanied him, along with
Greatjon Umber and Hoster Tully in addition to the fifty knights and men-at-arms. The knot
on his head had reduced in size considerably, as well as the soreness from the fall that had set
in the next day. Randyll Tarly and Jon Arryn were overseeing both the siege of Lannisport
and the Rock in his stead.

"Lord Greyjoy," Aelor greeted, striding forward to extend a hand.

The Lord of the Iron Islands extended his own, the two brawny men shaking hands firmly.
"Prince Aelor," he returned, voice friendly. "I see you have your Lion trapped."

Aelor smirked. "It seems I do, with your help."

The big reaver gestured to the equally tall man beside him, though he seemed to be more of a
boy, build still thin though it was likely to pack on muscle in the coming years. "My third
son, Victarion."

Aelor nodded in greeting, something the ironborn returned with clear reluctance. The boy
was scowling fiercely, disapproval radiating off of him in waves. His expression would give
Manfred a run for his money, though nothing could truly equal the surly disposition of the
Kingsguard currently standing slightly behind Aelor.

Ignoring the Greyjoy boys glare, Aelor gestured to his own companions. "Oberyn Martell of
Dorne, Jon Arryn of the Vale, Greatjon Umber of Last Hearth and Manfred Darke of the
Kingsguard."

The introduced men murmured greetings, Quellon smiling as he returned them. "My other
sons are on the longboats, Balon and Euron commanding the force at the Rock while Aeron
serves with the Lannisport feet." He glanced to his present child, smile becoming forced for a
moment. "You'll have to forgive my sons, Prince Aelor; they would much prefer to be
reaving, and don't like bothering with the affairs of greenlanders. A foolish take on life, but
I've yet to break them of it."
That omission made Aelor temporarily wary of what would happen when Quellon passed on
to the Drowned God or whatever it was he believed in, but that was a concern for another
time. "The crown thanks you for your service, Lord Quellon. We have a tent prepared for you
at the center of camp, and ask you join the war council."

The Ironborn were shaky on horses it seemed, and by shaky Aelor meant totally incompetent,
save for Lord Quellon himself. It was for that reason that the Lord Paramount of the Iron
Islands and his son rode ahead alone, his men marching—shuffling, more like, but Aelor
supposed he'd look as foolish trying to stand on a warship in rough water as they did on land
—behind. It was a marvelous display of trust, even for men who were allies, but Quellon
Greyjoy had always tried to conform more to mainland standards.

Aelor decided rather quickly he liked him.

They rode at the head of the column, Greyjoy on Aelor's right while Oberyn and Jon Arryn
rode to his left, the four highest-ranking men in the force sharing the place of honor. "How
went your raids, Lord Quellon?"

"Well, Your Grace. My sons Balon and Euron captured the Crag, and Lord Westerling's
family was taken captive. They are being rowed to your men at Casterly Rock as we speak.
The same goes for the Farman's of Fair Isle. Their heir was killed when we took the castle,
but his wife and three daughters are your prisoners."

"They should be taken as salt wives," came the ugly voice of Victarion, riding just behind his
father. "It is the Old Way."

"Silence, boy," barked Quellon, voice red with anger. "You know it is forbidden."

"It shouldn't be," spat back his son, eyes truly evil when Aelor turned to regard him.

"Enough." Quellon had twisted in his saddle as well. "Return to our men; if you cannot keep
your tongue silent as it should be you can wag it all you want to them." Man and son glared
at one another for a long moment before Victarion dutifully turned his horse out of the line,
galloping back towards the walking ironborn, bouncing in his saddle like a squire.

"I apologize, Your Grace," Quellon Greyjoy said, still glaring after his son. "I've tried to
implement more of the mainland ways into the Islands during my time, but it has been met
with…skepticism, to put it mildly."

Prince Oberyn shook his head. "We were all fiery-tempered young men once, Lord Kraken."
The Dornishman nudged Aelor lightly. "This one still is."

Aelor grunted at the Red Viper's comment but ignored it. "You may keep plundered loot, as
per our agreement, though I hope we were clear on it being forbidden again once the war is
over." Aelor knew that, while it was unsaid, innocent villages were being pillaged as wholly
as Lannister bannermen. Women were being carried off as salt wives contrary to Greyjoy's
commands—Lord Quellon must know it too, but there was little he could do to prevent it—
and would spend the rest of their days in captivity, all because Tywin Lannister had killed
Elia.
And because Aelor Targaryen had unleashed the Ironborn hounds in response. The sane, true
part of him wanted to curse himself for a heartless butcher, but the other part, the part he
embraced when he thought of all he intended to do to Lannister and his kin, reasoned that
they were Lannister smallfolk, and thusly separated from the others.

It was heartless and brutal the Dragon of Duskendale knew, but those were the very things he
had become.

Quellon had nodded in response, blissfully unaware of the inner war Aelor Targaryen fought
constantly. "I understand you perfectly, Prince Aelor. My men will return home as soon as the
Rock falls, while I will sail to King's Landing to swear fealty to King Aegon."

"And assume your place as Master of Ships."

Greyjoy laughed at that, a hearty, genuine sound. "Ah yes, and that." He turned to look once
more behind him, face still smiling from laughter but voice deadly serious. "Perhaps I should
leave my sons behind, though."

He offered Lannisport parlay only for the sake of Elia's memory, not because of any goodness
on his part.

The defenders of the walled city took hours to respond, doubtless wary of a trap, but
eventually the gates opened, and a part of ten rode out. All bore the banners of House
Lannister, the golden lion and crimson field infuriating Aelor to even glance at. They met
halfway between the city and the siege lines, both parties visibly wary of treachery, the
guards watching not only the men they were meeting for blades but also the city or lines for
arrows.

The leader of the Lannisport party was clearly a Lannister, one of the seemingly countless
green eyed blonde haired cunts the city was named after. Middle aged and short, the envoy
was smiling even as both parties reined their horses to a halt.

"Ah, Targaryen. Come to surrender have you?"

Aelor was in no mood for games, diverting nearly all of his energy to keeping himself from
ripping the smiling face off of his skull. "Who the hell are you?"

The man half bowed from the saddle, smile never leaving. "Tybolt Lannister of the
Lannisport Lannister's at your service my fellows." He sat up straight, smile turning cruel.
"You led your intended flanking force, yes? I hope you enjoyed my gift. Spikes can be such
unpleasant things, and horses make such terrible noises when they die."

Oberyn's hand shot out to grasp Aelor's arm in caution, something the Prince was
appreciative of considering it had begun to reach for the sword on his side, the Lannister
guards tensing in response.

"Men make much the same sounds when they die slowly, Lannister," the Red Viper
responded, showing unusual levelheadedness even though his voice was pure venom. "I
intend to show you and all of your family that fact."

Tybolt's smile had never left, instead growing larger. "Cute, Dornishman, but that would
require you breaching the walls behind you; something you will find very difficult to
accomplish, even with your rapist heathens in the sea and those catapults you have been
building."

I don't want to breach those walls, vermin; I want to burn them. Aelor didn't say that, of
course; it was best to keep that a surprise. "I don't have to breach your walls," the Hand of the
King said instead. "I just have to stop you from leaving them."

Tybolt laughed at that, an unusually unpleasant sound. "You're looking at Lannisport,

Dragonspawn. Merchants by the thousands stop there, and while I'm sure your Drowned God
fools will stop more from doing the same we Lannisters have stored plenty. My men and I
can last far longer than your own will wish to remain."

Aelor gestured towards the defenses in question, voice ice. "There are tens of thousands of
people trapped in there with your soldiers though, most of which aren't warriors. Women,
children, the elderly; all of them are mouths to feed, thousands of hungry stomachs that offer
you nothing in return."

Tybolt wasn't swayed. "All of them are loyal to our cause."

That was utter shit and they all knew it, but the gleam in the Lannister's eyes told Aelor the
man had no intention of surrendering, Tybolt's mind set long before the dragonlord had even
offered it to him.

That suited the Dragon of Duskendale just fine. He hadn't been going to offer the Lannister's
a chance to surrender, wanting their blood not their apologies, but they hadn't known that.

Neither did Oberyn or the other Royalist around him. Surprise was going to abound.

"Expel them from your city. They will be given free passage."

Aelor felt Oberyn dart his head to stare at him in confusion, an emotion displayed plainly on
Tybolt Lannister's face. "What?"

Aelor kept his violet eyes focused on the Lannister green ones. "The women, children and
elderly; let them leave."

Tybolt leaned back, face becoming enraged. "So you can use them as hostages to hold against
my men and me? You insult me, Targaryen!"

Aelor clenched his teeth for a moment before replying. "They will not be hostages, and the
only thing I intend to do you is kill you, Lannister." The Prince sat up straighter in Warrior's
saddle. "I am not my father." I am, actually, in more ways than one, but what is a white lie or
two when it comes to murder and warfare? "I don't want to make war on women and
children. Evacuate the city. Let all of those useless mouths leave."
Oberyn started to speak but Aelor cut him off. "Only the elderly, the women and the children
mind you. Any man who looks like a soldier will be beheaded. Anybody with a weapon, no
matter their age or sex, will be gutted. They can depart from dawn to dusk, but anyone who
exits that city at night will be killed. They will bring no wagons, no jewelry, no family
heirlooms; they will only bring the clothes on their backs. They will have nothing; but they
will live."

Tybolt stared incredulously for a moment before laughing again. "By the Seven you're
serious. You Targaryen's truly are mad, aren't you? You would willingly allow a city under
siege to boot out thousands of unneeded bodies, prolonging the siege by months or years? It
is a miracle you inbred devils lasted three hundred years, a true miracle!"

Aelor's let fire seep into his eyes, even as he kept his tone even. "I am allowing you to 'boot
out' thousands of unneeded bodies so I won't have their blood on my hands when I tear
Lannisport and everything inside it apart." Tybolt's laugh stopped at the sheer hate in Aelor's
words, even as the Prince continued on. "In four days I am going to attack that city. In four
days I am going to take it and kill every living thing inside; every man, every horse, every
dog, everything right down to the fucking termites in the wood. Everything that breathes is
going to have its throat slit, whether it fights back or begs for mercy."

Aelor had the full attention of Lannister and everyone else now. "I am going to tear down
every house, every fountain, and every scrap of wood and stack of stone. By the time I am
done, Lannisport is going to be nothing more than a pile of debris and rotting Lannister
corpses."

The Dragon of Duskendale relaxed slightly, letting some of the tension that had built in his
spine ease away. "I would prefer to avoid having the blood of innocent smallfolk on my
hands, Tybolt Lannister, but they will not stop me. If you do not allow the innocents to leave
I will still attack. I will still take your walls and then your lives. I will still end every life,
from the staunchest soldier to the oldest crone. Mother, brother, son, daughter—I will not
discriminate. They will die together or alone, one-by-one or all at once. Each and every soul
will lose their lives, by blade or fire or sheer terror, I give not a whit. Lannister blood, guilty
and innocent alike, will turn the Sunset Sea red, and your bodies will feed the sea lions for
weeks."

Aelor glared into the horror-struck faces of the Lannisters, letting all of his hate fuel the
abhorrence in his tone. "There will be no surrender and no mercy, not for you, but you can
still save your families. You have four days to send them out of the city, where my men will
direct them. Four days to keep the blood of the innocent off of your own hands, because if
you don't evacuate them their deaths will be as much your fault as my own. That is all the
time you have, for in four days I am coming into your city to raze it to the ground, regardless
of who is inside."

Aelor took Warrior's reins into his hands, staring straight into Tybolt's eyes. "I advise you
evacuate, Lannister. The innocent make such terrible noises when they die."

The Dragon of Duskendale turned and galloped away.

 XXXIII

Wildfire was touchy stuff.

A single spark could ignite the world in flame if the green substance was involved, it's initial
ignition an explosion that could throw armored knights aside like batting flies. Too much
heat, a particularly violent bounce of a wagon wheel, sometimes only the sheer volatility of
the substance; all could turn the jars and the surrounding area into wild green flame.

Transporting the thousands of jars from King's Landing to Lannisport had been a tedious
thing, and highly discouraged by the members of the Alchemist's Guild that Jaime Lannister
had left alive. Aelor Targaryen had ordered it done anyway, for the lion had bitten the
dragon's tail and would burn for it.

The convoys had only moved at night, when the sun wouldn't be able to set off the fiery
liquid. Wagons were filled with sand in order to keep the jars of varying sizes from being
jostled, additional wagons filled with water jugs accompanying them from good distances
away though there would be little water could truly do were the jars to light. The men
guarding them had loaded their mounts down with waterskins as well, as well as rugs and
related material to try and beat out any fire.

The teamsters and guards for the almost suicidal duty of transporting wildfire all those miles
had to a man been volunteers. Most—particularly the actual teamsters driving the wagons
and thusly closest to the substance—had been grizzled older men, weathered and worn faces
showing not a bit of the constant fear they had to be feeling. Aelor had thanked them each
individually, and though they didn't know it each man had a knighthood awaiting him once he
reached the royalist camp.

Most already had, and it proved just in time.

For all his obvious arrogance, Tybolt Lannister had seen how deadly serious Aelor Targaryen
had been. The next morning at dawn the gates of Lannisport had opened, and a column of
people had slowly exited. The poorest inhabitants of the Lannisport's slums to the wealthiest
merchants of the city walked together out of the doomed city, carrying nothing but their
children, the clothes on their backs the only materialistic possessions they had left in this
world. Aelor had ordered a gauntlet of his soldiers, all armed and ready for any deception, to
line the sides of the Goldroad, and the fleeing innocents took it, old men glaring harshly at
the soldiers while children in turn stared in fascination.

No one received more of either sentiment than the Prince of the Iron Throne, seated atop his
black destrier at the head of the columns, watching the suddenly broke citizens of Lannisport
shuffle by below. He'd negotiated with Lords Rowan, Bushy, Leygood and Roxton—the
closest Lords of the Reach—to provide rations for the thousands of homeless, detaching a
force of two thousand cavalry to escort them to his own seat of Duskendale. Finding homes,
food and occupations for them would be almost as challenging as storming the Rock would
be and none knew it better than Aelor, but Elia would have wanted this.
He knew nothing would bring his Dornish Princess back now—even the mad, blood crazy
side of him knew it—but he couldn't help but try and honor her.

They wouldn't have cared even if they had known, though, this suddenly homeless lot of
innocents caught in the middle of a war between two men most of them had never so much as
seen. To them, Aelor was the man who had driven from their homes, even if it had been
Lannister's to actually do the deed, not the man who had in actuality just saved their lives. He
could feel the hatred emanating off of them in waves, but there was no attack, no shouted
curses, no nothing; peasant and dragonlord merely regarded one another as the former
shuffled by, neither caring a whit for the other's thoughts.

For four days from dawn to dusk they evacuated, each man, woman and child checked for
weapons before they followed the thousands of others down the beaten road.

Even as this mass migration took place thousands of royalist soldiers worked. Aelor had
close to sixty thousand men on the ground, most of whom had no experience in carpentry or
the construction of siege weapons, but each of them—well, most of them, barring a few men
who had been maimed—had two hands and strong backs. Many hands made light work, and
under the guidance of the craftsmen brought in to build the weapons of warfare the royalist
soon had all the catapults Aelor Targaryen needed. They'd forgone the building of rams or
siege towers, neither of which factored into the Dragon of Duskendale's plans. If the
Lannister's in either the Rock or Lannisport found it odd that the weapons were only being
built around the latter, they were forced to scratch their heads in wonder.

Until the day of the promised assault, when they learned why.

Tybolt Lannister watched from the guardhouse over Lannisport's main gates as the night
turned into dawn, readying his men for the fight to come. The demon that was Aelor
Targaryen had kept his word, at least as far as Tybolt could see. The citizens of Lannisport
had been left unmolested, each checked for any hidden weapons or valuables before they
shuffled away and out of sight, a long line of mouths to feed that was no longer Tybolt's
problem. While not all had fled, most of those remaining either very rich or of Lannister
blood (oftentimes both), the city seemed almost abandoned, even with thousands of knights
and soldiers inside.

Targaryen's reasoning for this clear tactical error had been terrifying, even Tybolt would
admit that, but it was all folly. Lannisport was a strong, well defended fortification; the
Dragonlord outside its gates could have six hundred thousand men, ten times the number that
he actually did, and he would still fail. The Lion would not fall to the dragon.

As the world finally lightened enough for him to see, Tybolt Lannister was taken aback by
the lack of ladders and the lack of men preparing to assault. He had seen the catapults being
built in a half circle, ready to fling stone at his walls, but he had confidence that they would
have no true effect. The Seven were with him, not that inbred madman opposing his city.

When the Cruel Lion saw the teams begin to work the great machines, he called for his
archers to brace, trumpets bidding the soldiers in the city itself to do the same. The siege
weapons were nothing pretty but they did the job they were designed to, evidenced when
each was fired the first time.

It wasn't stone or pitch that sailed over his head or smashed into his walls, however; it was
jars.

Tybolt considered himself a very clever man, but as more and more of the jars smashed
harmlessly on his defenses or the buildings in the city, the catapults adjusting their aim to
seemingly cover the entirety of Lannisport as best they could with whatever the jars
contained, he was utterly lost.

The catapults had fired for well over an hour, not a single soldier making to take the gates,
before the substance they contained was identified. When the cry went up, whipping through
the city's defenders like a Barristan Selmy through the Golden Company, true fear struck
Tybolt, the type that rooted you to the ground and emptied your bladder.

But by then, it was all too late.

Aelor Targaryen had built one more structure besides the catapults, located behind his main
lines in the direction of Casterly Rock. At first Tybolt had believed it to be a siege tower, the
wood being erected upwards, but had soon dissuaded himself of the notion. It was too thin,
only a square structure built into the air with a ladder on one side, a small platform atop it.
Even as cries of 'wildfire' tore through his city a single figure climbed this structure in the
growing light, reaching the top in moments.

As one the catapults stopped firing, the morning turning deadly silent as his own men held
their breaths. There were near one hundred thousand men in, between and surrounding
Casterly Rock and Lannisport, and not a one of them made a sound. Even the seagulls and
the horses kept their silence, as if the animals and the very world itself knew what was to
happen.

The sound of a single violin broke the eerie silence, the figure on the tower beginning to play.
It was a song every person in Westeros knew, from the lowest peasant child to the Lord
Paramounts and their families. As the chords floated across the morning air, solemn and
lonely and clear as a whistle to Tybolt's ears despite the distance, telling their story of rains
and coats of red and gold, he knew he was going to die.

In that odd clarity man received in the final moments of his life, Tybolt heard him. As the last
notes of the Lannister song died, a single voice spoke over the silence in its wake. The Cruel
Lion knew who it belonged to even if he'd only heard it for the first time a few days before,
the command as clear as the notes had been.

Prince Aelor Targaryen's tone was as final as the fate of Lannisport. "Loose."

Tybolt and his men could only watch, too terrified to do anything else, as one last catapult
was fired. A barrel of flaming tar, as bright as the sun itself to the eyes of the doomed men of
Lannisport, flew over their heads almost in slow-motion. He turned as it sailed, never taking
his eyes off it as it glided over his head and dipped down towards the wildfire-coated city
below.
And then the world exploded, and Tybolt Lannister saw no more.

Even Aelor wasn't ready for the aftermath.

For a moment nothing happened as the flaming barrel dipped out of sight and into the city of
Lions, but then all the Seven Hells broke loose.

The light was so great it nearly blinded the Dragon of Duskendale. With a great burning
boom Lannisport went up in green flame, the heavy dose of wildfire catching nearly all at
once. The explosion it caused flung a shockwave so fierce that several stones from the city's
walls were blown nearly to Aelor's own lines, the archers atop them who had been so ready to
rain death on Aelor's men tossed like dolls outwards.

Those that weren't incinerated instantly, anyway.

The shockwave was still potent when it reached Aelor's own men. With a grunt it hit him
squarely, the Prince of the Iron Throne knocked cleanly off of his feet. With cries or grunts of
their own most of his mean did the same, even boulder-like Manfred Darke, his white cloak
billowing as he was shoved backwards. Catapults rolled backwards on their hasty wheels,
horses screamed in terror, and men were tossed aside like driftwood on the tide.

Aelor found himself face down in the dirt several feet from where he had been, his mostly
healed head suddenly throbbing again. Shakily the Prince pushed himself to his knees,
looking up at the mass of green flame he had created. The flames reached high, a great green
cloud rising into the air. He knew in the back of his mind that what parts of the city hadn't
been covered by the wildfire would soon catch fire itself from the heat of the explosions and
green substance, within hours turning all of Lannisport into a pillar of smoke and flame.

But Aelor couldn't focus on that, his mind overwhelmed by the sight before him.

The screams began almost immediately, men in the city being covered in a fire they couldn't
put out. They could be heard even over the crashes of buildings falling, parts of the wall
crumbling and the unnaturally loud crackle of the green fire. Aelor stared into the flames, no
pride or bloodlust flooding his veins, only a numb, morbid amazement.

The men around him one by one gained their feet but no one said a word, each and every
man, all the thousands of them, staring in awe and horror and senselessness at the flaming
havoc before them. No one looked away for no one could, the terrors of what had just
occurred overruling all else.

Aelor was a Targaryen, and beyond that a son of Aerys. He was used to fire, had seen its
devastation and great capacity for destruction up close since he was a child, but this…this
was something else, something different. Even he couldn't take his eyes away, despite the
wave of heat causing tears to run down his cheeks. The longer he stared into the flames, the
more his vengeful mind took over, reveling in the screams of the dying Lannister's. This had
been his intent, his entire goal since the day Elia died besides the death of Tywin.
But suddenly, Aelor Targaryen wasn't looking at a burning Lannisport. He wasn't kneeling in
the dirt of the Westerlands. He wasn't a heartbroken battle scarred Prince.

Instead he was nearly a year in the past, back in the throne room of the Red Keep in King's
Landing, his father's laughs echoing in his ears. Instead of a burning Lannisport he was
seeing a burning Rickard Stark, the Lord of the North baking alive in his armor. Instead of
the screams of dying Lannister's he was hearing Brandon Stark choking to death, desperately
trying to reach his longsword to save his father's life.

Both men were as real as the green flame, staring at him with eyes full of agony and pain,
Brandon Stark's hand no longer reaching for a longsword but instead reaching for Aelor, the
Wild Wolf of the North desperately trying to reach the Dragon of Duskendale.

Aelor reached his own hand out, trying to grab the heir to the North's hand, trying to save him
from the fate that Aelor hadn't tried to save him from months earlier. He scuffled a few feet
forward, trying to do something, intent on using this second chance to stop the war that took
the lives of his brother, best friend and love. He desperately reached for Brandon Stark, trying
to erase his greatest failure of doing nothing before it was too late, trying to save not only this
Northerner but Rhaegar and Renfred, Balman Byrch and Talana Vaith, Elwood Harte and
Denys Arryn.

Trying to save Elia.

Something else in the city of Lannisport exploded with another colossal boom and both
Starks vanished, leaving Aelor once again staring at a wall of green flame, hand reaching
towards nothing. The crushing feeling of his failure once again washed over him, his head
pulsating in a pain both physical and mental.

Aelor found himself falling forward, the ground rushing up to meet him, and the world went
black.
 XXXIV

For the second time in as many weeks, Aelor woke in a tent, though this one wasn't his. This
time he was more than happy to escape his dreams, as they hadn't been nearly as pleasant.

They'd all been about burning cities and roasting wolves. He'd relived the deaths of the Starks
over and over, each time trying to save them and failing worse with each attempt, Rickard
Stark burned to death a thousand times, his son strangling himself just as many. With each
death of the Starks Rhaegar died again, then Renfred, and finally Elia, all as Aelor watched
and screamed and struggled in his mind, unable to stop any of it.

When he finally escaped the worst of the Seven Hells his body was covered in sweat and out
of breath, chest rising and falling rapidly.

"I see now why you don't sleep." Aelor furrowed his brow at the voice he was only vaguely
familiar with, only then noticing the cool of the cloth being held against his forehead. He
followed the hand holding it down a distinctly feminine arm, suddenly finding himself
looking at Alysanne Lefford.

"What…what are you doing here?" His voice was rough even to his own ears and his throat
pained him, as if he'd been shouting constantly for hours. Aelor realized he probably had
been.

The heir to the Golden Tooth's lips turned up ever so slightly at the corners as she removed
the cloth from his forehead to dip it in a bucket of water, wring it out, and return it—now
cooler—back to his forehead. "I've been listening to you scream."

Aelor was finally starting to get his breath under control, the terrors he had just relived
fleeing his mind. "Funny."

Alysanne shrugged. "No, it wasn't, but thank you anyway." She ran the rag down to his bared
chest, trying to cool the Dragon of Duskendale down. He was a Targaryen—heat didn't
bother him near like it did most men—but the sensation was pleasant regardless. "A rider
summoned me to come care for my father after your cavalry had an apparent run in with
some pits and spikes. In truth I think it's another attempt to integrate me in your good graces,
seeing as he's only got a few bruises that were mostly healed by the time I got here."

Aelor snorted, even as he felt his tired and sore body relax under the light touch of her hand
with the cloth. "I told him if he forced you to do something like that again I'd kill him."

Her smile this time was broader. "He informed me of that, actually. I think he actually
believed you were serious."

"That's because I was."

"Oh. Well, I thank you for the concern for my personal wishes." After wringing the cloth out
again she returned it to his head. "I'll have to ask you to leave his head on his shoulders, if I
may. My father may have unrivaled political ambition but he is a better lord than most.
Besides, I'm here now on my own accord, not my father's insistence." When Aelor merely
cocked a brow, Alysanne looked away from the cloth to meet his violet eyes. It was only then
he noticed that hers were a startlingly pretty dark brown. "You were screaming very loud,
Your Grace. There was only so much your Dornishwoman companion could take, despite
how tough she seems to be."

A rush of embarrassment coursed through the Prince and he groaned. "That's a good sign for
the men, their commander screaming like child."

She returned the cloth to his chest, alternating between it and his head periodically, eyes now
firmly back on her work. "I know of no child who can scream like that, Prince Aelor, but you
need not worry about your men. They have all gone to besiege Casterly Rock, while we are
currently directly outside Lannisport." She paled briefly. "Or what used to be Lannisport,
anyway."

Aelor looked into her eyes, willing her to meet his again, something she eventually did. "I
warned you I was no saint."

Alysanne nodded, holding his gaze marvelously well. "You did. And I told you you were no
demon either."

"Tell that to Lannisport."

Her tone was stubborn, nearly as stubborn as Aelor's own. "I will. I'll tell that to all the tens of
thousands of innocents you evacuated when you could have burnt them to a crisp."

For the first time since he was a young boy Aelor Targaryen was forced to look away, turning
his head to face the opposite direction. "Don't give me credit; I didn't do it out of the
goodness of my own heart."

"No, you did it for Elia Martell." Aelor's head snapped back around, violet eyes wild.
Alysanne was meeting them calmly, not an ounce of fear in her own. "You spoke in your
sleep as well. Of King Rhaegar, some man named Ren, a Balman and a Brandon and a
Talana. But most of all you spoke of Elia. A man doesn't feel that much pain over his
brother's wife unless…"

Aelor looked away again, jaw set. His mind was clear, for the first time since King's Landing
wholly and completely his, and it wasn't cutting him any slack. "I just destroyed a city full of
men who were only following their liege lords orders, taking the homes from thousands of
innocents in the process. I did it because I thought it would avenge the woman I love, but in
truth it just harms her memory. Elia wouldn't have wanted this, any of it. I started to wipe out
an entire family for a woman who would beg me to do the opposite if she was still alive."

"Do you regret it?"

He grunted. "No. It is war. They tried to wipe out House Targaryen, and they should-they
will-suffer for it, even more than they already have. But I should never have done it in her
name, using her death as an excuse to sate my desire for blood."
Alysanne's small hand carefully reached over him to gently grasp his chin, silently telling
him to turn his head back. He did so grudgingly, though he didn't meet her eyes once he had.
"No, you shouldn't have. I don't think Queen Elia would have wanted this. I never met the
woman, but from what I hear from your fierce Dornish friend she was truly lovely."

"She was."

Her hand hadn't moved, and she gently pulled at him again, urging him to look at her. "Look
at me, Aelor." With a shaky, annoyed sigh he did. Alysanne was situated close to his side,
face only a few inches away from his own. There was nothing but complete conviction in her
voice as she spoke, willing the Prince not to look away. "You allowed thousands of people
you hate because of their allegiance to walk away free because you knew it would be what
she wanted. You left a child on the throne when you could have taken it for yourself without
a soul to protest, not because you don't have ambition, not because it's best for the realm
because in truth it probably isn't, but because you love that child like he's yours even though
he isn't."

Aelor cut her off. "How do you know that?"

Alysanne glared at him for the interruption, voice coming out impatient at his denseness.
"Because King Aegon isn't dead yet, because you talked about him and Rhaenys constantly
that night at the Tooth, and because I'm not buggering stupid."

The Dragon of Duskendale couldn't help but smile just a touch, despite all that had happened.
"Fair enough."

Alysanne Lefford went on, still glaring. "As I was trying to say, you have honored Elia
Martell more than you know. You were there for her in life, when you smuggled her and her
children out of the city, and you have been there for her even since her death, protecting those
children and trying to set up a Kingdom where they can prosper and grow." She gestured over
her shoulder, to what Aelor could only assume was Lannisport on the other side of the tent
although he had no bloody clue just where he was, as this wasn't his tent and he assumed
they'd moved him far away from the siege lines so the men wouldn't hear his turmoil. "What
happened out there is part of that, as I daresay it will be decades before anyone is foolish
enough to rebel against the Targaryen's again. All you've done you have done for her
children, and that honors her more than anything else you could have done."

Aelor stared at the young woman as she glared at him a moment longer before returning to
her work with the cloth, soaking, wringing and stroking. "You know," he said slowly, after a
long moment. "You are a very opinionated woman."

"You're not the first man to say that."

"And you have precisely zero fear, even of a man who just destroyed a city."

Alysanne snorted, glaring at him for another moment. "You're damn right I don't, and you'd
best remember it before you play this 'I'm a terrible person' folly on me again because I'll slap
you. It gets old, Prince Aelor, and quickly."
Aelor chuckled lightly, though his mind was focused on what she had said earlier. Elia was
gone, and all the blood of all the Lannister's wouldn't bring her back. He didn't regret his
orders concerning Lannisport, as it would stand as a beacon to the rest of Westeros that the
Targaryen's didn't need dragons to utterly destroy you, but the wanton slaughter he had been
so intent on was folly. Tywin must die, of that there was no contest, but most of his family
was as innocent of her death as Aelor was. Elia wouldn't have wanted their slaughter, and
while he may never be able to hold her in his arms as he so desperately wanted to, he could
still honor her beliefs.

Aerys would've wanted their deaths, it was true, but Aelor decided then and there that he was
not the Mad King.

Nothing could change the past, of that he was aware. The Starks had died, curtesy of his
father and Aelor's own inaction, and trying to save them in his dreams would never change
that. Thousands had died because of it, many just that morning, assuming he hadn't been
unconscious for days though Aelor didn't have a single clue how long he'd been here.
Rhaegar had played a major hand in it, as had Lyanna Stark, but it was Aerys who had truly
sparked all of this, all the death and destruction his insanity had brought about. If Aelor was
to honor Elia, if he was to protect her children, he couldn't become his father, as he very
nearly had; as he had so desperately wanted to be, if only so his vengeance and hatred could
be sated in fire and blood.

Aelor waited for the other, darker part of him—the Aerys part—to reassert itself, to tell him
that he must kill everyone of Lannister blood to have his vengeance, but it never came. It had
vanished as the Starks had from the flames of Lannisport.

And Aelor Targaryen was free.

 XXXV

The screams had died within hours, but the fires burned for days.

The exact number of men and women who died during the Burning of Lannisport, already
being called the Lighting of the Lions by the men, though Aelor personally hoped another,
better name would be popularized, was unknown, though it had to have numbered in the tens
of thousands. The city was still burning two days later and likely would be for several weeks
to come.

The once beautiful city was being reduced to a pile of burned out houses and blackened
stones, and Aelor didn't give a single damn about it.

The war council was already raging when he stepped into the large tent—his tent, where he
had held many of these very councils in the last few months. The Dragon of Duskendale was
no fool, and he was well aware that there would be political, economic and personal fallout
from his decision to destroy the third largest city in Westeros. Odds were that that had been
being discussed judging by the abrupt silence that enveloped the council as soon as he
entered.

He waited by the flap of the tent, raising an eyebrow when not a soul moved at his
unexpected entrance. Lord Lefford reacted first, knocking his chair over in his haste to jump
to his feet. The other lords followed his lead, some hastening, others not, but as soon as they
stood Aelor nodded his head and strode towards his place at the head of the table. Each man
had wisely left it unoccupied in the Dragon Prince's absence, even Lord Tarly who held full
command of the army, be they Northern or Dornish or anywhere in between.

"My lords," he said as he took his seat, voice calm and collected. "I apologize for my absence
yesterday." He gave none of them a chance to reply, not-so-subtly informing them that he
would garner no discussion of the matter, at least not with him. "How goes the siege of the
Rock?"

The Lord of Horn Hill answered him, tone as even as always. "The Ironborn have shifted all
of their strength to its siege, as well as patrolling to ensure no sellsail navies will take us
unawares. The catapults are in position, though we have not been using wildfire until Your
Grace informed us to do so."

Randyll Tarly was meeting the Prince's eyes as he always did, a fact Aelor respected
considering many men would have trouble doing so after seeing the devastation of
Lannisport firsthand. Planning the event was one thing, but the actual implementation was an
entirely different matter, and already Aelor knew there were murmurs about his actions; fears
that he was as mad as his father, as cruel as Maegor, as ruthless as Daemon consort of
Rhaenyra.

He didn't care; they could call him a monster and a murderer and everything in between. Fear
was a powerful weapon, one the Targaryen's had been using for decades, and Aelor was by
no means above using it now. That being said, he knew he had to calm those fears, soothe and
appease the nobles before the seeds of another rebellion were planted. Fear was a fantastic
weapon it was true, and fear of another Lighting would likely keep most houses in line for
years to come, but he had to remove the stigma that all Targaryen's were madmen.

Although it may well be true; I certainly am one, even if these men will never know truly how
terrible.

"Excellent." Aelor shifted his eyes from man to man in the room, some meeting them, most
not. "We will use them again come dusk, though not in the same manner. My goal is not the
destruction of the Rock, my lords, even if it could be carried out. I want Tywin Lannister. I'll
take him dead or I'll take him alive, but I'd prefer it be the latter."

"What is your plan, Prince Aelor?" Jon Arryn asked. He would be a hard one to placate, as
would Ned Stark when he returned from Dorne, both being men of a higher honor than
Aelor's own. While Aelor's decision to allow the smallfolk to evacuate would pacify them
slightly, his open plan to burn the city whether they did or didn't would be a thorn in their
honorable sides. Good men the both of them, but ill-suited to the game of thrones.

"We alternate catapult with wildfire and burning pitch. If one fires the burning barrel, the
catapult beside it will fire wildfire. The jars will burst across the front of their battlements
and ignite, burning even on the rock face. Only one volley will be fired, and then we allow
the fires to burn. We do this at dawn and dusk each day, for as long as it takes."

"As long as it takes until what?" Oberyn asked, cocking an eye at the dragonlord. The Red
Viper seemed totally unbothered by the destruction of Lannisport, leaning in his chair as he
always did and changing his attitude towards Aelor not a bit.

Aelor smiled lightly at his friend. "Until they surrender."

A few scoffs sounded around the table, and Lord Lefford spoke. "Tywin Lannister will never
surrender, my Prince, even after Lannisport."

Aelor nodded in agreement. "You're right, Tywin Lannister won't. But what about the lords
trapped inside with him?" Aelor slowly stood, waving off the others as they made to do the
same and casually strolling around the table as he spoke, the lords twisting in their seats to
watch him. "Those men were already worried about their families, not knowing if the
Ironborn had taken them captive or killed them or even been there at all. They saw an army
over twice the size of their own descend upon them. That army and especially myself fell
victim to their trap, it was true, but the fact remains that they saw sixty thousand warriors, all
bloodied veterans, fill the fields before them."

Aelor glanced from one lord to another as he walked, slowly strolling as if he had not a care
in the world. He stopped beside Leo Lefford and Tytos Blackwood, reaching between the two
of them to snatch a pitcher of wine and a chalice. "Then," he continued, tone light as he
poured himself a glass. "These same men see that army camp outside their walls, building
siege weapons and stockpiling stones and pitch to hurl at them. They see tents and pavillons
in such numbers that they seemed as an ocean, and each one held at least one man here to
solely tear their throats from their bodies. All this while they don't know where their families
are, how much food they have, or how long they'll be there."
Aelor made the turn of the table, starting back the other way. "For days they ask their liege
lord what they are going to do, and for days he tells them to hold hope, that he was a plan,
though even Tywin bloody Lannister doesn't have a plan by now. While they wait, wagons by
the score arrive, bringing with them an endless line of supplies to the men waiting below,
showing that while their own stores were limited, the stores of the men trying to kill them
were not."

Aelor hardened his tone slightly, making sure to meet the eyes of lords he knew would not
like to remember the events of a morning ago. "And then those very same men hear a song, a
song meant to show how mighty and powerful their liege lord is. After that song, however,
there is no miracle performed by their great leader to save them. Instead, they watch as most
of their army and a city that was home to tens and tens of thousands go up in flames, wiped
from existence. That song turns into screams, and they can only watch in horror as flames
envelope not only the city but the men in it, her once great walls crumbling, her beauty
reduced to a pile of flames."

"The army that surrounded them doubles in size as men from Lannisport join the siege of
Casterly Rock. The same catapults that unleashed Seven Hells on their city are now staring at
them, the man who ordered it all mere yards away and ready to do the same to them." Aelor
stopped, gesturing with one hand as he spoke, voice sounding like he was telling a story to
children not predicting the mental anguish he was putting men through. "Those catapults start
covering their fortress in a fire they cannot put out, and while they themselves remain
unharmed the first tendrils of thought join the abundant fear in their minds. 'If we stay here,
will any of us live?' 'How long before that fire melts the rocks of our walls?' 'Is my family
still alive?'"

"Yes, they fear their liege lord, fear him like the Stranger himself and rightfully so, but
suddenly it dawns on them. Tywin Lannister destroyed two houses. Aelor Targaryen
destroyed an entire city, and he is planning on doing the same to the fortress we are in. Tywin
Lannister is going to die. If we stay here, we will die with him, as will any family we have
left. We are many, Tywin Lannister is one, and the Rains of Castamere have ended."

Aelor took his seat again, having circled the table and all the lords seated there as he spoke.
There wasn't a sound to be heard, complete silence hanging over the meeting. He leaned
back, wine in one hand, face curious. "So tell me, my lords; what would you do? I am a
Prince, and a warrior at that, and as such I am no craven, but I know what my action would
be."

Aelor took another sip of wine. "The only true question that remains is just how many days it
will take."

In the end, it took seven.

Each dawn and dusk, a single violin played a song of rain before dozens of catapults fired
barrels of burning pitch and jars of deadly wildfire, turning the face of Casterly Rock into a
wall of green flames. The man-made fortifications that had been built on the mountains face
were systematically destroyed, burned and fallen under the heat of the unnatural flames. The
defenders inside could only wait, noses filled with the smell of smoke and ears with the
sound of flame, their view nothing but green fire.

It was an easy decision in the end, one Aelor was surprised it took so long for the defenders
to come to.

When the mighty doors atop the steps of the Lion's Mouth swung open, wide enough for
twenty riders to ascend as one, the siege lines sprang into action. Archers rushed to the ready,
a shieldwall was quickly formed, and men prepared for a sally from the Rock's defenders. It
would be suicide and unthinkable, but Aelor was taking no chances with Tywin Lannister.

The flags of truce the party carried with them however eased his apprehension, as did the
slow, unthreatening pace. Silence slowly overcame the camp as the defenders moved towards
them, each man wondering if this whole ordeal was finally over.

It seemed it was.

Tywin Lannister, Lord Paramount of the West and Lord of Casterly Rock, was thrown at
Aelor Targaryen's feet, hands bound and face furious, by two of his own Lord Bannermen,
Lords Westerling and Plumm. The great lion of the west held his silence, though the rage in
his eyes could hold its own with Aelor's battlelusts.

His son Jaime joined him, the white armor of the Kingsguard nowhere to be seen and instead
replaced by sheer golden plate. Prudent of him, to not further insult the prestigious order he
had once been a member of. This young cub's face held no anger or distress, merely calm
acceptance.

The same couldn't be said for the young woman beside him, who just so happened to look
identical to the disgraced young knight. Her blonde hair, emerald eyes and—even Aelor had
to admit—utterly ravishing beauty named her as Cersei Lannister, the very girl King Aerys
had refused to marry either of his adult sons to out of sheer spite. Her eyes held no fear as she
spat insults and curses befitting a sellsword at the men she labeled traitors.

The fourth figure dropped bound at his feet—not the last, but the various other Lannister's the
defenders had bound held little interest to Aelor—was also the most interesting. Aelor had
heard of the boy Tywin kept so well hidden, the malformed beast some called a demon. The
Dragon of Duskendale had been expecting some sort of abomination from all the rumors, but
all he saw was a tiny dwarf child, eyes mismatched and head covered in blonde curls. His
face reminded Aelor of Jaime's, though not in any actual physical resemblance. Like his older
brother's, it held no fear and no anger.

That intrigued Aelor. The dwarf was said to be no older than eleven, but his eyes—which
held the Prince's violet ones evenly, much to his surprise—held an intelligence far beyond
that of a child.

Aelor didn't think about it too long, however. He casually took a few steps forward, his rage
returning though this time it carried none of the madness and was tempered with a calm
purpose, coming to a stop in front of the Lord of West. The Great Lion glared up at him, eyes
full of hate though he kept his silence.
Aelor couldn't help it; he smirked ever so slightly as he spoke. "Tywin Lannister. Words can't
describe how happy I am to see you again."
 XXXVI

"You cannot let them live, Your Grace," One voice counseled.

"Lord Tywin, no, but Cersei and the dwarf boy have done nothing wrong," retorted another.

"I agree. Tyrion is but a child." Came a third, followed by a massed jumble of others.

"No, they must all be put to the sword. It is how your father dealt with the Darklyns and
Hollards."

"King Aerys was mad, Bolton."

"Careful, Blackwood. He was still your King."

"The Targaryen dynasty cannot afford to look weak. Leaving any Lannister alive after their
rebellion would appear as just that."

Aelor put a stop to the argument. "If I kill every man who rebelled against my family, Lord
Belmore, then I should put all of the Starks and Arryns and Tullys and all of their bannermen
to the sword as well. If I recall correctly, that would include you." Silence descended the
council. "Tywin Lannister attempted to pillage King's Landing and kill every last member of
my family. He was foiled, but he later succeeded in having Queen Elia murdered and would
have done the same to the King and Princess. For that he must and will die."

"No one is contesting that point, Prince Aelor," spoke the calm voice of Jon Arryn. "But his
children with the exception of Jaime are as innocent as the smallfolk of Lannisport. It was
just of you to let them live, and it would be just of you to do the same now with Cersei and
the dwarf."

"The smallfolk were not named Lannister, Lord Arryn; at least not all of them."

"You are not your father," Arryn replied, voice confident. He's incorrect, but at least he is
confident in his folly. "If you were, we would still be in the Riverlands, warring against one
another."

"You rebelled justly," Aelor countered. "Your family and honor was deeply wronged.
Lannister's was not. My father insulted the man thoroughly and unjustly, I'll be the first to
admit, but having your daughter's hand in marriage turned down is no reason to murder
children."

"Precisely." Arryn held the Dragon of Duskendale's eyes as he said it, and Aelor realized he
had made the Lord Paramount of the Vale's point for him. Aelor clenched his jaw but leaned
back into his chair, allowing others to take the narrative.

"Someone has to rule the Westerlands." Brightsmile said from a cot to the side of the table,
stump of a leg stretched out in front of him. The heir to Oldtown was marvelously upbeat
even after losing the limb, already attempting to use crutches despite the pain the injury was
doubtlessly still causing him. "It will clearly not be Jaime Lannister, even if he hadn't
forsaken his Kingsguard vows and fled King's Landing with his father. Tyrion is the rightful
heir."

Lord Belmore scoffed. "He is a dwarf and a Lannister."

"Precisely," Hightower replied. "He is a Lannister. The Arryns kept the Vale because of their
blood when Aegon the Conqueror attacked. So did the Starks with the North. And so did the
Lannisters of the Rock. The smallfolk and Westerlander Lords followed the Lannister's
because that is all they have done for centuries."

"They followed Tywin Lannister because they were scared of him."

"Why do you think men knelt to Aegon Targaryen, Lord Rowan?" Roose Bolton had odd
eyes and an odder twist to his personality. Aelor didn't like him in the slightest, but he
seemed a very capable commander. "Why do you think we are here now discussing the terms
the Lannisters will receive and not still sieging Casterly Rock? Because of fear."

Lord Rowan was a stout, gregarious man, and unlike Bolton Aelor actually found himself
liking the man. "That is exactly my point, Lord Bolton. A dwarf will never command fear.
The Rock should pass to Ser Kevan Lannister and his children, wherever they have gone."

Aelor grimaced slightly at that. He of course knew full well why Kevan Lannister and his
family were missing, and he felt a wave of guilt crash over him at the thought. Kevan was a
good man, completely unlike his brother Tywin, and he shouldn't have been forced to flee for
his life due simply to his name. Another wave of guilt joined it at the thought of Barristan,
whom Aelor had so coldly dismissed even though the Kingsguard knight had only been
trying to save Aelor from himself. While he should not have gone against the royal family's
wishes, Aelor was now glad he had.

"Have you ever met Tyrion, Lord Bolton?" Lord Illifer Foote, the young bannermen to Leo
Lefford, asked. "Tywin kept him relatively well hidden, but I had a conversation with him at
a feast near two years ago. His body may well be stunted but his mind most certainly is not."

"This is still assuming we leave the Rock to the Lannisters," Belmore insisted. "I still advise
revocation of the Paramountcy and the Rock. Most of their once massive family is already
dead after Lannisport, Your Grace. It would be simple to finish the job."

"Enough of this." Aelor waved his hand. "Your opinions are well noted, my lords, but the
decision is mine and mine alone. The Baratheons await us in King's Landing, and there is still
much to settle. Prepare the army to move in a few days' time. I will dole out punishments and
settle the region's future on the morrow."

Oberyn Martell entered the tent soon after the other Lords bowed and left. The Red Viper of
Dorne hadn't had the patience to listen to the council, insistently asking Aelor to give him
Tywin at every opportunity and spending the rest of the time cursing the man.
Aelor groaned and rubbed a hand across his eyes at the sight of him. "I know you want Tywin
and the other Lannisters, Oberyn. Believe me, I know."

The Prince of Dorne took a seat beside him, waving the Tully boy to pour them wine. "Then
why do you hesitate?"

"It is not that simple."

"Yes, it is. You have rewarded the Reach; it is time you reward Dorne. Give me Tywin
Lannister and I will consider it done."

Aelor scoffed. "You had as much reason for this war as I did. Aegon is as much your nephew
as my own."

Oberyn conveniently ignored that, focused solely on what he wanted. "Give me Tywin,
Aelor. For Elia."

"I need time to consider it."

"You didn't take any time at all when it came to burning Lannisport."

Aelor glowered, speaking around gritted teeth. "Edmure, out." For once the boy didn't wait
and complain, turning and fleeing the pavilion as quickly as he could. Aelor glared at his old
friend and spoke again once the Tully heir was gone. "You know as well as I that I wasn't
myself when that was ordered. You fed that fact for your own purposes."

"No you weren't and yes I did, because you were the man this situation needed when you
weren't yourself, not this merciful diplomat."

Aelor's tone turned deadly. "You're a brave man and my friend, Oberyn, but I have had
enough insults to last me a lifetime. I will not take any more from you."

The Red Viper glared back, no fear in his black eyes. "But you will allow them to Elia? Each
breath a Lannister takes is a slight to her memory."

"Tell me, just what did the dwarf boy do to bring about her death?"

"He is Twyin Lannister's son. That is enough."

"And I am Aerys Targaryen's!" Aelor bellowed as he rose to his feet, throwing his arm out in
anger and knocking the two just-poured glasses of wine off the table to break on the ground.
Oberyn rose as well, the two deadly men staring each other down. The Prince of the Iron
Thrne drew and tossed his dagger on the table in front of the Prince of Dorne. "If sons are
guilty of the sins of their parents, then I killed the Darklyns and Hollards and the fucking
Starks. Drive that dagger through my heart to atone for them, then turn it on yourself to atone
for your own."

Oberyn looked every bit the coiled snake ready to strike. "And what are my family's sins?"
Aelor knew it was a low blow even as he delivered it, but Oberyn had thrown off all bets.
"Your family betrothed Elia to the heir to a mad dynasty to increase their own prestige. If it
weren't for you, why, Elia would never have been in the middle of all of this anyway. And if
she weren't, maybe she'd still be alive."

A black rage crossed Oberyn's face, and for a moment Aelor was sure he was going to grab
the dagger and slit Aelor's throat. The Dragon of Duskendale readied himself for it, slipping
into that mindset of battle without another thought of it being his friend he was facing.

For the first and likely only time in their lives Oberyn had the cooler head. With a bellowed
curse the Prince of Dorne turned and stalked out, fists clenched. Aelor glared after him as his
body slowly relaxed. With another muffled expletive of his own he slumped back into his
chair, staring down sightlessly and gripping his brow.

"That was quite the falling out."

Aelor's head snapped up, though he knew who owned the voice before he laid eyes on her.
Alysanne Lefford stood in the flap of the tent, garbed in a dress of the blue and gold of her
house sigil that complimented her suntanned skin. Aelor grunted before returning to his
previous position. "You always seem to catch me at my lowest moments."

He could hear the swish of her dress as the heir to the Golden Tooth entered the tent
unprompted. "You certainly seem to have a lot of them."

The Dragon of Duskendale snorted out a chuckle and leaned back, eyeing her as she
approached. "What are you still doing here, Alysanne?"

She circled around behind him, the sound of glasses clinking and wine pouring. "Officially or
unofficially?"

"Both."

"Well, officially I am here to continuously care for my father." A glass appeared in front of
his face, one Aelor took. Alysanne filled the seat Oberyn had just vacated, a glass in her own.
"Unofficially I am here to continuously try to woo you."

Aelor cracked a smile at her terms. "The Lady wooing the Prince. That's quite the deviation
from the norm."

Alysanne smirked back and shrugged. "You shouldn't be too surprised. You'll have every
unwed lady and half the married ones after you now. 'Targaryen Prince, Lord of Duskendale,
Hand of the King and Regent of the Iron Throne.' Yes, you're quite the pursuit indeed. The
family that marries their daughter to you will be by default very influential." Her grin
widened. "But you know that, of course."

Aelor returned the smile. "And so does your father."

"And so does my father."

They sipped their wine in silence for a moment before the Prince spoke. "What do you think
of it all?"

Alysanne cocked her brow in surprise. "Me?"

"You."

"How would I know anything about this, Your Grace?"

"You probably wouldn't, but seeing as I don't know anything either I'm willing to listen to just
about anyone."

She mock glowered at him. "Flattering." The heir to the Golden Tooth leaned back slightly in
her chair, wrinkling her nose in thought. "What was your plan before you actually had
Tywin?"

Aelor chuckled without humor. "I had planned on killing every living Lannister and burning
their bodies to ashes like I did Lannisport. After that I didn't have a plan. The Westerlands
could have turned into a massive power maelstrom with nobles cutting each other's throats in
an attempt to pick up the scraps and I wouldn't have cared."

Her dark eyes appraised him intelligently. "But now you do care."

The Dragon of Duskendale nodded slightly and took another sip of his wine. "Yes. Now I
do."

"Is there a particular reason why?" When the Hand of the King cocked an eyebrow at her
Alysanne elaborated. "When I cared for you after Lannisport, you made it clear that you
didn't give a whit about burning the city. Has that changed?"

"No."

"Then what has? You could wipe out the Lannisters and be seen by many as just in doing so.
Those weeks ago at the Tooth that is all you wanted. Why don't you want it now?"

Aelor regarded her for a long moment. "Is this coming from the woman who is ordered to
seduce me, from the woman who used to swear fealty to the Lannisters, or from the woman
who is heir to the House who by loyalty to the crown is the most likely to inherit all the
Lannisters lose?"

Alysanne held his eyes. "I like to think it is coming from a friend."

Aelor smiled lightly at the comment before sitting back in his chair. "I could use one of
those." He gestured towards the opening Oberyn had stormed out of. "I seem to be losing the
ones I have at a rather appallingly fast rate."

"Oh, I wouldn't worry about your Dornishman friend. His…partner Ellaria and I have had
quite a few chances to speak as the only two noblewomen in the camp. She says you both
have massive tempers and are equally capable of foolhardiness, but that your friendship isn't
the temporary kind."
"You heard the last thing I said. It wasn't very Princely of me."

"Nor was what he said to you beforehand. Your tempers will cool, your minds will clear, and
in a few days all will be well."

"You are a very optimistic woman."

"One of us has to be, Prince Aelor." She adjusted in her seat. "Back to my point. What has
changed that has got you so flummoxed?"

"Were you listening in on the council?" He waved her away almost as soon as he said it. "No,
don't tell me. Brightsmile and a few of the other Lords were right. The Westlanders follow
the Lannister because that is all they have ever done, and I cannot change that, so killing the
rest of them justified or not is out of the question. That being said, I wiped out nine tenths of
the two main Lannister lines and most if not all of the cadet branches when I burned
Lannisport, which will obviously lead to derision from future Lannister rulers. And that is the
next problem; Tywin must die, Jaime most likely will too and the second son is a dwarf."

Alysanne cocked her head to the side. "You don't strike me as the type to mind that sort of
thing."

Aelor shrugged. "I'm not, but I doubt the same can be said for the lords who will have to
swear fealty to him."

"Have you talked to Tyrion?"

The Dragon of Duskendale hesitated a moment. "No."

"Illifer had a valid point; dwarf or no, his mind is brilliant."

"And his body stunted. Nobles are full of pride, myself included."

"But if he makes them prosper, they can forgive almost anything. And Tyrion will."

Aelor raised an eyebrow at her. "How do you know so much about this boy Tywin kept
hidden?"

Alysanne rolled her eyes. "I've said it before; my father's ambition is unrivaled. He loves me,
don't you doubt it, but my role is to marry advantageously. When Jaime Lannister joined the
Kingsguard it made Tyrion heir to Casterly Rock, whether Tywin wanted it or not. My father
aimed for me to be the lady. Until the war and you came along that is."

"Lord Leo is certainly a character it seems."

Alysanne ignored his last comment. "Tyrion seemed in desperate need of a friend. After he
realized I wasn't there to make fun of him, he told me quite a bit." She met his eyes and held
them. "Including how Tywin always hated him and considered him a blight on the Lannister
name. I understand you hate the Lion of Lannister, whatever your recent revelations that have
calmed you down—recent argument with the attractive Dornishman notwithstanding. What
better way to get the last laugh over him than put his legacy into the hands of the very man he
never wanted it to go to?" Alysanne leaned back and shrugged, eyes twinkling.

Aelor stared at her for a long moment, and then he couldn't help but smile.

The Lords dutifully awaited him the next morning, and Aelor wasted precisely no time on
pleasantries. "My decisions have been made. First will be Cersei Lannister, an innocent in all
of this nonsense no matter how foul her mouth may be. Several of you have asked for her
hand in marriage as rewards for good service, and you shall have rewards for loyalty in the
future. Cersei, however, shall marry someone who didn't ask for her."

He turned to look at one of his most loyal supporters, seated with his bad leg laid out in front
of him. "Lord Elwood Harte died valiantly during the Battle of the Trident, and with him died
House Harte. As Lord of Duskendale, his lordship reverts to me, to grant as I please. Cersei
shall marry its new lord, a utterly loyal man whom I know will never try and press her claim,
starting another war when the Westerlands certainly doesn't need one; Ser—now Lord—
Alaric Langward."

The shaggy haired youth nodded, having been forewarned by Aelor the night before, face
white with apprehension but willing to do damn near anything Aelor Targaryen asked.
Several Lords who had requested Cersei's hand scowled, but none opened their mouth in
protest, a prudent move on their part.

Aelor searched the crowd for a familiar face, nodding when he found it. "Prince Oberyn."

The Dornishman had come to the council willingly after Manfred delivered the request,
something Aelor hadn't been sure the Prince of Dorne would do. Even so he met Aelor's eyes
with a glare. "Elia was your sister long before she was Queen. Tywin lost all rights to an
honorable death the moment he attacked a city under the guise of friendship, and buried them
further when he killed the woman we both cared very much for."

The Red Viper perked up slightly at what the Dragon of Duskendale was saying, though his
anger had yet to leave his eyes. "As such, I'm giving Tywin Lannister to you. You have a
week to kill him, and then you will present his head to me to mount on a spike of Maegor's
Holdfast."

There were a few grumblings from the other lords—chief among them Lord Arryn—but
Aelor ignored them. Oberyn's eyes had lost all of their rage. He opened his mouth to speak
but Aelor raised a hand to cut him off. "Don't thank me yet. Neither Jaime Lannister nor
Tyrion Lannister shall die."

Outrage tore through the advisors, mainly at Jaime's apparent lack of punishment. Aelor shot
to his feet, slamming a hand on the table to cut them off though he felt none of the anger the
move implied. "Enough, my lords. Hear me out." He slowly retook his seat. "I had a
conversation with Tywin Lannister last night, as well as Ser Manfred Darke of the
Kingsguard, who interrogated the men who carried out Elia Martell's murder. They both told
me the same thing; Jaime didn't kill Elia. He didn't stop his father's men from doing it, no, but
how could he? He was in the black cells for killing the King, and that was his only hope for
escape in addition to being commanded to flee by his father."

Aelor relaxed back in his seat. "He broke his Kingsguard vows it is true, but in doing so he
saved King's Landing and all the innocents in it from the very wildfire that destroyed
Lannisport. My father wasn't a good king, we all know it. While Jaime disgraced his honor as
a Kingsguard, he didn't disgrace his honor as a knight—he protected the innocent. As such,
he will be sentenced to take the Wall, where he will serve out the rest of his life—as long or
as short as it may be—as a sworn member of the Night's Watch. That is my decision."

The silence that followed had no small amount of disapproval, but Aelor's violet eyes dared
anyone to argue. None did.

Jon Arryn spoke next, eyes clearly approving of Aelor's decision. "And Tyrion."

Aelor readied himself for the next wave of outrage. "Tyrion is innocent of both his father's
and brother's sins. Dwarf or not, he is the heir to Casterly Rock and the Lord Paramountcy of
the Westerlands. He shall retain it."

Old Lord Sumner Crakehall, big, brawny and strong despite his age, scoffed louder than the
others. "He is a child, and a dwarf to boot."

The Dragon's voice took a cold tone. "He is your liege lord, Lord Crakehall, rather you like it
or not. He is the heir, and while the Lannister's must suffer for the transgressions of Tywin, I
could just as well say you should suffer, for following the man against the crown. Scoff my
decision again and you will."

Crakehall grudgingly shut his mouth, and Aelor continued. "The Lannisters have already
been punished heavily. Ninety percent of their line died in the Lighting of the Lions, and
Lannisport's once great incomes are gone. Furthermore, seven tenths of the gold in Casterly
Rock shall be seized by the Crown, to help pay for the resettling of the smallfolk displaced by
the Lighting. All loot seized by the Ironborn during the war shall be by rights theirs. And you,
my Westerlander lords, will follow Tyrion Lannister as your liege lord, or there shall be more
Lannisports in the future."

There were no more scoffs.

Aelor looked back to Lord Leo Lefford, who was keeping his face carefully blank. "Lord
Leo. Many—and likely you among them—were expecting me to revoke the Lord
Paramountcy and grant it to you for being the only Westlander house to remain loyal when no
others dared, even if the reason you did was sheer practicality. While that clearly will not be
the case, I do not forget my friends. Loyalty to the crown will always be rewarded."

Aelor smirked slightly. "Your ambition, however annoying, has worked."

"I'm going to marry your daughter."

 XXXVII

"I hear we are to be married. Thank you for consulting me."

Aelor grunted as she entered the tent at dusk, waving his hand at Edmure. With a sigh the
squire turned to leave again, clearly sick of being ordered to and fro like a...well, like a
squire. He'll learn yet. The Trout swims where the Dragon tells it.

As soon as the squire exited the Prince of the Iron Throne turned to his new betrothed. "Don't
sound so surprised, my lady. It has been your entire goal since I first passed through the
Golden Tooth."

Alysanne slipped back into the seat beside him where she had sat the day before, glancing
curiously at the stacks of parchment stacked in front of Aelor. "My father's goal, you mean."

Aelor went back to writing, quill scratching as he finished the letter to the castellan of the
castle Brindlewood whoever the hell they were, instating Alaric as its lord. "And yours. We
both know it; there is no need to begin our marriage out with lies and deceit."

Alysanne to her credit didn't deny it. "I did tell you you'd have every unwed lady in Westeros
chasing after you. I'm unwed and I'm also a lady."

Aelor chuckled shortly, signing the letter before closing it and sealing it with the warring twin
dragons of his personal seal. He supposed the seal of the Hand of the King would carry more
weight, but this was an internal matter of the high lordship of Duskendale, and any figure in
Brindlewood prominent enough to be left as castellan would recognize Aelor's personal sigil
above anything else. "Oh, I'm perfectly aware."

"So why me? I'm sure there were more beautiful women from more prominent families;
Cersei Lannister, for example."

Aelor quickly looked up from beginning his next letter. "Don't even go there."

Alysanne giggled even as she held her hand out in deference. "Okay, maybe not Cersei
Lannister, but that doesn't exclude the others."

Aelor lay his quill down and leaned back in his seat to eye her. It served a dual-purpose; his
back was bloody killing him from hunching over those letters. "You're blunt and honest, and I
admire that. Most noble ladies are curtseying, swooning maidens with more courtesy than
brains. You're different."

Alysanne mockingly laid her hand on her heart. "The Seven, just what every woman wants to
hear. Isn't this when you're supposed to confess your undying love for me?"

The Prince Regent shrugged even as he went back to his writing. "If you believe that is how
noble marriages work, my lady, then I should reconsider my offer to your father."
"Oh I know it's not, but you could stand to be a bit more romantic. But I understand; you can't
well give your heart when another already owns it."

Aelor's hand froze in the middle of writing a word, and he had to swallow before he could
either continue writing or speak again. "If that is going to be an issue for you, tell me now. I'll
take the blame from your father, citing some sudden change of my mind."

Alysanne's voice took a softer tone. "I knew my future husband most likely wouldn't love me,
but I admit I didn't expect him to be in love with another. Particularly not someone…"

"Someone dead," Aelor finished her thought, voice crueler than he initially intended for it to
be. "Well, I am. And before you ask, I'm not sure that is ever going to change."

She was silent a moment before speaking again. "If you had the choice you wouldn't marry
soon or maybe even at all, would you."

"No, but I don't have the choice. My family is dwindling in number, if you hadn't noticed.
After the tragedy at Summerhall and this war, there are few Targaryen's left in the world. I'm
the only adult one alive besides my great uncle Aemon at the Wall, and thusly the only one
able to 'inflate our numbers' in the near future. It is my duty."

"Yes, your duty, not your desire. That puts my future in a rather bleak light, doesn't it."

"Quite the contrary, actually." Aelor looked up to meet her eyes again, brief brush of emotion
passed, face now the calm, hard countenance of the hard man he was. "I'm not one for self-
praise, but I'm the most powerful man in the Seven Kingdoms right now. As my wife, you'd
have your own share of it. I already value your counsel, as you've given me sound insight
when prompted and even when not, but you'll still have influence even when I'm dead and
gone, be that one year or one hundred. Your first son will be the Lord of Duskendale, your
second the Lord of the Golden Tooth, their cousin the King of the Iron Throne. Your
daughters will have advantageous marriages; one may even be the Queen, if that seems a
prudent match to make. And, above all, our children's names will be Targaryen. And with
that name comes power."

He lowered his head, voice growing deadly serious. "And you do want power, Alysanne; you
are fiercely intelligent and you know it. That is the only reservation I have in our potential
marriage."

She raised an eyebrow. "What do you mean?"

Aelor leaned forward in his seat, staring directly into her dark eyes with his violet ones. "I am
the heir to the Iron Throne. If something should happen to Aegon, I will inherit the Seven
Kingdoms. That means our first son will inherit them. Any woman I marry, perhaps with the
exception of Ashara Dayne, would be sorely tempted to…help that along. After all, what
good mother wouldn't want their son and his sons to be a King instead of a mere high lord?"

Alysanne, again to her credit, held his gaze evenly. "You're right; I do want power. I'm tired
of being ordered to flirt with this lord or befriend that knight—or fuck that Prince—simply
because I am a woman. You are a Targaryen, a member of the most powerful family to ever
walk the roads of Westeros, and above that you are a male. You don't know how infuriating it
is to be bartered and bred like a prize mare." Her eyes flared up in indignation and no small
amount of anger, an anger she let bleed into her voice with absolutely no fear. "But do you
truly think I would kill achild?"

Aelor's stone face softened for a moment. "No, Alysanne, I don't. If I thought there was even
a chance of that I would never have asked for your hand. I do however think your father
would, if it meant his grandson sat the Iron Throne."

He stood, turning to the trays behind him to pour the wine as she sat waiting, a reversal of
their roles from the day before. "There is something you need to be fully aware of before we
are wed, Lady Alysanne. You already know I love Aegon and Rhaenys as if they were my
own children, and that I will gladly burn a dozen Lannisports to keep them safe and well.
What you may not know, however, is that I will also burn a dozen men and dozens more if
they compromise their safety." He turned to face her again, finding her eyes once more as he
walked back to the table. "Even your father and all the Leffords left in the world."

Aelor took his seat again and leaned forward, hesitantly placing one of his hands on her much
smaller one. "I wouldn't want to cause you that pain, for you have been one of if not the only
thing that has kept me sane in the last few weeks. That is something I can never thank you
enough for no matter how many years I have to try. But I need you to help me keep your
father in line, and if he doesn't…"

She sat back slightly, though she didn't look away or move her hand from under his. "You are
very fond of issuing threats, Prince Aelor; it seems to be all you do these days."

"I have Seven Kingdoms to rule and four children to raise in a savage country, half of which
wanted my entire family dead not too long ago. Fear is all that's keeping them in line now."
He patted her hand once before leaning back. "You are a good woman and a better person
than I, Alysanne Lefford, and whatever I may have said earlier I know it. I may be a warrior
at heart but I am by no means a fool; you have had ample opportunity to advance yourself
and your family in the past few days and you have never even hinted at it. Most would have
thought of nothing else but amassing as much power for themselves and their House in your
situation, but all you cared about was me."

Alysanne shrugged. "Don't look too much into it; I have always had a perverse fascination
with broken things."

She giggled lightly, and Aelor couldn't help but join in for a moment before growing serious
once again. "You said I don't know what it is like to have my entire future planned out for me
and you are partially correct—though being a Prince is not as glamorous as it may seem—so
I am giving you a choice like you have always wanted. I do not love you and I am not sure I
ever will, I'm as stubborn as your father is ambitious and I am capable of much blacker
violence than anything you have seen yet. I cannot offer you the storied love of Prince
Duncan and Jenny of Oldstones or Florian and Jonquil, and I cannot promise I won't
occasionally lash out and act the utter fool. But I can promise you protection for yourself and
your—our—children, a comfortable if somewhat stressful surrounding, and the full right to
knock some sense into me when needed. And I can offer you the power of choice in this,
which is something you won't have in your next marriage if you decide against me. That is
what I have to offer you, Alysanne Lefford; the choice is yours."

She pursed her lips for a moment, eyeing him. "Is that an offer of marriage, because it
sounded more like a proposition of business to me."

Aelor shrugged. "I'm not good at flowery words. Swords and killing are more my specialty."

Alysanne watched him a moment longer before rising and turning. Aelor watched, utterly
confused, as she walked to where his bed and personal affects were located in the corner of
the pavilion, scrounging around in the rapidly dying light. Without a word she seemed to find
what she was searching for and turned to walk back to the table.

Alysanne placed the candle and its holder onto the table in front of them both with a thud,
lighting it with the firesteel she had commandeered and casting light over the stacks of
parchments. "Well, if I'm to be your wife, I can't well let you work yourself to death before I
get the influence your marriage brings now can I?" She reached her hand out for a roll of
parchment and the quill. "Who am I writing to and what am I saying?"

Aelor Targaryen smiled.

 XXXVIII

Pain was such a flexible thing.

It came in all sorts of forms, able to bring out complete opposite reactions when inflicted in
the slightest different way. Most avoided it, the threat of pain able to convince them to do
nearly anything you wanted. Others embraced and treasured it, like the Burned Men of the
wildlings of the Vale. It could be a form of despair as was common, avoided like greyscale,
or it could be a form of pleasure if the inflicting hand knew what it was doing. He had come
across a Lyseni whore in his days as an exiled sellsword who had been obsessed and
enamored by pain, and she had remained his favorite for nigh on half a year due to her sheer
uniqueness.

Pain could be inflicted quickly, with a sword or spear or other weapon, or it could be inflicted
slowly, with the vast array of poisons he had worked at mastering since he was a young man.
Death was nearly as flexible, capable of coming with or without vast amounts of pain.

For Tywin Lannister, Oberyn had chosen vast amounts, and even that wouldn't be enough. He
had a week to kill him on the march back to King's Landing, and he intended to use every
second of it.

Torture was as adverse as pain and death. The Boltons of the North flayed their victims alive,
peeling the skin form the muscles and tendons while the prisoner thrashed and flayed.
Oberyn had only tested it for the first time the day before, one finger at a time, and he had to
admit the process was satisfyingly brutal. Burning was another, more common practice, and
Oberyn wasn't against tried and true methods. A Lion roasted as well as any other, and Tywin
Lannister had always been called a Lion.

But Oberyn was a Viper, and poison was his weapon of choice.

The old Lion was tough, even Oberyn would admit that, but they all broke sooner or later,
and Tywin Lannister was no different. Three different poisons seeped slowly through his
system, none of the doses fatal by themselves and even when combined would take longer
than Oberyn had to kill the former Lord of the Westerlands. Each caused a different effect,
fully intent on making Tywin's last hours as miserable as possible. Widow's Blood slowly
shut down Tywin's bladder and bowels, the body's inner toxins working on the old man's
flickering life. Basilisk venom pulled his mind slowly apart, causing hallucinations and
terrors to haunt the Lion's mind even as his body shrieked in pain. And finally the venom of a
viper slowly clotted his blood, sweat pouring down the Lion's bare bloody torso as his body
betrayed him, killing itself slowly with only limited input from Oberyn himself.

The Red Viper of Dorne knew in his heart his sister wouldn't approve. Aelor Targaryen had
told him the same, seeming to have come to the conclusion during some part of the same
revelation he seemed to have had during the flames of Lannisport. Oberyn assumed his new
betrothed, the Lefford girl, was part of it, and he would fear his old friend was being
manipulated if it weren't for the calm reassurances of Ellaria, who had gotten to know the
heir to the Golden Tooth decently well.

That and it was Aelor. He was much too attuned to the game of thrones to be deceived by a
girl he barely knew, and while the wiles of a woman's warmth were as effective as the
greatest of derived schemes, the last scion of Targaryen strength was in no danger.

Even so, Oberyn intended to remain in King's Landing once they arrived for a good while.
Oberyn trusted Aelor—and the Prince of Dorne didn't trust much of anyone—and the Lefford
woman seemed a decent individual, but one could never be too cautious when an Infant King
was on the throne, and Lord Leo was unabashedly ambitious.

He'd have to show the man just how foolish any plotting would be. Maybe he'd give the Lord
of the Golden Tooth Tywin's body after he gave Aelor his head.

But that was a fear for another time. Now, the Prince of Dorne stood and unsheathed the
dagger at his side. As he took a step towards the bloody tortured man in front of him, the Red
viper smiled.

His second return to King's Landing had been much better than his first.

For one, he hadn't escorted the empty armor of his dead brother to the Great Sept of Baelor.
There was no solemn pall over the smallfolk as he rode through their midst to the Red Keep.
Instead, they had shouted and rejoiced, shouting his name or his nephews, though Aelor
knew what they were truly cheering for.

It brought the Dragon of Duskendale no small amount of joy either. Tywin Lannister's tarred
head entered the city on a spike, emerald green eyes glazed and sightless, face forever locked
in a silent scream of pain. Aelor knew the Lion of the West's last days had been terrible; he'd
ordered Oberyn to conduct his business well back of the main column, but even despite the
distance he had heard the former Hand of the King's screams.

He asked Elia to forgive both himself and her brother, even as the Prince of the Iron Throne
relished their sound.

Randyll Tarly and three thousand volunteers had remained behind in the Westerlands to settle
any unrest Tyrion Lannister's ascension to Lord Paramount would bring. Aelor intended to
offer Kevan the regency for his nephew, if the man could be found.

And if he would accept. Aelor knew many in the West would hate him for years to come after
Lannisport, but he didn't care. They could hate him all they wanted as long as they feared him
just as ardently, and anyone with eyes could see they most certainly did.

It was morbidly funny in a sense; he was using the same tactics to instill order that his most
hated enemy, the man he had ordered tortured to death, had used. Whatever his rage at Tywin
Lannister, the Lion's methods had been effective.
Hopefully his head, rotting next to Pycelle's skull, would be equally so in showing Westeros
the wraith of the dragon.

The Dragon of Duskendale had held his sister for the first time soon after his arrival,
Daenerys Stormborn every bit the Valyrian Princess. Viserys was still reeling from the loss of
their mother, and Aelor knew it would be a long process to settle his youngest brother down,
but his babe of a sister seemed to calm the young Prince temporarily, something Aelor was
thankful for. He knew perfectly well that Viserys could easily in his child's mind blame
Daenerys for their mother's death, but the opposite seemed to be the case. He was clinging to
girl, always wanting to hold her, checking in on her constantly, being the older brother to
Daenerys that Aelor had—to his shame—never been to Viserys. Aegon was growing and
Rhaenys alongside him, with each day the toddle growing to look more and more like Elia.

The Targaryens were very much alive despite the recent attempts to change that fact, and
Aelor didn't intend to let Westeros forget it any time soon.

His Small Council had reconvened the morning after his return to the capital, now complete
since Quellon Greyjoy had travelled with the army from Casterly Rock on horseback and
Lord Commander of the Kingsguard Gerold Hightower had returned with Ned Stark from
Dorne. Aelor had very nearly removed the white cloak from Hightower, Oswell Whent and
Arthur Dayne for forsaking their king and following Rhaegar in his folly, but he had
ultimately decided against it. Even so, he had made it abundantly clear that their loyalty to
was to their King, and had left no room for doubt in any of their minds that he would give the
next Kingsguard to forget their vows over to Oberyn.

Several new faces had sat in during that crucial council meeting on invitations from Aelor.
Oberyn, who as Alysanne and Ellaria had predicted seemed to have forgotten the argument
he and Aelor had nearly killed one another over, had managed to not only sit through the
whole thing without fidgeting but also managed to avoid insulting anyone. His time with
Tywin seemed to have settled his normally testy attitude. Barristan, whom Aelor had yet to
gather the courage to talk to privately, had also sat in at the Dragon of Duskendale's
invitation, along with the new Grandmaester.

The Conclave at the Citadel in Oldtown had selected a hulking brute of a man named Colmar
as the replacement to Pycelle. Closer to seven feet than six, he was half again as broad
shouldered as Aelor with a bull thick neck and huge hands. Born to a whore in Maidenpool
four and a half decades earlier, he had survived a bout with greyscale as an infant, leaving his
broad face disfigured and earning him the dubious nickname of Colmar the Grey. The man
wore the name like armor, dressing in all grey robes. However grisly the disease had made
his countenance, it certainly hadn't affected his voice, which was as booming and boisterous
as Greatjon Umber's, nor his mind, which even in their limited interactions Aelor had gauged
to be as sharp as Valyrian steel.

The Small Council and their additional advisors had debated and worked for half a day,
arguing and figuring, Grandmaester Colmar sending out nearly every raven in the rookery
with messages going all over the Seven Kingdoms. Wyman Manderly had torn into the
figures of the new influx of gold seized from Casterly Rock, having by Barristan's account
worked tirelessly during the time the Prince had been gone to get a firm grip on the Throne's
finances. Bronze Yohn Royce had alongside Oberyn toured the massed army outside the
gates of King's Landing for volunteers for the City Watch, having stripped half of those who
had survived the Sack of their gold cloaks, the order having become infected with dishonest
and incompetent men during the years of Aerys reign. The Lord of Runestone had been met
with a rash of volunteers, most of them former peasant levies who had found an aptitude for
war and martial pursuits or were simply looking for a consistent meal and place to sleep, and
Bronze Yohn claimed it would take him several days to filter through them all.

Lyanna Stark had come to the capital with her brother as well, now mere weeks away from
delivering Rhaegar's child. That was the only issue he hadn't brought before the council, and
even now the Dragon of Duskendale wasn't sure how he was going to handle it. He hadn't
talked to the Stark girl yet, knowing himself well enough by now to recognize he needed time
to gather himself before he did so to avoid ripping her foolish head off.

Maybe he'd bring Alysanne along when he finally did.

Aelor Targaryen was set to marry his betrothed in a fortnight, noble ladies from all over the
realm already clamoring to be a lady-in-waiting despite Alysanne having only arrived in the
capital the night before. She was handling the rushed preparations rather well, already settling
into her position as consort to the most powerful man in Westeros. A few of the hostages
from the rebel regions had already filtered into the capital, and Alysanne had made it her duty
to settle the understandably frightened children into their new surroundings.

The Slightly Larger Council dispersed a few hours past midday, having convened that
morning before dawn. As he had many times before, Aelor stopped Barristan before he could
leave, waiting until the chambers were clear.

His mentor met Aelor's eyes calmly; there was no judgement, no betrayal. Aelor couldn't
quite force himself to return the gaze, and a silence hung over the two for a long moment
before the Prince of the Iron Throne managed to find his voice.

"I suppose you heard about Lannisport."

Barristan the Bold's voice was as calm as his gaze. "I imagine all the known world has by
now, Your Grace."

"You would have stopped me if you were there."

"I certainly would have tried."

Aelor nodded, eyes on the ground. "I don't regret it, nor will I ever. Does that make me as bad
as Aerys?"

Barristan didn't hesitate. "King Aerys would have burned the city with everyone in it,
smallfolk and soldier alike. You didn't, Your grace."

"I wanted to."

"I know you did, yet still you allowed the innocent to escape. That is when I knew."
Aelor looked up for a moment, meeting his constant friend's eyes. "Knew what?"

"King Jaehaerys once told me that madness and greatness were two sides of the same coin.
Every time a new Targaryen is born, he said, the gods toss the coin in the air and the world
holds its breath to see how it will land." Barristan smiled ever so slightly. "Yours missed both
sides, Your Grace; it landed on the edge. But I wholeheartedly believe that will make you the
greatest of them all."

Aelor looked down again and swallowed. "Is this where I say I am sorry, Barristan?"

The most powerful man in the Kingdoms couldn't move as Barristan the Bold slowly walked
to his side. The knight of the Kingsguard lightly laid his hand on the Prince's shoulder, and
the Prince knew he was forgiven. "No, Aelor. This is when you become the man you were
always meant to be."

The Hand of the King and regent to Aegon the Sixth held court that evening, ascending the
steps to the Iron Throne as regally as any King ever had. Instead of sitting on the ugly, sharp
piece of burnt and twisted steel, he had ordered a simple chair to be settled in front of it.
While he had silenced the whispers that Aelor should overpass Aegon in the succession, he
knew the thoughts were still in the back of the minds of his most ardent supporters—and his
soon-to-be goodfather Lord Leo. Aelor refused to add fuel to the fire of those thoughts.

Besides, the simple chair was much more comfortable than that forsaken throne.

Nobles from around the Seven Kingdoms were present, among them Mace Tyrell and Ned
Stark, who had been awaiting Aelor and his return. The Prince of the Iron Throne nodded to
the latter as he sank into the chair, silently thanking the Lord of the North for having the
foresight to keep Lyanna from the throne room and the eye of the court.

"Lords and ladies," he spoke, as Barristan and Manfred took up positions on either side of the
dais the throne sat upon. "We finally have peace."

A cheer went up, one Aelor let grow for a long while before silencing with the raising of a
hand. "There is much to be done, and I am not one for wasting time or for ceremony. Lords
Arryn, Tully and Stark." Each of the Lord Paramounts stepped forward. "You willingly bent
the knee when you could have continued fighting, and then loyally assisted the crown in
defeating Tywin Lannister even after reprimands were issued. House Targaryen rewards
loyalty, and as such only five hostages shall be required of each region to serve five years
where placed. Many have already arrived, and I again defer to you and your Lord bannermen
in deciding who shall serve. Lord Stark, your son or daughter shall be required in King's
Landing only once every two years instead of every other year, and the same shall be
required of Lord Arryn's heir should he and Lysa Tully be so blessed. Lord Hoster, Edmure
shall remain my squire and hostage until he is of age, but I will personally present him with a
suit of plate armor, a sword and a destrier bred from my own warhorse when he is knighted,
as thanks to House Tully for your service."

Each man nodded and issued their thanks, returning to the crowds of the court when Aelor
waved a hand. As was his nature, he instantly moved on to the next issue. "Ser Rolland
Storm, step forward."

The Bastard of Nightsong was young, only eight and ten, the brother of the even younger
Lord Bryce Caron in the Stormlands. Even so, he had alongside Greatjon Umber and the
Northmen broken the Lannister lines outside Casterly Rock and Lannisport, slaying four of
Tywin's kinsmen among several others. Though he had fought at the Trident alongside
Robert, he had only been following his liege lord as had so many others, and Aelor was a
warrior who respected other warriors. "While you fought the Crown at the Trident, you
served it exceptionally well during the Battle of Casterly Rock, and I am told you are an
excellent swordsmen. As such, I am offering you the seventh and final position in the
Kingsguard, to serve King Aegon Targaryen the Sixth of his name loyally until the day of
your death."

The young man with pox scars was unsurprisingly shocked, only able to nod his head in his
surprise. Aelor returned the nod. "Kneel, Ser Rolland, and rise as a member of the
Kingsguard."

Aelor watched on as the Bastard of Nightsong swore an oath forsaking his family and
swearing allegiance to Aegon Targaryen and the Targaryen dynasty, Barristan placing the
white cloak around his shoulders. While some would grumble at the appointment of a former
rebel and of one so young, Aelor knew Aegon would need strong swords to protect him, and
as a bastard Rolland had few prospects in the Stormlands. He could rise much higher than he
otherwise would in the Kingsguard, and the young man seemed to know it.

As soon as the young man was cloaked, proudly taking up a position aside Sers Barristan and
Manfred, Aelor came to the most crucial decree he had to male. "Stannis Baratheon, step
forward."

The middle Baratheon was tall as the first had been though his lanky form had yet to fill out,
his face as grim as Robert's had been jovial. Aelor had heard how the young lord had resorted
to eating boot leather and rats rather than surrender to Mace Tyrell, only yielding the castle
when Eddard Stark had arrived and persuaded him to. While Aelor wouldn't forget that
Robert had killed Rhaegar—and he was sure Stannis wouldn't forget that Aelor had killed
Robert—he couldn't help but be impressed.

Aelor met the Lord Paramount of the Stormlands Baratheon-blue eyes as he spoke. Stannis
held the gaze. "You followed your brother as a second son should. As a second son myself, I
can respect your actions. Your brother is dead by my hand, as my own brother is dead by
Robert's. That could easily breed future animosity between our Houses. I have been
counseled—likely wisely—to have you and your brother take the Black."

Stannis held Aelor's violet eyes unwaveringly. "That would be your right, Your Grace."

Aelor smiled ever so slightly. "I am not going to do so, however. You are the new Lord
Paramount of the Stormlands by right, a position you will maintain. Hostages will be taken
from among the Stormlords, five as is the sentence of the others regions. Your brother and
heir Renly will become a ward of Lord Mace Tyrell, not only as a buffer against any
attempted retaliation against the throne but also as a reward to the Lord of the Reach for
services rendered. Your first child, when born, shall undergo the same arrangement as Lord
Stark's and Lord Arryn's. If you accept these terms, you will be accepted back into the King's
Peace."

Stannis was unafraid. "And if I don't?"

The Dragon of Duskendale respected the lad's courage, but he would learn that Aelor was not
one to be trifled with. "If you don't, I will descend these stairs and drive my sword through
your stomach, to watch you bleed out on the floor of the throne room as both our respective
brothers did in the waters of the Trident. Renly is likely to be much more accepting of my
deal if he also becomes the Lord of Storm's End."

Stannis held Aelor's violet eyes for a long moment. "I suppose I accept these terms then, Your
Grace."

Aelor nodded. "You are a brave man, Stannis Baratheon. I hope that bravery will serve the
Iron Throne well in the future."

The Dragon of Duskendale stood. "Lords and Ladies, the rebellion is over, and peace finally
surrounds us all. May Aegon the Sixth's reign truly begin."
 XXXIX

He was getting married in less than twelve hours, yet here he was outside a different woman's
chambers.

Aelor Targaryen was becoming quite the expert at handling the cries coming from a birthing
chamber, and he wasn't even an actual father yet. After King Aegon's and Aelor Rykker's
births he knew roughly what to expect, and as such he was calmly waiting outside Lyanna
Stark's chambers as the Northerner screamed in pain.

Eddard Stark was waiting too, though he was certainly anything but calm. The Lord of the
North was a father, word having reached the capital that Catelyn Tully had given birth to a
healthy boy at Riverrun, but he looked like anything but, pacing furiously down the corridor,
grey Stark eyes boring into the stone floor of the Red Keep. Aelor watched him in mild
amusement, having given up on calming the screaming woman's brother.

A presence appeared beside him, voice soft as it spoke. "He's going to wear through the
stones of the hall. Replacing them will be a pain."

Aelor chuckled. "Sounds like the perfect job for the de facto Queen. Have fun."

Alysanne nudged his shoulder lightly, and the Dragon of Duskendale looked down at her.
"You should sleep. We can't have the Regent of the Iron Throne missing his own wedding."

Aelor's eyes became shrouded. "I have been avoiding this situation for weeks. That child is
Rhaegar's, and a Prince or Princess of the Iron Throne."

"It is also my sister's, and half-Stark," Eddard cut in, suddenly no longer pacing and instead
watching them. The Lord of the North desperately wanted to return to Winterfell, even a
blind man could see it, but he refused to abandon his sister, and Lyanna had been too close to
childbirth to travel. "Whatever Lyanna's mistakes, her child will be as much my niece or
nephew as yours, Prince Aelor."

Aelor nodded, though his eyes hardened. "Aye, it will, but Lyanna is the daughter of a Lord
Paramount. Rhaegar was a King. Our nephew is a Prince or Princess; as such, they will be
raised in King's Landing."

Stark furrowed a brow. "You can't intend to separate the babe from their mother."

Aelor's Valyrian eyes were as hard as Valyrian steel. "That is exactly what I intend, Lord
Stark. Lyanna will return to Winterfell with you and your men, while the child remains here
to be raised alongside its brother and sister. The blame for the Rebellion rests mainly on my
father and brother, I know, but Lyanna certainly played her own role, and I have not forgotten
it."

"Your brother seduced her."

"Your sister let herself be seduced. She was unhappy with her betrothal—as if she was only
noble, male or female, to be unpleased with their political match—and thusly ran off with a
married man, starting a bloody war that nearly destroyed both of our families."

Eddard Stark had ice in his veins it was clear, for the Quiet Wolf didn't rise to anger as most
men including Aelor would have. "And the child? What if they decide they want to know
their mother, their cousins?"

Aelor felt Alysanne gently grasp the inside of his arm, and the Dragon of Duskendale bit
back the instant refusal that had been rising. Lord Stark had a point; as little as Aelor thought
of Lyanna, he couldn't make her child's decision for them. Well, he supposed he very well
could, but he would not.

With a sigh, the Prince Regent nodded. "When the child is older, they may make their own
decisions regarding their mother. I will not deny them their wishes on the matter. But that is
years in the future; as soon as Lyanna is healthy enough to travel, she will leave the capital
and will not return, and the child will remain here."

Any further argument on the matter was interrupted as a particularly loud scream ripped
through the corridor, and the chamber door flung open, a flock of midwives fluttering out to
rush both directions, haste marking their every action.

Eddard Stark froze, face showing clear apprehension. Aelor felt the same; Aegon's birth had
been followed by such haste, and it hadn't meant anything good for Elia.

The three important figures were as relevant as tits on a breastplate as the army of midwives
rushed to and fro, bringing more and more cloth and water. They nearly missed the elderly
woman and her bundle when she slipped out amidst the hustle and bustle, Aelor paying her
no mind until she was suddenly pressing a babe into his arms.

Aelor instinctually took it, looking down in surprise and amazement at the tiny babe now in
his arms. A dark patch of hair covered it—his, her?—head, grey eyes looking up at him. This
one is all Stark, I don't see a single sign of Valyria, of Rhaegar.

"It is a boy, Your Grace," the old crone croaked out, flashing a toothless smile. "Small but
healthy."

Aelor couldn't help but bark a laugh at that. Some Visenya you'll make, lad. Rhaegar would be
so disappointed. The Prince of the Iron Throne couldn't help but smile at his tiny nephew. It's
a good thing I'm not Rhaegar then, isn't it? You'll do just fine for a Targaryen, even if you do
look more wolf than dragon.

Aelor almost didn't hear Ned Stark's worried voice. "My sister?"

The crone's voice was much calmer than the Lord of the North's. "She is bleeding heavily, but
Grandmaester knows what he is doing. They nearly have it stopped. She will be weak for a
long while, but she shall survive."
The crone had been right—Lyanna Stark certainly looked weak the next morning, but she
was also most certainly alive. The tiny, pallid woman burst into his chambers amidst the
shouts of protest from the guards stationed outside, looking like all the Seven Hells but also
with no small amount of fire burning in her eyes. "You will not take my child from me!"

Aelor raised an eyebrow from where he stood, half dressed for his wedding. His black tunic
and cloak with its three-headed Targaryen Dragon lay on the bed in his otherwise sparse
quarters, and the dragonlord had sent his aides from the room. He waved the guardsmen
clutching Lyanna Stark's arm off, the man backing out of the room with no amount of relief
on his face.

And the dragon faced off against the She-Wolf.

"I will take your child from you, Lady Stark."

She staggered forward, and Aelor was concerned the young woman was going to faint there
in his chambers. "He is my son."

"He is my nephew." Aelor stood to his full height, voice final.

"Jon belongs with me!"

Aelor cocked his head to the side. "Jon? Is that what you call him? I'm afraid that isn't going
to work, Lady Lyanna. 'Jon' is Valyrian, not Northmen. As such he will be raised here,
alongside his brother and sister."

"But not his mother? Think of what that will do to him!"

Aelor was rapidly losing his patience, not that he had very much to begin with. "I am
thinking of him, Lyanna Stark. What will he be in the North? A bastard? Jon Snow? The
bastard boy of a foolish, selfish girl who decided she didn't want to marry the man she was
betrothed to so she eloped with another already married one and started a war that took
thousands, including his father?"

Lyanna Stark's voice was much stronger than her body, eyes as feral as the sigil on her
family's banner. "He is a Stark!"

Aelor lost what remained of his control. "He is a Targaryen!" It was a bellow, thrown full in
the face of the weak woman in front of him. "He is the brother of a King, the blood of the
dragon. He is the blood of old Valyria, the son of King Rhaegar Targaryen. His place is here,
and here he will stay."

Aelor whirled around, stomping to his bed and grabbing the tunic, trying to get a grip on his
temper. "I will hear no more of this. I have a wedding to attend."

Lyanna looked progressively worse, and what was left of the compassionate part of Aelor
Targaryen wondered if going through with this would kill the She Wolf. The rest of him—the
Aerys part—couldn't find the capability to care.
Lyanna must have realized she would get nowhere with demands and switched up her tactics,
though she still willfully ignored his dismissal of the subject. "Please, Prince Aelor. He is all
I have left of him."

"Of who, Rhaegar?" Aelor spat out. "He was my brother long before he was anything to you,
Stark. Maybe he honestly loved you as he said; even I don't know the truth of it. But your
actions helped put him in the grave, along with countless others of my friends and near-
family. What am I to do, forget all of that simply because you are a woman? Weren't you
yourselfknown for bemoaning how women were treated so differently than men?"

"Then let me stay, Prince Aelor. Please. I'm begging you. All I want is to be near him."

For just a moment the Dragon of Duskendale began to give in, but the image of Renfred
Rykker dead on the banks of a river, Elwood Harte gripping the spear that had killed him and
Balman Byrch holding his dead younger brother flashed in the Prince's mind, and his heart
hardened. "You are loved by your family, Lyanna Stark; you will still be held in high esteem
in Winterfell. In King's Landing, however, you will never be anything more than the whore
who ran off with a Silver Prince because she was too spoiled to understand there is no room
for love in the game of thrones. Whatever my own thoughts, you deserve more than that. You
will return home with your brother; if your son wants to see you in future years, I will not
stop him. But it will be hischoice, not yours."

The She Wolf broke down into tears, sickly body convulsing with the cries. "Guardsman!"
The Dragon of Duskendale called over her sobs, turning back to the looking glass as he
buttoned his tunic, face now utterly emotionless. "Escort Lady Stark back to her room."

"I have no time for her tears."

The union of Aelor Targaryen and Alysanne Lefford was a happy occasion after so many
months of pain and fear.

Every living Targaryen, from the black haired babe Aelor had named Jaehaerys to the Infant
King to the Dragon of Duskendale himself, gathered in the halls of the Sept of Baelor, the
very same sept that had months ago been a fortress under siege. The Valyrian Prince, silver
haired and scarred, had draped the three headed Targaryen dragon cloak over the
Westerlander heiress, tan of skin and beautiful. An olive skinned little girl had clung to his
leg as he did so, dark eyes taking in all, and even now she sat atop his lap at the head table
back at the Red Keep, overlooking the ocean.

Musicians played as nobles from all over Westeros danced. Ashara Dayne laughed in the
small arms of young Viserys Targaryen, who had clung to the Dornishwoman almost as
ardently as he had his sister. Greatjon Umber, having stayed in the south to head the men
escorting the Starks home, laughed and bellowed with Grandmaester Colmar, the two giants
towering over nearly everyone else in the vicinity. Lyanna Stark clung to Jaehaerys Targaryen
in the corner, treasuring the last moments with her child that Aelor had—under the direct
request of a sympathetic Alysanne—granted the She Wolf. Leo Lefford grew increasingly
drunk, celebrating his greatest plot that had only been successful due to his daughter's sheer
blunt personality.
Malessa Rykker and her father privately enjoyed the festivities, young Aelor Rykker's hungry
bawls both frequent and loud, though no one seemed to mind. Mace Tyrell thrice attempted to
make conversation with Aelor at the head table, mentioning each time how he had recently
been blessed with a young daughter who would surely grow into a beauty of fable and how
well a match a Tyrell would make a Targaryen. The first two times Aelor politely directed
him elsewhere, and the third the Lords own mother—Olenna Redwyne, the Queen of Thorns
—shooing him away like an annoying pet.

Aelor and Alysanne watched it all, Rhaenys going to Malessa just long enough for the
Dragon and his bride to squeeze in a dance before they returned to the table and the Princess
her uncle's lap. Gifts were presented throughout the festivities, from daggers to books to an
ornate chair from Lord Tyrell clearly meant to replace the simple stool Aelor used when he
held court.

It was a gaudy thing the Dragon of Duskendale wouldn't be caught dead in, but he thanked
the Lord of the Reach all the same.

Varys was one of the last to present a gift, appearing like a shadow as he always did. The
Spider was oddly enough one of the few men Aelor halfway trusted, the chirping of his little
birds and the webs he wove having saved the Targaryen dynasty just as often as Aelor had.

"Lord Varys," the Lord of Duskendale greeted, smiling.

"Lord Hand," the bald eunuch replied, bowing in that odd way of his. "I must congratulate
you on your wedding. And you, Lady Hand; you look absolutely stunning."

Alysanne smiled at the compliment; Aelor did as well, since it was true. "Thank you Lord
Varys. It is a pleasure to meet you."

"The pleasure is all mine. As is this introduction, if I may. Prince Aelor, I would like you to
meet an old friend of mine. He has with him a gift, not only to you, but to House Targaryen
as a whole."

The Spider turned and gestured, and a large—and Aelor meant large—man shuffled out of
the crowd. Almost grotesquely obese, the foreigner had his hair and forked beard died an odd
color of yellow, marking him as a man from the Free Cities. Judging by the small fortune of
gold and gems adorning his hands and neck and his clearly expensive clothing, Aelor figured
him to be a merchant. A very successful merchant, as each finger bore a ring of ameythyst or
ruby or black diamond. Sometimes they bore two.

"Prince Aelor, may I congratulate you on your marriage!" The big man said as he
approached, stopping to bow. Attempt to bow, more like. His belly makes that a difficult
process. "I am Illyrio Mopatis, of the Free City of Pentos."

"And an old friend of mine," Varys chimed in.

Aelor nodded in greeting. "A pleasure to meet you, Lord Illyrio. My wife and I thank you for
your attendance."
The fat man smiled jovially. "I believe you will thank me more for my gift than my
attendance." The merchant clapped his hands together, and two servants appeared out of the
crowd, bearing between them an ornate chest. "Our mutual friend Varys and I have spent
many years and many resources tracking these down. They are gone to stone, petrified from
age, but that makes them no less beautiful or symbolic for House Targaryen."

The two servants lifted the lid, and Aelor felt his heart leap into his throat even as Illyrio
spoke again. "One for each of the heads of the Dragon."

Within that chest, one black with ripples of scarlet, another pale cream laced with gold, the
third green flecked with bronze, sat three dragon eggs.
 XL
Chapter Notes

Hey guys! I neglected to mention this prior, which was an oversight on my part, but this
chapter begins the second story arc of The Dragon of Duskendale. It takes place roughly
sixteen years after the end of the previous chapter, placing it in 299 AC. While the books
technically start in 298 AC, Westeros is a far different place in my AU, so I opted to
start a year later. This helps give some more age not only on the canon characters, but on
the plethora of OCs I'm about to introduce.

Sorry about the abrupt change in gears, but I was distracted in completing the story over
on fanfiction dot net. I thought about posting my second story arc as another part in a
series on this site since dot org makes it easier to tie two stories together, but I ultimately
decided to keep it under one story posting. This chapter addresses a lot of what happens
in the time between, but even more detail about the major houses comes out in
subsequent chapters, so bear with me!

I hope you enjoy it, and please let me know what you think of all the occurrences!

There was a surplus of Targaryens these days.

Sixteen years ago there had been a war to eradicate the line of the Dragon, half of Westeros
rising in revolt against the blood of Aegon the Conqueror. The war—forever christened
Robert's Rebellion—had very nearly succeeded; by the end of the brief but bloody conflict
House Targaryen had been reduced to five children, an old man at the Wall, and one battle
scarred Prince.

Now they were bloody everywhere.

Half of Westeros had once again risen, though this time their intentions were much less
violent. Princess Daenerys Targaryen turned six and ten on the morrow, and her nephew
Jaehaerys would do the same in a few weeks' time. The Targaryen patriarch—not the actual
king but the man who had in reality been the king for fifteen years—had decreed a grand
tourney to be held in celebration, one the capital had been preparing for months. It had drawn
most of the knights and nobles on the continent to Duskendale, which had grown nearly as
much as its Lord's family in the time since the last war. Hundreds of lords and nobles had
gathered in the now sprawling city, and when hundreds of important people gathered in one
place, thousands of plots and political agendas came with them.

It was bound to be an interesting time.

The jousting lists were so long they could accommodate seven tilts at a time, something that
would prove necessary considering the sheer number of knights who had entered the tourney.
The melee circles were nearly as large, pristine for now but undoubtedly destined to become
churned and bloody in a few days' time. Stands had been erected in bulk, and several areas
had been designated for the smallfolk of the city. It was destined to be a tourney unlike any
other.

Those things tend to happen when both a Prince and Princess were not betrothed. There were
so many suitors of both sexes in and around the city the Grand Maester felt he might drown
in them, each and every one intent on nabbing a Targaryen for themselves.

House Targaryen had done nothing but grow during the years of King Aegon the Sixth's
reign, both in number and power. Colmar the Grey had seen it first hand, having delivered
most of the new Targaryen's himself. That was the very reason he was in Duskendale now
and not in King's Landing; Alysanne Lefford was heavy with child, due nearly any day.
While the Dun Fort in Duskendale had its own maester—Gorold, a more than competent man
Colmar had known for nigh on forty years and who happened to be engaging him in
conversation at the moment—there was something to be said about familiarity, and Alysanne
was very familiar with Colmar. The hulking man with a disfigured face had, after all,
delivered her first six children.

Why change the winning formula at number seven?

Truth be told, Colmar had traveled with the rest of the court to the coastal city at the behest of
Alysanne's husband more than anything else. The Dragon of Duskendale took no chances
when it came to childbirth, not after his mother had died birthing the Princess Daenerys over
a decade ago, and he certainly didn't take any chances when it was his own wife and child.
He had insisted Colmar accompany his wife back to Duskendale, and Colmar had of course
agreed.

One didn't deny Aelor Targaryen.

Even here, in a feasting hall full of Princes, Princesses and Lord Paramount's, the Dragon of
Duskendale stood out from among the others. Colmar glanced over the head of Gorold—an
easy thing to do for the Grand Maester as he stood near seven feet while the chubby
Reachman stood barely five—to the head table, where the Dragon of Duskendale sat beside
the empty seat of honor.

A few years shy of four decades in age, the Hand of the King looked much as he had sixteen
years ago. Tall and broad shouldered, his short Targaryen-silver hair and beard framed a hard
face that still held traces of its Valyrian beauty despite the jagged and ugly scar that adorned
it. The Grand Maester wasn't one to judge such things of course, not with half of his own face
grey and mottled, but Colmar liked to note every detail. The Lord of Duskendale was still
lean, having never stopped training with his sword despite the fact that there hadn't been a
war in Westeros since the fateful day Casterly Rock surrendered, and was still considered one
of the finest swordsmen in the Kingdom despite having not fought in a tourney in near as
long.
His wife sat beside him, hand on her swollen belly. Alysanne Lefford was still a beautiful
woman even after six children and a life at court, and she looked her best during her
pregnancies, face aglow. She had been a consistent, steadying presence not only in the lives
of her children but the lives of the other Targaryen children, all of whom had one way or
another become motherless. Each doted upon her with the exception of the permanently surly
Viserys, and she was nearly as well respected as her husband. The marriage of Aelor and
Alysanne may not have developed into the true love the bards sang about—though Colmar
wasn't entirely sure it hadn't, either—but it certainly was a happy one. Aelor valued her
counsel over all others, with the possible exception of Barristan Selmy's. She was and had
been the kind-hearted and moral steadying force her hard-hearted husband had needed, able
to reach him in even his darkest rages.

Apparently that had been the case since they had met, but Colmar only put so much stock in
rumors.

Aelor wasn't in a black rage now, though. The dragonlord's violet eyes were currently gleeful
as the Prince's youngest child—at least until the baby in Alysanne's belly was born—was
seated in his lap, giggling at something or the other as her father spoke to Lord Alaric
Langward. The Grand Maester had seen many nobles speaking with the Prince over the
course of the feast, friends and desperate-to-be-friends alike, but he had also noticed many
nobles avoiding the Dragon of Duskendale entirely. In his sixteen years as Grand Maester
Colmar the Grey had found that to be the norm, though even those who avoided him were
certain to never show anything other than respect.

You either loved Aelor Targaryen or you hated him; there was no middle ground. But either
way, love or hate, you feared him. For if you didn't, he soon gave you reason to.

Archmaester Gyldayn had once written that Daemon Targaryen the Rouge Prince was both a
great man and a monster; Colmar the Grey said the same of Aelor.

The fifteen years the second son of Aerys had ruled as regent for his nephew had been
peaceful and prosperous, all agreed. The refugees from the Lighting of the Lions had been
resettled in Duskendale, the city having tripled in size, the new buildings and second set of
walls to defend them being built with the coin seized from the vaults of Casterly Rock. That
same treasure had been used to raise a new Summerhall, the palace built nearly identical to
the one that had burned alongside many Targaryens forty years earlier. Trade with the Free
Cities had increased, as had the competency of the City's Watch of King's Landing under
Lord Yohn Royce.

But it was not all good. Resentment still festered in the Westerlands, the Lords of the West
not forgetting the man who had wiped out most of their army and allowed the Ironborn to
raid and pillage their lands. Two attempts had been made on the Prince's life, enemies having
seen him as the true cog of Targaryen power, and several more had been thwarted by Varys.
The first attempt had ended in Aelor gutting his would be killer, though he took a blade in the
ribs during the attempt that had taken him half a year to recover from. The man hadn't
survived for questioning. Barristan the Bold had stopped the second, taking a crossbow bolt
meant for Aelor in the streets of King's Landing. Arthur Dayne had slain that assailant, and
Barristan had recovered, but once again they had no one to question.
Another attempt had been made on both Renlor and Alysanne when she was pregnant with
Aemon, stopped by Ser Manfred Darke. That man had lived for only a few minutes, but in
that time the ugly Kingsguard knight had finally gotten a name.

Aelor had killed half of House Rogers during the Battle of Bronzegate including the heir, and
in his rage Lord Bryce had tried to retaliate in kind.

Every member of House Rogers had been put to the sword, from the smallest babe to the
oldest crone, many by Aelor himself. Even Alysanne hadn't been able to sway him from the
wanton slaughter. The heads of the Rogers' had adorned the walls of Maegor's Holdfast for
almost a year, and their castle had been burned to a ruin by wildfire. Nothing and no one had
survived, much as nothing and no one had survived Lannisport a few years earlier.

House Rogers wasn't the only plotters of course, and were likely not responsible for all three
attempted murders. The attempts had stopped with their deaths, however, as did most of the
plots that Varys had sniffed out and monitored. The resentment, though, certainly hadn't.
Many questioned whether Aelor was truly sane, and many believed the answer to be no.
Aelor didn't care for any of the talk, but Colmar knew they were also questioning Targaryens
as a whole when they questioned the man who had saved the dynasty. While he had ruled
competently and well, Aelor's ruthlessness not only with House Rogers and the Lighting of
the Lions but other issues he had dealt with over the years had proven potentially damaging.

The Dragon of Duskendale's children were all combating that notion, however, and though
they were not his own blood Colmar loved them each and every one. Aelor's eldest son was
physically nearly his twin, though he was loved by all in a way his father hadn't been for
years. Renlor Targaryen—affectionately called Ren after Aelor's long dead friend Renfred
Rykker—was currently spinning Myrcella Langward around the dance floor, laughing loudly.
The heir to Duskendale was physically a younger version of his sire, tall and broad
shouldered with silvery-blonde hair and violet eyes. He was somewhat thin and lanky, but at
five and ten he promised to fill out as Aelor had. The lad was gregarious and charming to a
fault, with all the Valyrian beauty of his Targaryen blood. A squire to Lord Commander
Barristan the Bold of the Kingsguard, he was a promising swordsman and horseman slated to
ride in tomorrow's tourney.

His closest sibling was the opposite. Aemon Targaryen, born less than a year after Ren, was
slight of build, with his mother's golden brown hair and complexion, though he possessed his
father's violet eyes. The lad was nowhere to be seen, though that didn't surprise Colmar;
Aemon was a bookish boy, more interested in a quill than a sword and more comfortably in a
library than a ballroom. Quiet and gentle, he was the Grand Maester's favorite of the Hand of
the King's children, though he didn't dare tell Rhaella that.

Rhaella Targaryen was two and ten and already a beauty of some renown. Her hair was as
white as the cloak of the Kingsguard, her eyes indigo. As charming as Renlor and as gentle as
Aemon, she had been betrothed to her cousin Aegon for most of their respective lives, though
that didn't stop every noble maiden from trying to worm their way into the King's heart as the
realm waited for Rhaella to flower. Colmar hoped King Aegon would not be swayed by any
of them, for Rhaella would make as glorious a queen as the realm had seen since Alysanne
Targaryen.
She now danced in the arms of her third brother, born one year exactly after she had been.
Baelon Targaryen was more like his father than any of his siblings. Though only one and ten,
he had an…edge to him, the same edge that made his father both brilliant and dangerous.
Growing tall but unlikely to be as broad as Aelor or Ren, he had silver-blonde hair and dark
Lefford eyes. Baelon was a prodigy with a sword, seeming to live and breathe training and
completely uninterested in near anything else. Aelor had told the Grand Maester more than
once that out of all his sons, Baelon would become the deadliest fighter; it came as natural to
him as charm did to Renlor.

After the initial flurry of children born to Alysanne Lefford and Aelor Targaryen there had
been a slight lull, but young Daemon had been born five years past, followed by little Saera
two years ago, who now sat in her father's lap mesmerized by the dancing.

As his eyes flickered between each of the Hand of the King's children, Colmar the Grey
couldn't help but notice the rest of the blood of the Dragon. Princess Daenerys, violet eyed
and silver haired and as breathtaking a woman as Colmar had ever seen, held the twins Daena
and Daenella Waters in her lap, surrounded by several noble ladies of various houses. The
bastard-born girls were the daughters of her brother Viserys, Prince of the recently rebuilt
Summerhall, and Alla Roxton, the most recent in a long history of lovers the eccentric
Targaryen took to his bed. Their conception had created quite a scandal, Lord Corliss Roxton
demanding the Prince wed Alla once her condition was known; a request Viserys had refused.

He grew bored of women quickly and had never wed; Colmar knew why, as did Aelor, but
that was a concern for another time.

Neither Aelor nor Aegon had forced Viserys to give in to Corliss's demands, and as such the
Lord of the Ring had very nearly revolted. Prince Aelor, Hand of the King and Lord of
Duskendale, had entered the man's castle alone under flag of truce. Just what he told the
Reach man was unknown, but whatever it was had shaken Corliss Roxton badly.

All thoughts of his fruitless revolt fled, and his daughter was wed to a lowly knight in her
shame.

Rhaenys Targaryen, nearing nine and ten, looked more and more like Elia Martell the older
she became, at least according to those who had known the Dornish Princess before her tragic
end. She currently was seated with her husband of three years, Willis Tyrell, heir to
Highgarden and the Reach. Whatever troubles had plagued her mother and grandmother in
the childbed had not been passed on to her, as the couple had been blessed with two children
already, two boys—Alester and Osmund—who seemed to have taken after their father in
looks. Willis and Rhaenys were more than fond of one another, even after Willis had been
crippled during a joust with Rhaenys' uncle Oberyn, and Colmar was fairly certain that true
infatuation was the only reason the Princesses two uncles—the Red Viper and the Dragon of
Duskendale—had allowed the marriage to take place.

They were both overly protective of the young woman even to this day. She was the closest
thing to Elia either of them had, and as such they doted on her more and more even as she
grew and became a mother herself.
Her youngest brother Jaehaerys Targaryen, looking more like a Stark than a Valyrian, skulked
around the edges of the festivities, as was his norm. Many noble ladies approached the black
haired, grey-eyed Prince, flirting both subtly and provocatively, but he allowed only Rhaella
and his sister Rhaenys to drag him out on the floor, each time returning to speak with fat
Samwell Tarly the heir to Horn Hill and occasionally Ren, when the latter could be dragged
off of the floor.

That was all well and good, for the King picked up the slack for his brother. Aegon Targaryen
certainly looked the part of a King, tall and attractive, with the warlike crown of Maekar the
First and Jaehaerys the Second upon his head, black iron and gold with eight sharp spikes. He
wore it well, spinning noble maidens from his betrothed to the flirty Margaery Tyrell around
the floor with a grace few men possessed. He had ruled independently for nearly a year,
Aelor's regency having ended when the King turned six and ten, and had done so well,
though it would take a second coming of Aerys the Mad to so quickly squander the position
he had been left in. The King had earned his knighthood on his seven and tenth's birthday,
knighted by the very uncle who could have easily usurped him. Charming and well-spoken,
he had the potential to become another Jaehaerys the Conciliator, having been wise enough to
keep his uncle as Hand of the King and the councilors Aelor had chosen in their position
when many young kings would have removed them all for sheer spite after so many years of
having his decisions made for him.

Not that there wasn't conflict. Aegon lived in a very large shadow cast by Aelor and he was
well aware of it, and Colmar could tell the lad was intent on escaping and surpassing it.
While he still trusted his uncle's counsel when given, the Grand Maester could see the
jealousy in Aegon's eyes of the respect Aelor commanded. No issue had risen yet, but Colmar
was sure one would before long.

But that too was a concern for another time.

Now it was all joy and merriment, nobles drinking, dining, dicing and dancing. Young nobles
flirted with one another while others slipped away for dalliances the High Septon would
surely frown upon. Betrothal agreements were hammered out over one too many glasses of
wine, small fortunes were won and lost at the dice tables, and many a young man and woman
fell in love, at least for the night.

Colmar the Grey loved these times; even a maester could enjoy himself.

He was regaling Gorold and a few surrounding lords with a tale of ravens and a surplus of
wine when he noticed the young boy work his way to Aelor's table, where the Dragon of
Duskendale was still engaged in conversation with his old friend Alaric. The boy, the son of
the man running the stables, whispered into the Prince's ear.

The smile that had adorned Aelor's face disappeared instantly, and Colmar felt a wave of
apprehension.

He stood from the table mid story, excusing himself as he used his long strides to cut off the
retreating boy at the edge of the hall. The child nearly screamed when the giant with the
disfigured face appeared before him, staring up in fear. "Easy, lad, I only have a question.
What is it you told Prince Aelor? Come now, boy, tell me."
The tiny peasant had a stutter. "T-t-t-he St-St-Starks are here."

Well, that didn't seem so bad. Their attendance had been expected, and young Robb Stark the
heir to Winterfell had spent much time in the capital as a young boy as per the agreement of
the truce of the Trident, having become a close friend to Jaehaerys, Aegon and Renlor. "Is
that all?"

"Ly-Ly-Ly-Lyanna St-Stark is w-w-with them."

Oh.

The Grand Maester turned and let his eyes seek out Jaehaerys. The boy knew who his mother
was, and he knew Aelor had forced her away when he was still a babe. The Dragon of
Duskendale had never tried to hide that fact, nor had he attempted to sway Jaehaerys' opinion
on the matter. The young man had expressed an interest in seeing Lyanna, and Aelor had not
moved to stop him, but something—likely fear and apprehension, as well as the vicious
rumors about his mother that had inevitably reached the young Prince's ears—had prevented
him from ever doing so.

Now, it seemed, he was going to meet her rather he was ready or not.

This was not a concern for another time.

This was a concern for now.

 XLI

Anger had been Aelor Targaryen's constant companion since Robert's Rebellion, but it hadn't
been quite this potent in a very long while.

Lyanna Stark had hated him for separating her from Jaehaerys—had told him so the day he'd
escorted her and the other Starks from the capital—but she had been wise enough to stay
north of the Neck for all these years. Robb Stark had travelled to the capital many times,
befriending his cousin during his time in King's Landing, but his aunt had never accompanied
him.

Jaehaerys had asked about her of course, and once he had turned ten the then-Prince Regent
had only told him fact. The realities had been less than flattering, but Aelor had seen no point
in feeding the boy flowery half-truths. Jaehaerys hadn't taken it well, for several years
skulking around and trying to blame himself for the Rebellion that his parents had helped to
start, with none of his family able to pull the boy from his depression. Only a combined and
very long-term effort of Aegon, Ren and Robb had succeeded in calming him down and
assuaging the massive guilt he had placed on his own shoulders.

Though it still ate at Jaehaerys, all could see. The heir to the Iron Throne was a permanently
somber youth, alternating between being fine and blaming himself for a war that had claimed
thousands.

He'd told Aelor when he was two and ten that he wanted to go North and meet his mother,
and the Dragon of Duskendale had made it clear he wouldn't stand in his way. Aelor cared
little for Lyanna Stark and had told Jaehaerys as much, but he knew it wasn't fair to his
nephew to stop him, so he hadn't. Rumor had, as well as a mixture of understandable
apprehension. The court's opinion of Lyanna Stark was brutal, even after all of these years.

Which made it that much more confusing that she had finally come south after all this time.

"Is something wrong, Aelor?" The Lord of Duskendale felt the familiar touch of his wife's
hand on the inside of his arm, bringing him back to reality from the daze of thought he'd been
in. Aelor's eyes refocused to her concerned face, dark eyes staring into violet.

Aelor smiled at her as reassuringly as he could manage, though he already knew she'd see
right through it. From day one that night at the Golden Tooth Alysanne Lefford had been able
to break into his head as easily as he'd broken the levy lines during the Slaughter of the
Straits, and sixteen years together hadn't changed that fact at all. "Of course." Her eyes
tightened into a small glare, proving that she was the last person in Westeros he'd be able to
lie to.

Aelor sighed in defeat after only a moment under the stare, leaning across the small space
between them while maintaining his hold on Saera, the two year old alternately fascinated by
the dancers and the faces Alaric Langward shot at her. "Lyanna Stark is here."
Alysanne kept her face carefully blank, but as she sat back in her chair, hand on her swollen
stomach, Aelor saw her eyes seek out Jaehaerys. 'Good Queen Alysanne' as many called her
—though she had never been a queen and the nickname had been taken years prior by one of
Aelor's ancestors—was Jaehaerys' mother in all but blood, having raised the curly-haired
youth alongside her own children and cared for him all his life. Concern for him was clear in
her eyes, when she looked back to Aelor, clearly waiting for him to decide on the course of
action.

Placing a quick kiss to the top of Saera's head, he lifted his daughter out of his lap and stood,
standing her lightly on her feet. His youngest—for the moment—was still in the process of
fully mastering walking, and accordingly he kept his hand steadying her until Alysanne took
her. "I'll handle it. Alaric, join me if you would."

Lord Langward of Brindlewood had watched the exchanges between the peasant boy and
Aelor and Aelor and Alysanne quietly, in the unassuming manner that was his nature. With a
nod he rose to his feet, having grown an inch or two taller than his former mentor in the years
since the Rebellion though he had remained thin. The two men slipped to the back wall,
skirting the edges of the revelry as they made to leave the hall, Aelor casting one final glance
to his nephew Jaehaerys and fat Sam before exiting the grand hall.

Two young nobles who had been rather thoroughly engrossed in one another's tongues
scattered in embarrassment when the dragonlord and his bannerman stepped out into the hall,
Aelor unfamiliar with either of them though he was too preoccupied to worry. "Lyanna Stark
is here," he explained to Alaric as they strode side by side down the hall, Alaric limping ever
so slightly from the wound he'd received outside Lannisport.

Alaric nodded. "Does Jaehaerys know?"

"No."

"You knew they were going to meet sooner or later, Aelor. It was only a matter of time."

Aelor grunted. "Yes, but I'd hoped it would be later. I don't know what possessed the Stark
woman to travel south after all these years; I made it perfectly clear to her that she'd reunite
with her son when Jaehaerys sought her out, not the other way around."

"You weren't a parent then. We both are now. If it were one of our children, would we wait?"

While still quiet by nature, Alaric had become unafraid to voice his opinion to his old mentor,
and Aelor often sought out his judgement, the hero of the Rebellion possessing a just, prudent
mind…and a spine of steel, as evidenced by his ability to survive sixteen years of marriage to
the beautiful but venomous Cersei Lannister. "You have a point, but it's been sixteen years.
Why now?"

"Prince Jaehaerys turns six and ten in only a few weeks' time; perhaps she believes you were
forcibly preventing from seeing her, and now that he is nearing the age of majority when your
ability to stop him would be questioned has decided to seek Jaehaerys out herself."

"I told her when she went north that I would not stop him."
"And what reason does she have to believe you? Besides, it is her child, Your Grace; her only
child. The only question in my mind is what has taken her so long."

Aelor was silent for a moment as the two made their way towards the castle's stables. "I
suppose you are right, though I fear what this will do to Jaehaerys. We both know he has
always been...reserved."

"This was destined to occur eventually, my Prince. It is best that it occurs now and whatever
happens happens. Besides, anyone would seem reserved in comparison to Ren. He has
danced with Myrcella four separate times tonight; I am growing concerned."

Aelor chuckled lightly, having noticed his son's inclination towards Alaric's eldest child as
well. It was odd for Ren to become so attached to one girl; the boy was much like his
namesake Renfred had been at his age, no matter Aelor and Alysanne's attempts to stop him.
"I'm certain his intentions are nothing but honorable."

"I'm certain you are full of shit."

Aelor couldn't help but laugh, though he patted the taller man on the shoulder in reassurance.
"While I won't deny Ren's penchant towards bedding anything he can find, he knows better
than to attempt and seduce Myrcella. I've made it clear to him that I will not defend him
should he anger a lady's father, and he knows perfectly well how capable you are with a
sword."

Alaric grunted, though it was clear to Aelor he was less than convinced, a fact that made him
chuckle all the more. The mirth at their banter faded however as Aelor stepped out of the
keep and into the night air, walking towards the stables located within the Dun Fort's
innermost walls and the mass of torches and bodies—both human and horse—gathered there.

He found Robb exactly where he had expected the heir to Winterfell to be, even with a feast
going on; the Stark boy with the Tully coloring had been obsessed with Warrior since his first
year in the South at the age of five, and no matter how many times he had seen the old
warhorse in the years since he never grew tired of him. The lad was currently stroking the
stallion's massive black head and speaking to another, smaller boy who looked much like him
despite his more Stark-like look.

It seems Lord Stark has brought even more of his family than I had originally believed.

"This is the Dragon of Duskendale's stallion," asked the voice of the young boy, who could
have been no more than seven or eight.

"Aye," Robb said, smiling down at his younger brother. "The very same one he rode in the
war."

"And every day since," Aelor called out to them as he and Alaric approached, both Robb and
his sibling turning to face them. "Though we're both more comfortable charging spear lines
than simply riding for joy."
Robb smiled as his blue eyes met Aelor's, nodding his head in greeting. "Prince Aelor, a
pleasure to see you again."

"And you, lad," the Dragon of Duskendale returned. He genuinely liked the Stark boy, as
Robb seemed as honorable and just as his father was. Just because Aelor had willingly
forsaken his honor long ago didn't mean he couldn't respect it in others. Aelor looked down to
the other Stark, who was staring up at him in a fascination many eight or nine year olds held
for Aelor. "I suppose you are a Stark as well, boy. What's your name?"

The youngster could only nod, apparently tongue tied. Robb laughed at his brother's
speechlessness, ruffling his hair in a way the younger boy clearly was not a fan of. "This is
my brother Brandon. Bran, this is Prince Aelor Targaryen and Lord Alaric Langward."

Aelor smiled down at the boy, even as his name brought back memories of burning wolves
and burning cities. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Bran."

"I'm sure the pleasure is his; he has spoken of nothing else for weeks." Aelor looked up to the
new voice, finding Lord Eddard Stark approaching as the rest of his men unpacked the Stark
luggage. A lovely young woman with the look of a Tully followed him closely on one side,
another young girl who looked much like Bran on the other. The Lord of the North bowed
slightly as he came to a stop beside his sons, the older girl instantly dropping into a curtsey.
The younger girl did not, staring at the Prince—in particular his scar—intently. Aelor
returned her stare with an amused raise of his eyebrow. "Prince Aelor."

"Lord Stark," Aelor returned, clasping the Lord Paramount of the North's wrist in greeting.
Ned Stark and Aelor Targaryen were by no means friends, but there was a healthy dose of
respect for the other on both sides. While Aelor's ruthlessness clashed with Eddard's Stark
honor and he was disapproving of Aelor's rough treatment of Lyanna all those years ago, the
Warden of the North appreciated Aelor's treatment of Robb and his nephew Jaehaerys, which
had never been anything short of exemplary.

"These are my daughters, Sansa and Arya." He gestured to the lovely redhead and the still-
staring younger girl respectively. "My son Rickon is currently the Stark in Winterfell, and my
lady wife Catelyn remains with him." Sansa smiled sweetly, while Arya stared for another
moment before abruptly blurting out.

"Did you really burn down a whole city?"

"Arya," half the Stark family hissed, clueing Aelor into the fact that this was normal behavior
for the youngest Stark daughter. While the question may have bothered other men, it certainly
didn't bother the Dragon of Duskendale; of all the mistakes he knew he had made, the
Lighting of the Lions wasn't one of them.

Aelor peered down at the sharp-faced girl. "Yes I did, Lady Arya."

"I apologize for her, Prince Aelor," Eddard said, placing a hand on his daughter's shoulder,
Arya's face twisting in annoyance that she couldn't ask further questions. "She has always
been untowardly willful."
"Just like me," spoke another voice, and all smiles vanished.

Lyanna Stark stood a few paces behind her brother and his family, still a rather attractive
woman though the years separated from her son had not been overly kind to her. She was
staring defiantly at Aelor, looking for all the world like she had been preparing for this verbal
sparring match for years.

Aelor realized she had been, for sixteen of them.

"Robb, settle your siblings down." Eddard stepped back, gesturing his heir to do as he said
but also clearly intending to facilitate the coming argument. Robb needed no more
instruction, immediately ushering his siblings to move.

Arya hesitated, clearly unhappy about being ordered away from the brewing storm. "But—"

"Now, Arya." Eddard's voice was as cold as the ice that ran in his blood, and even his clearly
spiteful daughter obeyed.

As soon as the Stark children were gone, leaving only Lyanna, Eddard, Aelor and Alaric—
even the stableboys leaving mid-job to escape the coming war—she took off. "I am here to
see my son. You will not stop me."

"I made it perfectly clear that you will see my nephew when my nephew wants to see you.
And if you truly believe I won't stop you, Lyanna Stark, you are even more foolish than the
day you ran off with my brother."

"Do you expect me to believe Jon has not wanted to see his mother in sixteen years? Not
once, in all his life, did he ask who his mother was or where? You may think me foolish,
Aelor Targaryen, but I am not stupid."

"Jaehaerys expressed a desire to see you several years ago, it is true. I did not stop him."

Lyanna curled a lip in clear disbelief. "Then why didn't he come to Winterfell, if you didn't
stop him?"

"That is something you'll have to ask Jaehaerys. Later, when he comes to see you." Aelor
glared at the Stark woman, making it perfectly clear that she was not welcome. "I warned you
once, Lady Lyanna. I am warning you this last time."

"What will you do if I do not heed you, Targaryen?" Lyanna asked, clearly past caring. "Kill
me?"

Aelor was blunt and utterly truthful. "Yes. Just as dead as Rhaegar. Maybe you can have my
brother in death in a way you should never have tried to have him in life."

The blow struck both Starks, Eddard clearly unpleased about the threat to his sister, but it hit
Lyanna harder, the mention of the man who had been the reason her life had gone to shit
offsetting her balance. Whatever cruelty she had expected Aelor to spew—and she was
clearlyexpecting cruelty, something Aelor was more than willing to oblige—she wasn't
expecting that.
But Aelor wasn't in turn expecting her next move. Lyanna's face hardened, and she suddenly
started moving forward, straight towards the Lord of Duskendale. "Do it then. If I am truly so
evil for wanting to see my own son, kill me, for it is a sin I am not sorry for."

She marched towards him, and for a moment Aelor wasn't ready, the Stark woman taking him
off guard. But then his heart hardened as her face had, and Aelor took an aggressive step
towards the Lady Lyanna, already planning how he was going to duck Eddard Stark who was
quickly moving to intervene.

"Uncle!"

The one voice Aelor hadn't been expecting froze them all three midstep. Aelor turned slowly,
and standing in the entrance to the stables was his black haired nephew.

"Jon," he heard Lyanna exhale quietly, staring at the son she hadn't seen for sixteen years.

Jaehaerys Targaryen was returning the stare, face and voice oddly calm. "Mother. I hear it has
been quite a long time."
 XLII

The jousting lists ran north to south, intended to keep the sun out of each competitors eyes.
The seven lanes were side by side, stands flanking them. On one end sat the grand dais,
where Princess Daenerys Targaryen—the Queen of Love and Beauty, at least for now—sat
alongside the King and hosting family. The front of the dais bore five shields, each
representing one of the original five champions, chosen by Daenerys herself.

There were near countless knights set to challenge, from nameless hedge knights to
celebrated former tourney winners. They would challenge a current champion by riding to the
dais and tapping the shield of the man they intended to face. The two would joust until one or
the other yielded, be it when one was knocked from his mount and conceded the match or
after the two crossed blades and one emerged the victor. When one knight lost he would
forfeit his armor and mount to the victor, though Aelor as the hosting lord had made it
mandatory that the victorious knight allow the defeated one the opportunity to ransom back
his possessions at a reasonable price.

The jousting would go for four days, after which the five champions— whoever they turned
out to be— would communally either select a new Queen of Love and Beauty or crown a
new one. Archery competitions and melees would be scattered throughout, and each night a
feast would be held at the Dun Fort. It was absurdly expensive, but Aelor was at peace with
that. Sometimes one needed to make time for joy, especially when they were closely tied to
the game of thrones and all its intricacies and secrets.

Though the 'joy' aspect had disappeared the night before, when the Starks had arrived.

Jaehaerys had stopped Aelor from breaking Lyanna Stark's fool neck, something he was
thankful for, but his nephew had asked him to leave the two of them alone without another
statement. When Aelor had protested, Jaehaerys had merely fed him his own words about not
standing in his way, and Aelor had relented.

He'd not seen him the rest of that night, and now his black haired nephew was seated with the
Starks.

Alysanne and Aelor both stared, the former in worry and the latter in anger, as the boy they
had raised as their own took a seat between his actual mother and his uncle, surrounded by
the cousins he'd heard about but never met. Robb was set to ride in the tourney, having been
taught how to use a lance by Aelor and the Kingsguard though tourneys were a knightly
pastime and most Northerners weren't knights, but Jaehaerys had decided against it himself.
The Targaryen who looked like a Stark was good with both sword and lance, maybe even as
good as or better than his older brother the King, but he had never expressed a desire to
become a tourney knight.

So instead he sat with the mother and family he had never known, as the one that raised him
watched from well out of earshot. It was nearly killing Aelor, worry about what falsehoods
Lyanna may be filling her son's head with, but he refused to encroach on Jaehaerys' requested
privacy.

So he sat and he worried, glaring daggers at Lyanna Stark and wondering if he should have
just killed the spiteful woman years ago.

Daenerys sat to Aelor's left, as splendidly beautiful now as she had been the day he'd first
held her. His baby sister was no longer a baby, having grown into a strong willed and highly
intelligent woman, but he still tried to care for her as if she were a child though he knew she
wasn't one. She was deep in conversation with Rhaella, named after the dead mother he had
failed in life. His daughter was nearly as beautiful, the niece and aunt the embodiment of
Valyrian beauty.

King Aegon was at Renlor's pavilion, likely chatting with his younger cousin in order to take
his mind off of his vexation. Aegon the Sixth had wisely elected against riding in the tourney;
though he desperately wished to test his skills against other knights, he was smart enough to
realize he wouldn't likely be challenged as no one would risk harming the King of the Iron
Throne. Just because he was wise didn't mean he was happy about it, and he'd been pouting
since the royal family had risen early that morning.

It wasn't kingly, but Aelor understood it. He remembered seventeen years and a lifetime ago,
when he himself had wanted to ride in every tourney from Sunspear to White Harbor. That
was before the war of course, when he'd seen the real version of what tourney's made light of,
and before he'd had more on his shoulders than he could feasibly carry. He hadn't ridden in a
joust that wasn't deadly serious since Harrenhal, nearly two decades ago.

The champions began to gather beneath the dais, their shields displayed prominently on the
front of the viewing box. This style of tournament was not common, most tourneys ending
when one single knight was declared winner, but Daenerys for reasons all her own enjoyed
the story of the Tourney at Ashford Meadow that had occurred nine decades ago and had
wanted to choose champions of her own. Aelor had of course relented, because he could deny
her nothing.

Of the five shields displayed on the viewing box, three of them were the blank white of the
Kingsguard representing Sers Arthur Dayne, Rolland Storm and Balon Swann. The last had
replaced Ser Horras Costayne in the white cloaks only a few months prior, after a period of
illness had done Horras in after Costayne had in turn replaced old Gerold Hightower three
and ten years before that. Each of the men were excellent with a lance though Arthur Dayne
was the most formidable, and Aelor knew each of them had a solid chance of remaining
champions throughout the four days of competition.

The other men of the Kingsguard had gracefully opted out of riding, even Lord Commander
Barristan Selmy, who even in his increasing age was still likely the strongest jouster in
Duskendale. Ser Manfred Darke had never been an option, of course; he was an incompetent
rider and had no hope or desire of ever improving, though he had taught the King and the
other Targaryen boys more than a little about winning a fight by any means necessary. The
ugly knight currently stood directly behind Daenerys, massive arms crossed over his massive
chest. Oswell Whent was with the King at Ren's tent, a quiet and lethal man who Aelor was
less than fond of but who was completely loyal to Aegon. The seventh and final member of
the Kingsguard was Ser Borran of the Bramsfort, the lowborn former household knight of
House Chelsted who had captured Aelor's notice during Robert's Rebellion, taking the
vacancy left by Prince Lewyn Martell when the old Dornishman had passed peacefully in his
sleep ten years prior. The small, deadly son of a farmer stood behind Jaehaerys in the Stark
box, ever serious about his duty as a guard to all the royal family.

The other two of the original champions were selected by Daenerys more for their blood ties
with her than true likelihood to remain champions. One shield on the dais bore the golden
three-headed dragon on black field of her brother Viserys, who had only arrived that morning
with his army of a personal retinue. The Prince of Summerhall was a decent jouster and good
with a sword—Aelor had trained him personally and relentlessly, despite Viserys protests—
but he was not on par with the strongest competitors in Duskendale such as Robar Royce or
Alaric Langward or Loras Tyrell, the Knight of Flowers.

The same could be said for the final champion, who was only a squire but was competing at
Daenerys' insistence. Aelor's son and heir Ren was represented by two warring white dragons
on a black field, Aelor's once personal coat of arms that had become the family sigil for the
Duskendale branch of House Targaryen. Renlor was good—one had to be if he was trained
from birth by the likes of Barristan the Bold and the Sword of the Morning. But his eldest son
would ultimately be a better diplomat than fighter, and while he would more than hold his
own against near any foe he would not be mentioned in the same breath as Ryam Redwyne or
Barristan or Aelor himself.

Baelon would one day, Aelor knew; his middle child and personal squire would surpass them
all in martial prowess in the years to come. But that was the future, and this was the now.

His son and brother arrived at the same time, both in brilliant black plate, striking opposites
to the men of the Kingsguard in their white armor and cloaks. Viserys and Ren were each
mounted on black destriers, from the line of warhorses Aelor had bred from Warrior. Only the
royal family rode the still-young line of the still-living stallion with the exception of Barristan
and Willis Tyrell; the former had received a stallion as a gift a few years past and the latter
had been granted breeding rights on the day he married Rhaenys, as a gift from her uncle.
Viserys bore ornate golden dragon wings on his helm, something Aelor found as hideous now
as he had when Rhaegar had worn a similar design when he was still alive. Ren had opted for
seven spikes along the crest, giving a warlike appearance to a still growing and unbloodied
boy.

King Aegon the Sixth returned to the box, still obviously wishing to be on the tourney
grounds, and took a seat beside his aunt and betrothed, instantly taking the full attention of
Rhaella as he did most young ladies. Aegon was a good, honorable lad—Aelor had raised
him to be a better man than he himself was—and doted on her, though Aelor had not quite
decided if he was truly romantically inclined towards his future Queen. He prayed to the
Seven every night, though heavens knew he had given them plenty of reason to ignore him in
his life, that they would at least find happiness if not true love, and that Aegon didn't turn out
to be the fool his father could be.

So far so good.
"You do know you have fed poor Renlor to the hounds correct, beloved aunt?" The King
asked glancing sideways at Daenerys who simply smiled and raised an eyebrow in response.

"Whatever do you mean?"

Aegon returned the smile. "Look on his arm."

The entire box, from Aelor and Daenerys right down to little Daemon who was seated in
quiet Aemon's lap, followed the instruction. Tied above Ren's right elbow was a purple and
black kerchief, one Aelor knew for a fact his son didn't own. Alysanne came to the correct
conclusion the quickest, as was most often the case. "Is that Myrcella's?"

Aegon was still grinning, all Valyrian charm. "It certainly is, dear mother. Your son has taken
quite an interest in blonde haired Myrcella Langward, and that in turn has made Lord Alaric
take an interest in Renlor—and Alaric is riding in the tournament. It doesn't take a superior
mind like Aemon's here to see who he will challenge." His nephew turned to him then, the
Infant King raising a question to the Dragon of Duskendale. "How many tilts do you think
Ren will remain seated, uncle?"

"Ren is good, right father?" Asked the innocent voice of Daemon, his only child to have
taken solely after Alysanne in physical appearance. "He will ride well?"

Aelor smiled at his youngest son, Aemon ruffling his hair in his brotherly way. "Ren is very
good, Daemon, but Alaric has two decades of experience on him and is a master at fighting
from horseback." Aelor turned back to the king. "I'd say he won't last more than five lances."

"I bet he'll make it at least seven."

Aelor waited just a moment before extending his hand, Aegon taking it. "Deal."

Renlor lasted eight, and while he cost his father money Aelor couldn't deny it made him
proud.

Aelor had deferred to Aegon to open the tourney, though he as hosting lord had the right.
There was no point in showing any display of power, however minute, to his jealous nephew
—Aegon was in a good mood today even if he didn't get to ride, and Aelor preferred to keep
him in those to avoid the headache a snappy King could make. Alaric had tapped Renlor's
shield as Aegon had predicted, shooting his old friends Alysanne and Aelor an apologetic
look as he did so. Loras Tyrell and his cape of woven roses had challenged Rolland Storm,
Donnel Swann in the white and black of his house his brother Balon. A hedgeknight in a
blood red cloak had challenged Viserys and another in brown and white Arthur Dayne.

As they had at Ashford near one hundred years earlier, all ten lances broke to the crowds
roaring approval at the first pass, not a man unseated. It was an omen to the success of the
tourney, one Aelor hoped proved true as it hadn't as Ashford Meadow.

Ren finally flipped over the rear of his stallion on the ninth pass between himself and Alaric,
the Lord of Brindlewood placing his lance perfectly and deflecting Renlor's own away. The
heir to Duskendale rose to his feet again almost as soon as he hit the ground, drawing his
blunted sword. Alaric obliged him, honorably dismounting his own red stallion and meeting
the Targaryen squire on foot, despite the disadvantage his bad leg provided. The two dueled
for several minutes, the crowd cheering for one man or the other or both. Renlor was in his
youth quicker and more mobile, nearly dancing around the other knight, but Alaric had the
advantage of having actually fought a war and decades more of experience, and the Lord of
Brindlewood eventually knocked Ren's blade away.

The heir to Duskendale yielded with Alaric's blunted blade at his throat, removing his helm to
reveal a genuine smile. Alaric did the same, clasping arms with the young man who was
wooing his daughter and speaking a few words before departing. The warring white dragons
were taken down, the crown of white stars on burgundy above black taking its place on the
dais as Alaric replaced Ren as a champion.

The three golden roses on green field of Loras Tyrell soon joined it, the third son of Lord
Mace defeating Rolland Storm of the Kingsguard on the seventh pass. Balon Swann defeated
his brother in five, Viserys the red hedgeknight in the same number and Arthur Dayne the
other hedgeknight after only two.

And so it went.

Many challengers passed beneath the dais to tap a champion's shield throughout the day.
Since it was up to the challenging knights on their own time, usually no more than one or two
lanes were used at a time after the original pass, and some champions remained at their
pavilion for extended amounts of time without being challenged. Alaric was tested
frequently, many knights foolishly believing him to be the weakest of the champions not of
Targaryen blood, but he held his own through each, after the midday break and resumption of
the jousting having unhorsed thirteen knights as dusk approached. Loras Tyrell was less
frequently challenged and Arthur Dayne was only called out by the very brave or very
foolish, both defeating a handful of lesser knights respectively. Balon Swann unhorsed three
men before he was defeated by Robar Royce, the black iron studs on a bronze field taking its
place on the dais, and Royce in turn defeated three more.

Viserys had surpassed both Aelor and Aegon's expectations, remaining a champion until
dusk. It was partly due to the limited number of challengers, as many knights were weary of
openly challenging the blood of the dragon; not for fear of Viserys, as he was well trained but
not naturally gifted, but for fear of harming one of royal blood. And it was no secret Viserys
was more Aerys than either Aelor or Rhaegar were/had been.

But when he arrived as light began to fade, resplendent atop his white stallion and shining in
his black armor and cloak of yellow with black nightingales, Aelor suddenly became very
uneasy.

Bryce Caron was the trueborn brother of Ser Rolland Storm of the Kingsguard, the Lord of
Nightsong in the Dornish Marches. Tall and fair to look upon, he was a decade his bastard
brother's junior, with long coppery hair that maidens were rumored to have urges to run their
hands through. It seemed to be true, as he was one of the few serious suitors for Daenerys'
hand. Though not as highborn as Aelor desired for his sister, Bryce had made no small
amount of headway in winning the current Queen of Love and Beauty's affections, Daenerys
proving not immune to his charm.
That infatuation mixed with Bryce's reputation as a respected warrior, Aelor had been
wondering why Lord Caron waited so long to challenge, as the longer a man remained a
champion and the more knights of the steadily shrinking field he defeated the more prestige
the man demanded. When Caron rode to Viserys' shield, tapping it in challenge as he smirked
up at Daenerys, Aelor felt his unease grow.

The two hated each other.

Viserys was of the traditional Targaryen mindset, and he lusted after Dany something fierce.
Aelor had rebuffed his repeated attempts to persuade the Dragon of Duskendale into letting
him marry their sister, as Aelor himself was against the practice and Dany was not
romantically interested in her brother, but Viserys had let the idea become his obsession.
Aelor had been forced to strike his brother to illustrate his seriousness after one particularly
vicious argument, and Viserys had withdrawn from court to Summerhall in a rage at what he
considered a denial of his birthright. He sat in his rebuilt palace, a wheel of noble ladies like
Alla Roxton rotating through his bedchambers, and brooded and plotted to have his sister's
hand. Aelor, Varys and Grandmaester Colmar had worked together to keep the true drama
under wraps from the eyes of the court, but there were whispers none the less.

Viserys knew Daenerys didn't desire him, which increased his rage and madness all the more.
When Bryce Caron had arrived at court not long before Viserys withdrew, publicly making
progress in wooing Dany, the Targaryen Prince and Lord of Nightsong had been at each
other's throats nearly instantaneously.

And now it seemed Caron was going to ignite the flames of that hatred. Aelor couldn't decide
if he was more disturbed by Caron's audacity or the cruel smile that crossed Viserys' face
when the challenge was made.

As Viserys mounted and Caron waited on one end of the lists for him, Aelor leaned back
towards Barristan, who had taken over for Manfred in the viewing box. "Barristan, if this
becomes a sword duel, keep a sharp eye for live steel on either man's part. I will not have
their grudge turn into a bloodbath under my hospitality."

"Bryce would never," Daenerys protested, even as Barristan moved to obey.

Aelor met his little sister's eyes, so identical to his own. "I wouldn't be so sure, Dany. But
even if he wouldn't, Viserys very well might."

Aelor watched with baited breath as Viserys reached the other end of the lane, turning to face
his rival in the dying sunlight. With shouts from both men their destriers vaulted forward,
charging down the churned dirt with lances at the ready.

As the two men neared, Aelor noticed Viserys' lance rise higher and higher. He kept willing
his eccentric young brother to lower it back down but he never did, and Aelor realized
hopelessly what he intended to do. Viserys, don't!

Viserys did.
The Prince of Summerhall dealt a near perfectly placed blow, one he would never be able to
land again in a thousand tries, the end of the tourney lance catching Bryce Caron between the
eyeholes of his helm. The Lord of Nightsong's head snapped back, driven by the strength of
Viserys' destrier and the Targaryen's anger, and the knight went limp, dropping his own lance
and shield and cartwheeling from the saddle, limbs limp.

Aelor barely heard Daenerys' screams, didn't pay attention to the knights and men—including
Ser Rolland—rushing to the motionless body of the downed lord, and didn't feel Alysanne
and Rhaella's hands grab both his own in shock. All he saw was Viserys ride back to pull his
stallion to a halt a few feet from the man he may have just killed and remove his helmet.

The Prince of Summerhall looked to his downed rival and then his sister's terrified face and
smiled.
 XLIII

Well this is just bloody brilliant.

Aegon Targaryen the Sixth of his name had fully ruled for a year, his equally loved and hated
uncle stepping down the day Aegon turned sixteen, but this was the first true trial he had to
face. And truth be told, had had no idea what he was going to do.

A blow to the head was perfectly legal in a joust, though it was discouraged due to the
dangers involved; dangers Bryce Caron proved were very real indeed. In terms of the law,
Viserys had done no wrong. But his youngest uncle had intentionally killed the young Lord
of the Dornish Marches, it was plain to see, all over the love of his sister. Ser Rolland was
being stoically silent about the death of his brother, Daenerys loud and wailing about it.
Several lords, friends of Lord Caron, had demanded Viserys be punished. As for his uncle
himself, Viserys resided in his rooms in the Dun Fort, Barristan Selmy and Borran of the
Bramsfort posted outside his chambers.

He'd argued viciously when the Kingsguard had converged on him at the tourney grounds,
but he'd relented when the Dragon of Duskendale had descended from the box. Viserys was
eccentric and entitled, but he was also terrified of his brother, and they had been able to avoid
any more of a scene than it already had been.

And now Aegon had to do something about it.

The Infant King, as many still called him despite his venomous protests, leaned forward in
the head chair of that table in Aelor's private quarters, rubbing his temples. The tournament
was set to resume in less than an hour—deaths happened, and while Bryce Caron's was
particularly saddening due to the effective it had on Daenerys it was something they must
move on from—and the lords assembled would be expecting a decision. Aegon couldn't
afford to look weak; too many nobles already viewed Aelor as the true ruling power, and the
lack of a firm response from their true king would strengthen that conviction.

But it was Viserys.

While his youngest uncle was eccentric and arrogant, he was still his uncle, and the two had
been raised together. One doesn't spend their entire lives in close contact with another and not
feel the slightest bit attached. Viserys must be reprimanded—accidental tourney deaths were
one thing, intentional murders quite another. But Aegon was appalled with the idea of killing
his uncle or sending him to the wall, for no matter what he did he was still his uncle. Aelor
had instilled many things in Aegon Targaryen, some the King was happy for and some he
wasn't, but dedication to one's family was chief among them all.

"Have you made your decision, Your Grace?" Aegon didn't look up as he heard the steady
strides approaching him, the voice one he had heard nearly every day since he had been born.
A wave of the jealousy he so often failed to curb rushed through him as his uncle Aelor, the
infamous Dragon of Duskendale, strode to and took a seat at the table. Aelor would know
what to do; his uncle always seemed to know what to do. All of his life Aegon had heard the
stories of his uncle's greatness, and now when he should be working to create a mystique of
his own he was falling short.

"No, I have not." Aegon leaned back in his seat with a sigh, looking across the table to meet
Aelor's calm eyes.

Aelor nodded. "I didn't think you had."

Aegon's lips curled up. "Do you believe me incompetent?"

His uncle's face didn't change, nor did his calm even tone. "No, I believe you to be faced with
a complicated decision, one every man would struggle with."

Aegon grunted, a tick he realized with no small amount of annoyance he had picked up from
the man sitting across the table from him. "It was Viserys' intent to kill Lord Bryce, and he
succeeded. Some are calling for his head, others for him to be sent to the Wall, and still a few
think nothing should happen."

"And what do you think is the correct path?"

Aegon threw his hands up. "I don't know! Viserys intentional killed a man because he had
eyes for Dany, and for that there must be justice. But he is also my uncle, and whatever his
eccentrics he is the blood of the dragon. Sixteen years ago that was a death sentence; do I do
now what Robert Baratheon failed to do and kill Viserys?" The King of the Iron Throne
shook his head in disgust. He knew being a King wasn't lemon cakes and wine, but he had
hoped he wouldn't be faced with something this significant until he was more established. He
grunted again, shaking his head. "Dany doesn't want Viserys in the way he wants her. He
knows this. Why does he not accept this and move on?"

Aelor leaned back, mimicking Aegon's slouch into the chair. With another shake of his head
Aegon realized he'd picked that physical tick up from the Dragon of Duskendale as well.
"Love can make a man do many things that do not make sense to others. Hell, it can make a
man do things that he himself doesn't understand."

The Infant King cocked a brow. "You speak from experience."

Aelor shrugged, though his eyes had flashed for a moment. "You will learn much during your
time in this world before you make the journey to the next. The ability of love to turn a
sensible man into a drooling fool is something I myself did very early."

For a moment Aegon wished to ask the question that had plagued his mind for years; to ask
about Aelor and his mother. Rumors abounded about their forbidden love, of how the second
son had lusted and desired for the first's wife. But, as he always did, Aegon refrained, instead
switching back to his other Targaryen uncle. "All my life I have heard about the madness that
plagued my grandfather and maybe even my father…and that once plagued you."

Aelor smirked slightly. "Once?"

The King charged onward. "Is that what I see in Viserys? This obsession with a woman who
doesn't want him, his feelings that he is above all the world, that he has a right from the Gods
to do whatever the Seven hells he wishes…can I expect it to happen to me one day?"

Aelor was silent a moment, violet eyes meeting violet eyes across the small table. Suddenly
the Dragon leaned forward, peering intently at his nephew as his voice dropped lower. "The
madness is in us all, Aegon. Your sister, your brother, your cousins. Me. And you. At some
point in each Targaryen's life they will face it, and only the strongest of us will walk away.
And even they won't walk away whole."

His uncle leaned back again, though he never looked away from his King. "Our family has
withstood every threat against us for three centuries, be it from the outside or from within. At
first we held our rule together with dragons, but they have long been gone from this world.
After the last of them died, we resorted to ruling by what they had once inflicted in others;
fear. Fear that anyone who crosses our dynasty, even if they are our dynasty, will feel the
dragon's wrath."

"So you are saying I should execute Viserys."

"You did not let me finish. I ruled your Kingdoms for you for sixteen years, all of them
peaceful ones. But I am not loved, Aegon, and I am fully aware of it. I ruled with the sword
that is fear. Those years were peaceful because men were too afraid of my retribution to make
them anything but, not because all men were happy under Targaryen command. Even in this
very city, the city that has thrived under me, some call me the Cruel or the Demon or the
Bloody. Half of the realm wants me dead, and the only reason I am not is because they are
too afraid of the things I have done in the past to try and make me so."

Aegon furrowed his brow in confusion. "What does any of this have to do with Viserys?"

"I'll tell you. If it were still my decision, men would be calling me kinslayer already, for they
would believe it all but a certainty that I would kill my brother, even if everything I have ever
done has been for the safety of House Targaryen. But I am not loved, Aegon. You can be."
The Dragon of Duskendale rose. "You are trying to be me. That is the only reason you have
yet to arrive to a conclusion; as much as you despise the respect I command, you wish for
nothing more than to have it for your own. You know the correct decision; you have from the
moment we watched Viserys couch his lance upwards. Yet you hesitate and you wait, because
you are trying to do what Aelor the Burner of Lannisport would do, not what Aegon the Sixth
of his name would."

Aegon had his jaw clenched in rage, though he kept his voice calm. "What are you saying,
uncle."

Aelor kept his eyes perfectly calm. "I am saying stop. You are not me, nor should you be.
You have the potential to be the greatest Targaryen to have ever lived; better than your father,
better than me, better than even Jaehaerys the Conciliator. You know the correct decision,
because the correct decision is whatever you, Aegon Targaryen, deem it to be, not what Aelor
son of Aerys would do. I am not loved, but you can be if you rule as Aegon, not as Aelor. I
held the family together, aye, but I have made more than my fair share of mistakes that have
caused as much damage as good. It is within your power to fix them, if you grasp the chance.
You want so desperately to escape my shadow? Do it. Be the man you were always meant to
be."

Without another word the Dragon of Duskendale turned and left, leaving the most powerful
man in Westeros in his wake.

Aegon didn't know if he hated or loved his uncle in that moment, but he knew what he
needed to do.

The King walked to Viserys' chambers with a fire in his stride. "Borran," he commanded of
the smaller of the two Kingsguard standing vigil. "Go to the docks and find a ship for the
Free Cities; I don't care which one. Tell them they are about to have another guest, one they
had best treat as the royalty he is or I will bring the might of Westeros onto their necks."

"At once, Your Grace." The white cloak rushed to do as he was told.

"Barristan, find Ser Manfred and Ser Rolland and bring them here."

A few minutes later Viserys Targaryen was dragged from his chambers by Rolland Storm and
Manfred Darke, shouting in outrage the entire time as the King of the Iron Throne watched
on. By the time they had reached the docks—going through the small back gates instead of
through the entire city to avoid the eyes of the court—Viserys had lost most of his voice, and
Aegon the Sixth had found his.

"Viserys Targaryen, your actions at the Tournament of Duskendale have brought dishonor to
your name. For intentionally killing Lord Bryce Caron in a tournament meant for sport, I,
King Aegon Targaryen, sentence you into exile in the Free Cities of Essos for five years, after
which and only after which you may return to Westeros to reclaim your seat of Summerhall.
Any attempt to return before that time without the pardon of myself will result in your death."

Viserys was indignant, trying desperately to shake off the two burly men gripping both his
arms. "I am the blood of the dragon! You cannot do this!"

Aegon ignored him, turning to the well-built, middle-aged man with a forked green beard.
Tyroshi or Pentoshi, I would imagine. "You, Captain. Your name and home port?"

"Aleqou Garantis, Your Grace, of the Free City of Tyrosh."

Aegon nodded. "You will take Prince Viserys to Tyrosh with you, after which you will return
to Duskendale every three months to be given gold to take to him as well as update the crown
on his doings. The failure to do so will result in the entirety of the Royal Fleet tracking you
and your ship down and putting to sword every man aboard. You will be paid well for loyal
service, and killed for treachery. Am I understood, Captain?"

The man nodded, clearly having no intention of denying the dragonking before him. "Of
course, Your Grace."

Aegon looked back to his uncle, reaching to his belt and untying the bag of dragon he had
taken from the Dun Fort. With a snarl he tossed it at his uncle. "There is your first allowance.
Do not squander it for it is all you will receive from the Crown for three months, and do not
forget my command. Uncle or not, you will be killed should you disobey my order."

The King nodded to his two men of the Kingsguard, who bodily hauled the Prince of
Summerhall up the gangplank and onto the merchant ship, Viserys shouting in indignation all
the way.

Aegon turned away after one last nod at Aleqou Garantis, Barristan close beside him, and
began to make his way back towards the Dun Fort and the tourney that should have started a
while ago but that would wait as long as necessary for the king.

Standing a few feet behind him was Aelor Targaryen.

Mentor and student held eyes for a moment, violet on violet. And then, very subtlety, the
Dragon of Duskendale nodded his head.
 XLIV

Jaehaerys Targaryen stared at the royal viewer box, not sure if he was angry, relieved,
disappointed or all of the above.

To his right, clutching his hand tightly, sat his mother. His mother. While Alysanne Lefford
and Ashara Dayne had been better mothers to him than a child born under his circumstances
ever could have dreamed for, it was different when the small hand holding yours belonged to
the woman who had given you life. Lyanna Stark—my mother—had clung to him just as
much as he had allowed her to since the moment he had asked his uncle to leave the stables.

She had barely let go since, and Jaehaerys hadn't wanted her to.

He and his cousin Robb had long been friends, since the heir to the North had started coming
south every few years as per the agreement of the Treaty of the Trident, but he had never
known the others. Sansa Stark was a beautiful young girl and the perfect example of a noble
lady, her features much like Robb's. Arya was small and spiteful, and Jaehaerys would have
laughed at her blunt way of speaking to his uncle Aelor two nights ago if not for the
seriousness of the situation he had been about to interrupt. Bran was young and in awe of the
knights and their resplendent armor, and seemed to be a sweet boy as well as very quick
minded; Jaehaerys knew the young Stark and his friend Samwell Tarly would get along well.
There was another, a young boy named Rickon who was close in age to Aelor's son Daemon,
but he had remained as the Stark in Winterfell with his mother Catelyn Tully.

His Northern cousins were an entertaining lot, from the arguments Sansa and Arya
consistently became embroiled in to the excitement Bran exuberated at every tilt, but
Jaehaerys hadn't put too much time aside to become very acquainted with them yet; he was
much more focused on their aunt, Lyanna.

His mother was still a beautiful woman, with dark Stark hair and grey eyes. She'd never
married once she had been exiled north, though she most certainly had had plenty of suitors.
Jaehaerys wasn't sure why she hadn't, though he intended to learn one of these days. For now,
the two simply talked as knights fought below them, Lyanna wanting to know everything she
possibly could about the life she had never been a part of.

Though Jaehaerys had learned quite quickly to leave any story concerning his uncle Aelor
very short; it seemed Lyanna hated the Dragon of Duskendale almost as much as the Dragon
of Duskendale hated Lyanna.

It had surprised him, when his uncle had taken several strides towards his mother that night
in the stables. Aelor was a violent man with a bloody history, and Jaehaerys knew from
stories of the past that that violence could spread to women and even children under the right
circumstances; the annihilation of House Rogers had proven that to be so. Still, it was odd
seeing the man who had raised him and taught him to be a Prince worthy of the loyalty his
name gave him so ready to slit a woman's throat. And for what, wanting to see the child she
had been separated from? By Aelor, no less. Jaehaerys loved and revered his uncle as any boy
in his position would, but his actions hadn't sat well with the young Prince.

Nor did the stories he was hearing of those days sixteen years past, when Aelor had forced
his mother to leave behind her child with the potential to never see him again.

Was it Lyanna's fault that she had loved Rhaegar Targaryen? Was it truly so evil of her to fall
for a Prince whom all agreed was a creation of ethereal beauty? Rhaegar had loved her,
Jaehaerys was sure; Lyanna said Rhaegar had told her he did, though there was an underlying
tone to her voice that made Jaehaerys wonder if she thought it to be true. Lyanna had been a
young woman pregnant with a dead King's child, reviled by nearly all the realm; she still was,
if the scathing looks she received from veterans of the Rebellion told him anything. How
could his uncle have driven her away from the only piece of joy left to her?

With a flash of determination, Jaehaerys Targaryen decided to find out.

The Hand of the King was deep into his second glass of wine and he had no intention of
stopping.

Aelor Targaryen had always frowned upon excessive drinking, and not even the trials of
ruling seven kingdoms and raising a small of army of children had driven him from that
stance. But now, faced with a problem he couldn't use his reputation to cower or his emerald
dagger to kill, he had decided the best course of action would be to get horribly drunk.

Jaehaerys had asked to speak with him. Alone.

Another feast, the second in two nights, roared on the other side of his keep, none of the
participants seeming to tire of drinking and dancing and making fools of themselves no
matter how many consecutive nights they did so. Only Daenerys, whom all of this splendor
was meant to honor, had avoided the feast, still in a sort of mourning for the dead Lord
Bryce.

The others seem to have all conveniently forgotten. Funny.

The Queen of Love and Beauty had been absent from the days joust, excusing herself nearly
as soon as it had begun, only hesitating to name a new champion in the place of her recently
exiled brother. She had chosen the young Robb Stark, despite the unlikelihood of Robb—
who was much better with a blade than a lance—actually thriving against the more
experienced jousters. He hadn't, making it five challengers before Jason Mallister unhorsed
him, though in that time he had become a favorite of the ladies.

Ren had forgone the royal box to spend the day alongside Myrcella Langward, who he was
once again spinning around the dance floor in the hall of the Dun Fort. It seemed he has
learned nothing from Alaric. Myrcella's father had lasted another day of targeting, riding the
best Aelor had ever seen him. He had been chivalrous enough to gift Renlor back his horse
and stallion, though Aelor had felt the need to remind Renlor that Myrcella was not the same
as his other conquests; if he wasn't serious, he needed to back off before Alaric killed him.
His son hadn't backed off. Whether that meant he was serious or stupid even Aelor didn't
know.

Arthur Dayne and Loras Tyrell had remained as champions as well, though Robar Royce fell
to one of the Redwyne twins in a fluke. Whether it was Horas or Hobber Aelor couldn't
remember, because he in turn fell to a hedgeknight, something that started a revolving door at
the fifth champion position that still had yet to be solidified, held now by young Ser Illifer
Jast.

But all of this was unimportant, for at that moment Jaehaerys walked through the door.

His nephew had not spoken a word to any of the Targaryen's since the Starks had arrived in
Duskendale aside from asking Aelor for this talk, much to the discomfort of Aelor and
Alysanne. He'd spent the entirety of the time with Lyanna, only retiring from the company of
the Northmen to sleep before returning to them the next morning. Even little Saera, who was
all of two, had taken notice of his absence. The only contact his royal family had had was the
view from the royal box to the Stark one, watching as he and Lyanna spoke near endlessly.

And from his nephew's face, Aelor doubted he'd heard anything good.

Aelor sighed, gesturing to the seat in front of him. "Have a seat."

"I think I'll stand, actually." Jaehaerys slowed to a stop several feet in front of Aelor's desk,
not quite glaring at his uncle but certainly not looking on in approval.

Aelor met his gaze, the two Targaryens sitting in silence, Jaehaerys building up courage and
Aelor waiting for axe to fall. It took quite a while, nephew breathing in and out rapidly as
emotions warred with him and uncle drinking more and more wine, before the former finally
spoke again. "How could you do it?"

Aelor grunted. "I've done many things that others have wondered at; you'll need to be more
specific."

"My mother—"

"Is Alysanne Targaryen."

Jaehaerys clenched his jaw at the interruption, but ground on. "My birth mother—there, is
that better?—my birth mother says you drove her from King's Landing nearly the day I was
born."

Aelor shrugged. "Yes, I did, and I've never let you believe anything different."

"She was a young woman who was hated by half the realm; all she had was me. How could
you drive her away?"

Aelor sighed. "Firstly, you weren't all she had; the Starks are known for sticking beside one
another, and their name is much loved in the North. Secondly, any hatred directed at Lyanna
Stark she brought upon herself. How could I drive her away, you ask? The answer is very,
very easily."
Jaehaerys clenched his jaw again, though he was doing his very best to maintain his
composure. "You hate her."

"I do. I've never kept that secret from you either."

"What had she done to make you drive her from her child? What had I done to make you
deprive me of her?"

Aelor leaned forward, eyes going soft in a manner Jaehaerys had never seen. "You hadn't
done anything, son."

His nephew's voice grew bitter as he cut him off. "Do not call me son."

That statement hurt Aelor Targaryen worse than any blade ever had, but he drove on. "I did
what I did for you."

Jaehaerys scoffed loudly. "How can driving a newborn's mother away, warning her that you
would kill her if she ever tried to see her son again, help that infant?"

"Because of what your mother was."

"She was a noble lady."

"She was a whore."

Jaehaerys shot forward, slamming his hands down on Aelor's desk. It was the only act of
violence outside the sparring ring Aelor had ever seen his nephew exhibit. "Do not call her
that, uncle! Do not! She is anything but!"

Aelor ground on, the pain at his nephew's words slowly being replaced by the ever-present
rage the Dragon of Duskendale carried. He has this right. Calm down, Aelor chided himself,
but it did no good. "Your mother is no saint, Jaehaerys, no matter what she has told you. Is
this all it takes to turn you against the family that raised you, that has loved you since the day
you were born? A few conversations with a woman who you haven't seen since you were a
day old?"

Jaehaerys straightened, a flash of guilt crossing his face for only a moment before it was
replaced once again with anger. "Do not divert this conversation for your own ends, uncle;
tell me, just how was your driving my mother away beneficial to me?"

"If she had stayed, what would she have been, eh? I'll tell you; she would always be the
woman who had driven a realm to war by eloping with the crown Prince, despite that man
being married. She would not have been considered the mother of a Prince, but instead a
spoiled whore—"

Jaehaerys hit him.

It was a quick blow, dealt by a lunging young man who instantly retreated back, as surprised
by his actions as the man on the receiving end. The Dragon of Duskendale's head snapped
sideways, the Prince's fist having landed solidly. Aelor felt his anger rise as pain blossomed
in his jaw, hands clenching the desk fiercely, for a moment forgetting that this was his
nephew.

He took a few deep breaths, willing himself to accept this as it was, before turning his head
back to face the ashen-faced boy with black curls. "As I was saying, she would not have been
considered the mother of a Prince, but instead aspoiled girl who didn't understand that the
world revolved around her. Her life here would have been a living hell."

Jaehaerys was still clearly reeling from having struck the uncle so many men feared, though
it didn't stop him from grunting in disbelief. "So you are trying to tell me you did this for
her."

This time Aelor grunted. "Don't be ridiculous, boy. I don't give a shit about Lyanna Stark, and
no matter how many times you hit me that will not change. But I love you, and her presence
her would have harmed your own."

Jaehaerys' lip curled, though Aelor saw a glimmer of doubt in his eyes. "How?"

"With Lyanna as a constant reminder of the war, you would not be considered the royal you
are. You are a Prince, a Targaryen Prince, but with your mother constantly reminding the
court of the circumstances of your birth, many would call you—"

"A bastard." Jaehaerys cut him off again, voice bitter. "That is what I am, aren't I?"

"No, you are a Targaryen, and I will rip the tongue out of anyone who claims otherwise. But
Lyanna could not remain, so yes, I told her if she crossed the Neck again I would kill her.
And I would have, if you hadn't have been at the stables."

Jaehaerys stared at him a long while, Aelor meeting the gaze, before he shook his head
subtlety. "Is this how you justified it? You told yourself it was for my benefit when in truth
you hated her so much that you couldn't stand the sight of her. And why did you hate her so,
uncle?"

"She started a war—"

"That got the woman you loved killed."

Aelor froze for a moment, before he felt the rage rise tenfold. "Careful, boy."

Jaehaerys drove on. "You drove my other away for a sin you yourself committed."

"Jaehaerys, I am warning you."

The half-Stark prince smiled sarcastically as he talked on, ignoring his uncle's increasingly
predatory posture. "Lyanna didn't want Robert Baratheon, she wanted Rhaegar."

"She shouldn't have."

"They were in love."

"They shouldn't have been. They were of noble blood; love has shit to do with it."

"Yet that didn't stop you, did it."

Aelor lost it.

He rose quickly, gripping the desk and flinging it to the side, sending papers, the wine chalice
and other assorted items flying across the room, the red wood crashing as it hit the ground.
Jaehaerys stepped back, away from his enraged uncle, but he continued talking, raising his
voice over the racket Aelor was making. "You loved your brother's wife, yet you dare
condemn my mother for loving that same brother? You are the same, my mother and you, yet
you abused your power to drive her from the capital!"

"The same?" The Dragon of Duskendale bellowed, hands in fist, taking a dangerous step
toward his nephew. "You dare say Lyanna and I are the same? Did I start a war, nephew? Did
I run off with a married man because I was too spoiled to realize that love isn't what the
stories make it out to be? Did I, Jaehaerys? Answer me!"

His nephew was suddenly looking more doubtful. "You loved your brother's wife—"

"Aye, I loved my brother's wife, more than he ever could have and damn sure more than your
mother ever loved him. For years I sat by as your father had everything I ever wanted, but did
I elope with Elia, boy? No. I sat there as a dutiful brother should, I held my tongue, and I did
my duty. I did not start a war because I was a spoiled bitch, as your mother was."

Jaehaerys took another step towards Aelor, face snarling, and this time Aelor couldn't stop his
response. He blocked his nephew's roundhouse blow with a forearm, knocking Jaehaerys' fist
aside and stepping forward to place both hands against the curly-haired boy's chest. With a
quick shove of his stronger arms Aelor sent his nephew flying backwards, the half-Stark
Prince landing on his back some feet back, staring up at his uncle in disbelief. It was the first
time outside the sparring ring his uncle had ever raised a hand to any of them.

Aelor stood over him, face the darkened visage of a demon as he jabbed a finger towards the
door. "Go. Go to your Starks, boy. If being a Targaryen isn't good enough for you, go be a
Stark. If you want to throw away your true family for this new one then do it!" Aelor shook
his head, lips curled. "It seems you are more like your father than I had ever realized."

Jaehaerys stared up in a mixture of surprise, fear and outrage at his uncle for a long moment,
before he scrambled to his feet and fled the chamber.

Aelor watched him go, rage quickly fading until the Dragon of Duskendale realized what he
had done. Guilt and fear coursed through him as he realized he may have just driven his son
away for good, as permanently as he had Lyanna Stark sixteen years earlier.

He suddenly followed, busting out of the solar's door to stare down the hall his nephew had
fled down seconds earlier.

Jaehaerys was gone.

 XLV

Alysanne Lefford Targaryen had seen her husband do many terrible things since she had
become the de facto Queen of the Iron Throne, so what had just happened didn't surprise her
as it would others.

She had entered the solar through a side door leading to her and her husband's chambers
before even Jaehaerys had arrived, staying in the shadows of the corner as her son and
husband argued. She knew it was coming, this showdown over Lyanna Stark, but even she
hadn't expected it to go as it had.

One hand on her swollen stomach, knowing that any day now her seventh child would be
born, she approached her husband's broad back as he stared motionlessly down the hall the
boy they had raised fled down. With a gentle touch she laid her other on his shoulder, Aelor
not even flinching when her small hand lay on the muscle underneath.

"I have driven him from us, Allie."

Aelor's voice was soft and vulnerable in a way she hadn't heard in years, and her heart went
out to him. "No you haven't. Jaehaerys is young and confused, facing the woman he has shied
from for sixteen years; he isn't thinking clearly."

It was as if she hadn't even spoken. "I have been readying myself for that confrontation for
years, but all he had to do was bring her up and I react like a boy his age."

Alysanne sighed, working her way around to his front and pressing herself as close as her
pregnant stomach would allow, using her hands to reach high above her head to cradle his
face. "You lost your temper for a moment. So did he. You will reconcile"

"She has been dead over sixteen years, yet the mere mention—"

Alysanne shifted one of her hands to cover his lips, shushing him. "I know, Aelor. I know. I
have lived in her shadow for that long."

Aelor's eyes finally looked down at her, guilt flashing through them. "I…"

She pulled him down into a kiss. "I knew what I was getting into when I married you, Aelor
Targaryen."

Aelor rested his forehead against hers, eyes closed. "Was he right? Am I as bad as Lyanna
Stark?"

Alysanne hesitated a moment, knowing what she needed to say but unsure exactly how to say
it. Her husband had been a good man once, before the war that had taken half his family and
nearly every sole he could call friend—not to mention the woman he had loved. Part of that
good man still existed, beneath the walls of ruthlessness and hate; Alysanne saw it more than
any other being ever had, in the way he treated his children—both of birth and choice—and
allies.

But her husband certainly wasn't the same good being he had once been, even Alysanne
knew. In truth, he was every bit as mad as his brother had been, just in his own more subtle
and much more deadly way.

She chose her words carefully, stroking his cheek as she spoke. "Lyanna was a young girl, a
spoiled young girl. She certainly played a part in starting the war."

Aelor kept his forehead to hers, clearly waiting for more, but when it didn't come he slowly
raised back up to his full height. "But?"

Alysanne let her hands stray to his broad chest, knowing she had to tread carefully. Aelor
valued her counsel above any other, even above Barristan's, and she couldn't give him a
reason to doubt her, but she had never told him anything but the truth before and she didn't
intend to start now. "Lyanna is no innocent; she is certainly a large cause of the war. But
Aelor, she isn't the only one.Your father drove the Lord Paramount's to the edge; Rhaegar and
Lyanna pushed them over. Your family played as big a role as any foolish noble girl, your
father much more of one. You're blaming Lyanna because she is the only one left to blame.
You have forgotten the true story behind it all."

Aelor stared at her, violet eyes unwavering. Alysanne met them; sixteen years with the man
had taught her how to handle him. Still, apprehension took a firm grip on her, and she
subconsciously lay a hand on her belly, though not from fear of violence from Aelor. He
loved her and his children much too much to ever lay a seriously damaging hand on any of
them.

His voice, when he finally spoke, was soft, much softer than usual. "I haven't forgotten,
Alysanne. I never will, no matter how much I might want to. I can still smell Rickard Stark
burning, can hear Brandon choking, can see Lannisport burning to the ground. It may be
years in the past, but it is as vivid in my mind as yesterday." He turned away from her to look
back at the flipped desk and broken glass, though he kept one large hand resting against her
ribs. "I hate Lyanna Stark as much as Rhaegar claimed to love her, and nothing will ever
change that. But I may have been rash in not giving Jaehaerys more choice; while I never
forbade him from seeing her, the entire Keep knew of my thoughts on the matter."

Alysanne sighed a quiet exhalation of relief. "He is smart and just, but he is a boy. I have
never met a fifteen year old boy who could see past watever it was he was feeling then. I will
speak with him in the morning, shed some light on all of this."

Aelor chuckled lightly, turning to engulf her in the arms she was so used to. "You're a better
woman than I deserve, Alysanne Lefford."

"I advise you never forget it." She rested her head against his broad chest once more. "I am
right, love. You will see."

For the first time in Aelor Targaryen's life, his wife had been wrong.
The Dragon of Duskendale stood in the doorway leading to his favorite balcony in all the Red
Keep, watching the rain splatter against the stone. Another time was heavy on his mind in
that moment, a memory a lifetime ago when he had stood in the night air with the smell of a
dead man's burning flesh swirling in his nostrils, his black bearded best friend beside him. It
had been that night that he had known he was going to war, a war that had changed him and
hundreds of others forever.

But that night had been seventeen years ago. Now it was the middle of the day, the sky filled
with gray rainclouds but still plenty light, his nostrils filled not with the smell of burning
flesh but with the smell of fresh rainfall, albeit tempered with the stench of the city of his
birth. Instead of a giant of a man standing beside him he had a small bundle clutched to his
broad chest, blankets swaddled around its occupant to ward off the increasing chill.

Alyssa Targaryen, named after her maternal grandmother, had arrived two days after the
conclusion of the Tournament of Duskendale, in the bright hours of the morning. She was
small but healthy, and though it could easily change as the child grew she seemed to be an
image of her mother. Though he loved his sons—those he had sired as well as those he had
taken in—his heart, black as it may be, had a soft spot for girls. He didn't know if it was due
to how much Rhaenys had helped him cope with the death of Elia or not but he could deny
them nothing, be they Daenerys or Rhaella or Saera or even Rhaenys to this very day.

In his experience, daughters caused a lot less trouble than boys.

The day before Alyssa had come squalling into this world Jaehaerys Targaryen had rode
north with the Starks. Alysanne had not been entirely wrong, for the boy had not turned his
back on the family that raised him as Aelor had accused, giving heartfelt goodbyes and
promises of return to them all. He'd hugged his mother in all but name long and hard, ruffled
Baelon's hair, and pinched Saera's nose. He'd promised to return home soon, after he had
spent time with the family that he had been estranged from since birth.

That had been five months ago, and Jaehaerys was still at Winterfell. He'd sent packets of
letters to the capital for them all, and another to Highgarden and his sister. He spoke of snow,
something he had never seen, of blue winter roses that Aelor remembered vividly at
Harrenhal, and of a direwolf pup and its litter mates found beside their dead mother.

Only Aelor had received nothing, the boy—who, despite his mature outward appearance, was
still very much so a boy—clearly still disgruntled from the explosion of emotions that had
come to a head at Duskendale. Aelor hadn't slept well since, torn between sending a letter
explaining his position Jaehaerys, riding to Winterfell himself, or doing nothing. But, as
much as it pained him, his estrangement form his nephew was the least of his concerns.

Dark wings had brought dark words.

Aelor was a self-admittedly cynical man, openly skeptical of mages and sorcerers and their
proclaimed powers; he even wondered at the Seven, finding in his experience that sword and
fire ruled the world, not a Father and Mother and their demanding, vicious companions.

But the Prince of Duskendale had seen too much in his time to deny that there was more to
the world than mortal men could comprehend. His brother Rhaegar, however mad or brilliant
or in between he truly had been, had foreseen things a man should not have been able to
know. The eldest son of Aerys had known he would fall at what was now known as the Ruby
Ford, even if he hadn't been sure how. He'd known Aelor would drive the rebel forces back
despite the odds against them, and Aelor had—though no soul on either side could call the
Battle of the Trident a victory. He'd even prophesied Elia's death and tried to prevent it,
though he had failed in doing so. Aelor to this day didn't know what had given his brother his
foresight or how.

Whether there were truly gods or not Aelor couldn't say, but he knew there was more to the
world than the swords and men he understood.

So when ravens had brought word from the Wall of a wilding army numbering in the
thousands and of the giants rumored to be in their number, Aelor hadn't scoffed as others had.
No, the Prince had instead felt an aura of unease fall over him, one that still clung to him
now.

It wasn't that First Ranger Benjen Stark was missing, a fact that Lord Eddard had informed
him of during their stay in Duskendale. Nor was it the disappearance of Waymar Royce,
Bronze Yohn's youngest son, that bothered him so; men of the Watch had a dangerous
occupation, and more than one had been claimed by the wilds while out on patrol. It was the
fact that several veteran members of the watch, strong and stubborn men, were fleeing south
mad with fear that concerned the Dragon of Duskendale; some of those veterans were as
tough as Aelor himself, and wouldn't scare easily.

But scare they had. Lord Eddard had executed three himself in the last year.

Lord Commander Jeor Mormont had stressed his belief that the wildings were the only true
threat in his messages, but he had mentioned the rumors out of duty. And those rumors, even
if they concerned old ghost stories and wives tales, were what concerned the Dragon of
Duskendale.

Wights and Others. Myths, supposedly, but if something were to manage to scare those men
of the watch, Aelor imagined it might be that.

Aelor hoped and prayed that it wasn't the case; he knew how to kill a man wearing steel and
brandishing a sword. Demons of ice, forgotten in the thousands of years since the stories
were first told, were another matter entirely.

The council was to meet that afternoon concerning the messages. Aegon was taking them far
more seriously than Aelor had suspected the boy would, something the Prince was glad for,
but it was clear he thought the part of White Walkers to be nothing and was instead intent on
confronting the growing wildling numbers. His nephew was eager to win glory on the
battlefield, egged on by his son Ren and their close friend Aelor Rykker, three boys with no
idea what war truly meant, no matter how much Aelor and Barristan and the others had tried
to tell them. It reminded Aelor of himself and Renfred when they were that age.

Tyrion Lannister, Lord Paramount of the Westerlands, would be arriving any hour now,
appointed to replace Wyman Manderly as Master of Coin, the massive-bellied Northman in
his advancing age requesting to return to White Harbor to live out the remainder of his life
with his family. Aegon had made the appointment of the Lion dwarf, having found the
halfman's wit entertaining despite the history between their two families, and Aelor had
endorsed it even though he still despised the lion banners with all his being. Stannis
Baratheon, the master of ships ever since Quellon Greyjoy had died ten years past, would be
arriving soon as well, having sailed from Storm's End after returning there for the birth of his
second son with Lady Arnette Swann. The council would hear the messages again as well as
the words of the Watch recruiter Yoren, who had travelled to King's Landing to clear out the
dungeons and give an eyewitness account of the happenings North of the Neck. Aelor was
confident in nephew's ability to handle this situation well, and he would argue vehemently in
favor of aiding the Watch if the council disagreed.

The situation should be well in hand, but something was still nagging at Aelor, something he
couldn't place his finger on.

The Prince held his youngest daughter closely and continued to watch the rain crash to the
earth, wondering if he was once again on the brink of war and how many of his House would
survive this one.

Viserys Targaryen stared into the glass of ale before him, mind screaming with rage, his
constant companion for nearly half a year.

He was a Prince, the blood of the dragon. His place was in King's Landing, his sister by his
side as was the Targaryen way, not in this dingy tavern in the slums of Tyrosh, waiting for
that blasted incompetent fool Aleqou Garantis to return with his next allowance. He didn't
understand his wretched brother and nephew's denial of what was his by right; Aelor had
waived any right to Daenerys the day he married that slut Alysanne Lefford, and his children
were no true blood of the dragon for it. The Targaryen line must remain pure; they were gods,
not peasants!

None of them saw it except him. None of them were smart enough. He could be the savior of
the Targaryen line, the one who turned them around, but they had denied him that, sending
him instead to waste away in this city of peasant filth and heresy.

And for what, removing an insignificant insect of a Marcher lord? It was true he had
weighted a tourney lance in hopes that that overreaching lout Bryce Caron would challenge
him, intent on removing the true threat for his sister's hand. It was the way of the world;
Viserys was a Targaryen, and Targaryen's removed threats and rivals bloodily.

His brother's hypocrisy was what truly irked the Prince of Summerhall; as if Aelor, the famed
Dragon of Duskendale, hadn't destroyed an entire house for crossing him not even a decade
after having nearly done the same to one of the oldest and most powerful houses in all of
Westeros. Fire and Blood were the Targaryen words, not Flowers and Brandy.

Yet Aelor and his family grew fat and lazy in King's Landing, while Viserys brooded in the
corner of a foreign city.

Daenerys is mine by right. I will have her, one way or another.

But be damned if he had figured out just how.

He didn't acknowledge the figures that suddenly sat at the table with him. It happened from
time to time, men trying to curry favor with the rulers across the sea by flattering Viserys
until they learned he was exiled and in disfavor, disappearing as soon as they did. The Prince
of Summerhall had taken to ignoring them, all unworthy fools not fit to lick his boots.

The figures didn't leave, seemingly waiting for the Prince to speak. Viserys didn't, and
eventually one of them decided to prompt him. "Are you Viserys Targaryen?" Asked a deep
voice, and the only reason Viserys looked up to acknowledge him was the Westerosi accent.

A broad-shouldered, tall man sat across the table from him, his arms covered in golden rings.
The man was ugly, eyes bloodshot and face pockmarked, but he held himself with the bearing
Viserys recognized in men of noble blood. Two figures stood on either side of him, the man's
brothers Viserys judged from their similar features to the lout in front of him.

Still, if Viserys had learned anything in exile, it was to proceed cautiously. "Who wants to
know?"

The man smiled slightly, something that somehow made him look even uglier than he already
did. "I am Lord Laswell Peake, formerly of Westeros, now of the Golden Company. These
are my brothers Pykewood and Torman."

The Targaryen Prince raised an eyebrow. "What is it you want, exactly? I am not in favor
with the King in Westeros."

Laswell Peake's smile grew, and his brothers mirrored it on either side of him. "No. But how
would you like to be the King in Westeros?"
 XLVI

Aemon Targaryen knew he shouldn't be here, but he simply couldn't stay away.

The second son of Aelor didn't like people. Well, that wasn't completely true—he didn't like
being around people. His older brother could talk to anyone, even girls, but Aemon was far
different from Renlor. He'd never been comfortable around people who weren't his family,
and half the time he wasn't even comfortable around them. People were unpredictable, driven
by goals Aemon didn't understand.

And they talked so buggering much.

Books were different. They were small, stationary. Quiet. They were exactly where you knew
they were when you wanted them and could be left without any need of explanation, which
suited Aemon perfectly. But they were also so much more than that. Books told of times long
past, of heroes and villains and the feats of honor and horror they carried out. They spoke of
battles long past and the glories won there. They told stories of chivalry and valor, of
brutality and deception. They let you become another being without the need to rise from
your seat; Aemon had conquered the world with Aegon Targaryen, had pillaged with Harwyn
Hardhand, had slogged through the blood and mud of the Trident with his father, all from the
confines of the Red Keep.

A reader lives a thousand lives before he dies. The man who never reads lives only one.

Aemon had discovered his love for books even as Grandmaester Colmar—perhaps the only
non-Targaryen Aemon liked—was first teaching him how to read. He'd discovered the hidden
tunnels of the Red Keep not long after. They were excellent for disappearing to be with
himself and his books, to curl up in one of the innumerable nooks and live another life for a
few hours. There were others who used them—children his age and younger, Varys' little
birds—but they left him be and he did the same for them.

Being in the tunnels lead to some interesting opportunities, to be sure. He could listen in on
any number of conversations if he were of a mind. But Aemon wasn't of a mind; he wanted to
be left alone, so he tended to leave others alone as well.

Except for today. Today, he simply had to listen.

The stories of the Long Night fascinated him. The tales of men and White Walkers and their
War for the Dawn were considered nothing more than legend, spoken of in stories but not
truly believed by anyone south of the Neck—or even many of those north of it. It was
mentioned in the same breath as Lann the Clever or Brandon the Builder; stories that were
more myth than legend. Whether or not Others ever had—or maybe still did—walk the north
of Westeros was beyond Aemon's knowledge, but the tales of terror and heroism spoken of in
the stories of them fascinated him.

And now, it seemed, they might be coming again. He knew he should be terrified and part of
him was, but part of him was also breathless at the idea. An utterly ridiculous notion, what
with the potential for the end of the world and all, but one he couldn't help.

It wasn't like he would be the hero to fight the Others back if there truly was a Second battle
for the Dawn anyway. Aemon was no warrior and he didn't pretend to be; he had no skill for
swordplay and no desire to improve upon it. Once he had been ashamed of that fact; Ren was
a solid swordsman and his little, austere brother Baelon was already deadly—and unstable,
but that was a concern for another time. And of course there came the fact of his parentage;
Aelor Targaryen was considered the best—or at the very least the deadliest—bladesman this
side of the Kingsguard. It was perhaps foolish but nonetheless natural to assume all of his
sons would be skilled as well.

Two out of three so far isn't too bad I suppose. I'm sure Daemon will make it three out of four
when he comes of age.

Aemon's thoughts trailed off when he heard Aegon call the Small Council meeting to order.
The voice was muffled and seemed to come from different directions—Aemon had never
been sure exactly where the hidden niche was in relation to the Small Council Chamber—but
he could understand his cousin plainly enough.

"Good morning my Lords." There was a grumble of returned greetings, from Varys' chittering
to Colmar the Grey's deep bass. "I'm sure we all know precisely why we are here."

"Another raven arrived from Lord Stark early this morning," the Grandmaester said. "The
North is taking Lord Commander Mormont's warnings seriously; Eddard Stark and his son
are gathering ten thousand Northmen to ride to the Wall's aide." There was a slight hesitation,
and when the giant with the deformed face spoke again his voice was a shade quieter. "Prince
Jaehaerys will ride with them."

Aemon strained to hear if his father had anything to say about that, but the Dragon of
Duskendale kept his silence. He wasn't entirely sure just what had gone down between the
two; his father refused to discuss it, and no reference of it was made in any of Jaehaerys'
letters. Yet it was clearly evident something had gone down between them, for anyone with
eyes could see there was something off kilter in the Targaryen dynasty—something beyond
the exile of Viserys, which, while no one said it aloud, the family was more thankful for than
depressed by.

Of course, we're Targaryens. Something is always off kilter in our bloodline.

"Ah yes, the ominous threat of giants and snarks from beyond the Wall," came the cheery-
toned voice of Tyrion Lannister, attending his first Small Council meeting after replacing the
massive Lord Wyman Manderly. The dwarf Lannister was known for his quick wit and
willingness to bed anything female, seeming to have settled for life as a bachelor and
accepting his uncle Kevan and his sons as his heirs. While his diminutive size made things
difficult for him as a ruler—as did his apparent loyalty to the dynasty that had destroyed
nine-tenths of his own—his mind was brilliant, a fact even Aelor had made mention of
before.

That fact alone bore the truth of the statement; for his father to compliment anything
Lannister was a rare occurrence. He had, after all, gone on a bloody crusade to wipe the
bloodline out a decade and a half earlier, nearly succeeding before something had stayed his
hand. He suspected that something had been his mother, Alysanne—she was the only person
Aemon had ever seen talk her father down when he was angry.

"I'm less worried about the snarks and the giants than I am the wildlings, Lord Tyrion,"
replied the King. "Reports place their numbers at over fifty thousand."

Another voice spoke, grim and unforgiving. Those traits by themselves could be either Chief
General Randyll Tarly or Master of Ships Stannis Baratheon, but Aemon quickly identified it
as the latter. "Reports normally stray far from the truth, especially when concerning enemy
numbers."

The Lord Paramount of the Stormlands was a hard man, strong and utterly unyielding. He
had resorted to eating boot leather rather than surrender during his brother's rebellion, only
yielding when Lord Stark had arrived to vouch for Aelor Targaryen's leniency. Rumor had it
that even that hadn't been enough, the true reason behind the steely-eyed man's capitulation
concern for his child brother Renly.

Aemon wondered if Stannis regretted that now. His brother was a charming, handsome man
who instilled love in his followers in a way Stannis never had. He was also blisteringly
ambitious, having left Stannis' court when his heir Steffon—his second of three children,
behind the girl Shireen and before the newborn Lyonel—had been born. Renly had taken up
residence at Highgarden with the Tyrell's, wooing the girl Margaery as well as forming a
close friendship with her brother Loras, the Knight of Flowers. Many wondered if he was
working behind the scenes to garner support for a potential coup of Stannis, though how
young Renly intended to pull it off when his elder brother clearly had favor with the
Targaryen dynasty was unclear.

"I realize reports are by nature unreliable, Lord Stannis," Aegon said, voice slightly strained
from irritation. "My uncle has made that point clear to me since I was old enough to listen.
But the Night's Watch is in shambles, and even half that number could well pose a threat."

"With a seven-hundred foot tall Wall in their way?" Came the skeptical voice of Yohn Royce,
the Valeman Master of Laws.

"Yes, Lord Royce, even with a seven hundred foot Wall in the way. We have a guest here who
can attest to that fact. Yoren, take the rhetoric if you will."

This voice was one Aemon had never heard, rough and Northern. The second son of Aerys
strained to hear his drawl clearly. "Thank you, Your Grace. I myself don't see near what some
of my brothers do; I've been a recruiter for the Watch for near thirty years, ever since a
wilding axe took away my ability to fight well. But I know that the Watch doesn't have
enough mean to defend the Watch proper, and the wildlings have found ways to get 'round it."

"Pray tell, how do unwashed barbarians bypass the Wall?" Lord Royce's voice was dripping
with contempt; his family had battled the mountain tribes of the Vale—often called wildlings
themselves—for countless generations. Bronze Yohn was a good man, but hatred could sway
a man's mind from reason and even civility.
Aemon's father was a sterling example of that.

"Many ways. They can take canoes from Hardhome and land behind it—they can't get across
in large numbers that way before we find out, but they could land enough to attack the
remaining men of the Watch. That and they can climb it."

"Climb it," spoke the surprised voice of Lord Tyrion. "Now that is a feat worth respecting, no
matter if it is our enemies doing it."

"Yes, Lord. Spikes and ropes. Plenty of them die in the attempt, but plenty more live."

Randyll Tarly piped in. "Can they mass under the Watch's nose that way?"

"No. But the Watch numbers less than a thousand men now, and those are spread out across
the few forts we still have manned. All the bastards need to do is get enough behind us to
take Castle Black, and then let the others come pouring through."

Aegon spoke again. "As I'm sure my lords remember, the Watch has been forbidden from
having defenses south of the Wall ever since the defeat of the Night's King." That name sent
shivers down Aemon's spine. "If the Watch falls, nothing stands between them and the
mainland of all of Westeros. If their numbers are even near what reports have them to be,
they are a threat beyond anything we have faced in a hundred years." Aegon's voice became
more commanding, more kingly. "I intend to gather a force and go to the aide of the Night's
Watch. If this threat is nothing so be it, but I do not intend to risk the lives of innocent
smallfolk because I refused to heed warnings from a man we all agree to be highly
competent."

Aelor spoke for the first time then, his father's cool baritone easily heard and commanding of
respect. "We all know the other fear of this mentioned in reports, the one none of us want to
believe. I'm not saying it is viable and I'm not saying I support it, but I have learned it is
impossible to be overly cautious in this savage bitch of a life. King Aegon has my full
support in this, and I volunteer the veterans and levies of Duskendale to march North under
the King's command."

Aemon could hear the thanks in his cousin the King's voice; Aegon had ruled well in his
short stint after the regency, but all knew the Dragon of Duskendale was still the true power
in the Seven Kingdoms, no matter that Aelor didn't want to be. It bothered Aegon plainly, but
the King knew perfectly well that a pledge of full support from the Warrior Prince—
especially if he pledged his men to serve under Aegon instead of himself—would sway the
minds of the others. "I accept it, uncle." A pause, as Aegon likely turned to face another
although Aemon obviously couldn't see from the dark niche he was in. "Lord Tarly, I
understand you have chief control of the army in times of war, but I will lead this expedition
myself. I invite you along as an advisor."

Tarly's response was immediate and neutral; Tarly was grim and unforgiving, but he had a
knack for handling himself well in political situations. "Of course, Your Grace."

"Uncle, I request you serve as regent while I am gone."

"I refuse."

The silence was total for a long moment. This time Aegon's voice was cold. "Say again,
uncle?"

Aelor's own voice was calm and confident. "I am going with you."

"I am in command of this."

"You are. You have full command of the army, including my own levies and retinue. I will
defer to your orders in all things, as is my duty. But I am the strongest sword outside of the
Kingsguard that you command, and I have more experience in bloodletting than any other
man in Westeros outside of Ser Barristan. The wildlings are known for their savagery; we
need some of our own."

There was more silence, and Aemon could only presume his father and cousin were having a
battle of wills. Aegon broke first. "Very well." His tone promised retribution; Aelor knew
perfectly well that Aegon sought to escape his shadow in the North, and he was still
potentially going to take that form him. Aegon wouldn't forget it. But then again, the Dragon
of Duskendale would know that perfectly well also.

Aegon's first blow came instantly. "Lord Tyrion, you will serve as regent in my stead."
Aemon raised his eyebrows; leaving a Lannister—even one Aelor had spared and out in
power—in charge of the Dragon of Duskendale's city of birth was a cutting move. Aemon
supposed the King was trying to reassert his command over his uncle's; he just hoped this
enmity didn't increase.

"Of course, Your Grace. The Halfman is at your service."

There were a few more negotiations between the council—when they would leave, what
forces in addition to the men of Duskendale would accompany the King, what Kingsguard
would remain behind to protect the remaining members of the royal family—that Aemon
only half listened to, though he was pleased to hear no more hostility between Aegon and
Aelor, at least for now. His mind was racing with the excitement of the expedition north. The
sensible side of him hoped it was nothing more than rumors, that there was no true threat of
wildlings or anything much more dangerous. But the side of Aemon that longed for
adventure despite his bookish nature disagreed.

And in that moment, Aemon Targaryen decided he just had to see this for himself.

He found his father at the door of the balcony the Dragon of Duskendale had always loved,
looking out over the city he had saved sixteen years earlier. It was raining still, the air having
taken a chill of late. Aemon supposed the Starks would say 'Winter is Coming', the house
words they seemed so adamant about, but no white raven had arrived from the Citadel
confirming that fact. Still, the second son of Aelor had been raised in a near endless summer,
and he could tell there was certainly something different in the air.
His father heard him before he even had a chance to speak, turning to look at him. "Aemon,"
he greeted smiling, towering over his son. Aemon had taken after his mother in all regards
except his violet eyes, his frame average of shoulder and height, contrasting his father's
impressive height and burly form. Aemon was still a few moons shy of fifteen, meaning he
still had a chance to grow more into his father's build, but he doubted it would be the case.
Not that he minded; large people demanded attention by virtue of being bigger than others
and thusly instantly noticeable. Average people however could bend in, and that is all Aemon
wanted.

"Father," he returned voice quieter than his sire's. "I have a confession to make."

Aelor grinned knowingly, taking his son by surprise with his next words. "I wondered if you
would admit to listening in on the council. Barristan bet you would keep your silence;
Colmar adamantly disagreed. It seems the Grandmaester was correct."

Aemon was shocked and embarrassed for a moment, wondering how the Hand of the King
had known, before the truth dawned on him. "Varys," he breathed, face ashen. "The little
birds."

Aelor had something of a twinkle in his eye as he grinned. "They sing in the east, they sing in
the west, and they sing right in the middle."

Aemon bowed his head, though he knew Aelor wasn't angry. "I apologize for the subterfuge,
father, but I was too curious to resist."

Aelor waved it away. "Nonsense, son. Join me."

The Dragon of Duskendale returned to leaning against the doorpost of the entry to the
balcony, watching the rain fall. Aemon took the other side, looking out over the bustling and
sprawling behemoth of a city. One could still see the aftermath of the Lannister raid in Flea
Bottom, scorch marks on some of the buildings that had survived. The pile of burnt wood and
charred bone of the funeral pyre had been cleaned out before Aemon had even been born,
new buildings built in place of most of the old ones, but there were still open lots of
blackened ground where the heat of the fires had burned away the life underneath.

"I imagine you have come to discuss the council."

"Yes father."

"What are your thoughts?"

Aemon didn't hesitate. "I am glad the King is taking the threat of the wildlings seriously,
though I wonder if he should perhaps have taken the other threats seriously as well."

His father turned his head to look at him, raising an eyebrow. "You mean the Others?" When
Aemon nodded, Aelor grunted. "It is a hard story to believe, myths and bedtime stories meant
to frighten children. Still…there is more to this world than swords and quills. I wonder if we
should not be more concerned as well."
"I have read the stories of the Battle for Dawn more times than I can count. It by all means
sounds like a terrible, horrifying time, yet I can't help but wish…" He trailed off, not willing
to put this irrational hope into words. His father was a supportive man, having accepted
Aemon's scholarly disposition in a way Randyll Tarly had never been able to accept his heir
Samwell's, but he knew the whole notion to be ludicrous.

Except apparently it wasn't. "You wish it were true, so you could witness it yourself." Aemon
glanced at his father sheepishly, the Dragon of Duskendale reaching a large hand out to pat
his son's shoulder. "I know the feeling; before the Kingswood Brotherhood and Robert's
Rebellion, I wanted nothing more than a war to prove myself. It is the nature of young men
who haven't seen the true thing; Renfred and I were much like your cousin Aemon and
brother Renlor are now, chomping at the bit to win the glories of battle." His father grunted
again. "Such fools we were, but we weren't the first and we certainly won't be the last."

"I once heard Ser Barristan tell Ren that war is nothing like the stories, that young men wish
for it until the day they first see it and then they wonder why they wished for it at all."

Aelor nodded sagely. "That's about the truth of it. Bards make it sound like a glorious,
honorable thing, but war is anything but."

Aemon hesitated a moment before plunging forward with his request. "I would like to find
out." His father stood up abruptly, taken aback by the statement. "I wish to go North with you
and Aegon."

Aelor turned to face him fully, face confused. "You've never had an interest in war before,
Aemon."

The son mimicked the move of the father, facing one another fully. "And I don't now. But I
have always wanted to see the Wall, to experience for myself the beauty of the north. And if
there are truly Others and giant and who knows what else marching to destroy humanity, I
would never forgive myself for being too cowardly to see them for myself before they are
either stopped or they succeed."

Aelor's face grew stern. "Never call yourself a coward again, Aemon. The fact that you are
willing to travel north with a war party when you want nothing to do with war is in itself
evidence to the contrary."

"I am no warrior, father, but I am skilled at managing anything I put my mind to, and we
know it. Make me a quartermaster or a scribe, whatever it is you need; just allow me to travel
with you and see the truth or falsehood of these rumors with my own eyes."

The Dragon of Duskendale was watching him, face now serious. "You do know that if their
truly is a threat, there will be battle, and however unlikely it is there is a chance we will not
emerge the victors. The enemy will not care if you're warrior or a whipping boy; they'll kill
you just the same. It is the nature of men and war."

Aemon nodded. "I know, and I will not lie to you and say I am terrified of that possibility.
But I need to do this, father. I love books and I am uncomfortable around people, but I know
that a life spent dreaming of things I never allow myself to see is a life wasted." Aelor
regarded his son for a long while, face unmoving. Aemon waited with bated breath, eyes
pleading.

Finally his father let out a long sigh. "Very well; you may join us." Aemon's heart soared and
he began to thank his father profusely, but the Dragon of Duskendale brought his hand up
firmly to stop the gratitude cold. "On one condition; you have to be the one to explain this to
your mother."

The excitement fled instantly.

Her husband was in his armor again.

Alysanne Targaryen had only seen Aelor wear the black plate with its warring dragons twice
since the end of Robert's Rebellion, and neither time had she been happy about it. The first
was when he had ridden to the Stormlands to extinguish the line of House Rogers, burning
their castle and lands as he had Lannisport all those years ago. The second had been more
recently, when Corliss Roxton had nearly raised his flag in doomed revolt. Both times she
had been terrified to see her husband ride away, not knowing if he would ever return to her
and their children; whether or not Aelor loved her as much as he had the long-dead Elia
Martell was a question even Alysanne didn't know the answer to, but it hadn't stopped her
from loving him as much as a body could.

This was the third time she was to watch him ride away, and that feeling of dread was as
present as ever.

Warrior, on the other hand, was nearly giddy. The massive black stallion sensed that the mass
of horses and men scurrying to and fro in the stables and courtyard of the Red Keep was a
war party and he was acting like a horse a quarter of his age, excitedly bellowing his war cry
of a neigh and nearly prancing around the post he was tied to. The stallion was twenty years
old, not ancient for a horse but certainly older than any other animal being geared up for war.
Alysanne had questioned Aelor's decision to ride the old destrier to the potential battles up
north and not one of his many descendants; there were well over a dozen black-hided
stallions in the courtyard that had been sired by the famous horse. As vicious as he had been
in his youth and as attached as Aelor was to the aptly named beast—he'd ridden the horse
everywhere since the war, although destriers were bred for battle and didn't have the smooth
gait most looked for in a horse for everyday riding—she wondered if her husband shouldn't
take a younger animal.

Aelor had cut the head off of the idea instantly. He swore upon the emerald dagger he had
killed Robert Baratheon with that Warrior was more man than horse, and that there had never
been a smarter animal or an animal more suited to war than the old stallion. In her many
years around the beast, she couldn't deny the former.

Her husband was saying his goodbyes to Rhaella, Saera and Daenerys. Most of the knights
swarming the courtyard in preparation for riding out were in travel clothing—if there was to
be a battle it would be weeks away, and they saw no reason to subject themselves to the
discomfort of wearing armor when there was zero chance of battle. Even King Aegon wore a
doublet and cloak of black and crimson, not the ornate and expensive armor he owned. Aelor,
however, was in full plate, the same suit he had worn in those fierce battles of the rebellion.
Alysanne had learned that when Aelor donned the armor he donned the mindset of war;
whenever he was riding towards a fight, guaranteed or just potential, he wore his armor
almost exclusively.

Alysanne watched with tears threatening to fall. This time was not like the other times her
husband had ridden out to war. Both of those times his victory was all but guaranteed, and
while it was likely this one was no different there was certainly an undercurrent of what if.

And, the true reason behind her discomfort was that he was taking four of her sons with him.

Her eldest Ren sat his stallion beside the King, who was her child in all but blood. They were
talking giddily, excited by the prospect of war in the way Aelor told her only unbloodied boys
could be. Aemon, her sweet, quiet Aemon, sat another horse behind them, face carefully
blank. She had been surprised and terrified when her second son—the one meant to inherit
her father's lands and her ancestral castle—had come to her professing her intent to ride north
with the war party. Her second child was no warrior and never would be; why in the Seven
hells was he going to ride to war? She had been nearly hysterical in forbidding him, but her
son had shown the steely resolve few knew he possessed in insisting he was going along with
or without her blessing. It had taken—and still was taking—everything she had to prevent
herself from begging him further to remain in King's Landing with her.

She supposed it was hypocritical of her to protest Aemon not go when she was allowing two
of his full brothers to, especially when one of them was younger than him. Alysanne hadn't
been surprised when Aelor broke it to her that Baelon was riding along; he was, after all, her
husband's squire. Though only recently having turned two and ten, her third son belonged
with a war party. He was quieter than even Aemon and twice as grim, so silent that Alysanne
had once wondered if he was a simpleton. She'd learned later that he was anything but—
Baelon was brilliant, at least in terms of strategy and swordplay. But he was also eccentric
and dangerous; he was Aelor incarnate, though clearly more Aerys than the Dragon of
Duskendale and perhaps even Viserys. Alysanne spent long nights praying to the Seven that
her son not be a second coming of the Mad King, but so far they had given her no sign
dissuading her that he was.

She couldn't help but love him, however, no matter his potential to become a monster. She'd
grown used to loving dangerous men with the potential for unprecedented violence.

One of those men came to a stop in front of her, resplendent in the black plate that fit him so
well. His helm with its white flame crest was tucked under his arm, as scarred as his face
from the blade of a long dead Lannister. Aelor bent down to place a kiss on Alyssa's head, the
babe somehow sleeping despite the cacophony of noise coming from the horses and men in
the courtyard.

"Promise me, Aelor," Alysanne whispered as she pulled her husband into the side that wasn't
supporting her youngest, gripping his black plate fiercely as he wrapped his armored free arm
around her small frame. "Promise me you will bring our sons back to us."

He held her close for a long moment, running a gauntlet through her dark hair, before leaning
back and placing a long kiss to her lips. "I promise," his comforting—to her at least—voice
reassured when he leaned back, grinning.

It was an empty promise, one they both knew he couldn't guarantee to keep, but it was
enough for now.

Alysanne Lefford watched as he strode to and swung up on the massive stallion, Warrior
impatiently pawing the ground in his desire to get to the rush of battle both horse and rider so
loved. She watched as he rode to join her sons and two knights of the Kingsguard at the head
of the column, Baelon close behind, each Targaryen mounted upon a stallion as black as their
banners. She watched as Aegon ordered the column forward, to meet with the men of
Duskendale under Donnel Buckwell at the castle of House Byrch and the men under Lord
Whent of Harrenhal at that cavernous ruin of a castle.

And when the last horse disappeared out of the courtyard of the Red Keep, Alysanne Lefford
wept.
 XLVII

King Viserys Targaryen, Third of His Name, King of the Andals and the First Men, Lord of
the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm. It had one hell of a ring to it.

Viserys slipped out from between the two camp followers he'd taken to his bed a week
earlier, both of Lyseni blood with light blonde hair and purple eyes. One's hair was a shade
too dark and the other's shorn too short, and their eyes were much more indigo than violet.
But if Viserys didn't look at their faces too much and he repeatedly told his mind they were,
he could just convince himself they were what his heart desired above all else.

It was like having two Daenerys' at the same time. Viserys would trade both fakes for the real
one in a heartbeat, but he'd take what he could get for now.

Both—Viserys was fairly certain their names were Sylara and Lilas, though he didn't truly
give much of a damn—grumbled and twisted slightly in the massive bed but neither one
woke. Viserys yawned as he stretched, joints popping, and then set to dressing in the
expensive silk and cloth of gold, a golden three headed dragon stitched across the chest of his
doublet. He strapped his sword to his side and then, with great care, placed the crown of gold,
emeralds and rubies atop his head, relishing its weight and the feeling of power it flooded
into his veins. Straightening his spine, he flung aside the tents flap and stepped out into the
harsh sunshine.

They were camped somewhere along the western Essosi coastline, north of the Free City of
Myr and south of Pentos. Viserys had grumbled when he'd first arrived at the staging area,
even in his wretched exile used to at least some level of comfort, but the commanders of the
Golden Company had convinced him of their reasoning. Viserys knew as well as anyone that
The Spider had little birds everywhere; they sang just as loud in the east as they did in the
west. While it was unlikely Viserys' new affiliation with the Golden Company would stay a
secret from Varys for long, any amount of delay in its revelation would be to their advantage.
Camping in this middle of nowhere, away from the thousands of prying eyes in the Free
Cities, would only help in that endeavor.

Alester Strong instantly appeared at his side. Eight and ten, the squire was thick of neck and
arm, short but savagely powerful. He wasn't the quickest of mind to be sure, but despite his
relative youth he was an experienced killer who doubled as Viserys squire and bodyguard.
Viserys had yet to select his own Kingsguard—as much as he hated his brother, the Prince of
Summerhall had learned from the Dragon of Duskendale to choose those closest to him
carefully—but he felt protected enough with Alester for now. Besides, they were in the
middle of ten thousand warriors all serving him.

Alester's father, Duncan Strong, was one of the Company's serjeants, his arms covered in
gold rings signifying over twenty years of service. While the mercenary father and son were
of Westerosi heritage, Viserys doubted they were truly descended from the long-extinct
House Strong of the Riverlands, former Lords of Harrenhal. A man of the Golden Company
could call himself whatever he wished, and there was another serjeant with no blood relation
to Duncan, a brute of a man named Denys, who styled himself a Strong as well. It didn't truly
matter though; when he took the Iron Throne from his cursed nephew and executed the
traitorous lords who served him, he would give Duncan and Denys Harrenhal and its
subsequent lands back, though how they would split it between them wasn't his concern.

That was his deal with the Golden Company. Ten thousand men, bloodied killers all, would
help him take the Kingdoms of his father. In return, he would grant the conquered lands to
the men of the Golden Company. Many were actual exiles who yearned for their ancestral
seats; Laswell Peake and his brother's, Captain-General Harry Strickland, Franklyn Flowers
the Bastard of Cider Hall, supposedly Duncan and Denys Strong. Others—Will Cole, John
Mudd, Maylo Jayn—didn't even pretend to have a claim, some like Jayn not even of
Westerosi blood. They too would be granted lordships, however, assuming the positions that
Viserys would empty. Theirs would be right of conquest instead of right of blood.

This was the world Viserys intended to build, Daenerys at his side.

News had arrived during the night, something major judging by the flurry of activities the
camp had undergone. Viserys was rather vexed that nothing had been said to him, their King,
but he would withhold his displeasure for the time being. The council they had called this
morning was sure to fill in the blanks for him, and in the process he would get a further idea
of who was truly in command for now. Viserys wasn't a fool; he knew the only reason these
men had first agreed to follow him was their hopes of returning home or becoming rich, not
because they found him to be their true King—as such, thy would only follow his commands
to a point. It was true that Viserys wasn't the true King—he wasn't even very high in the
succession anymore, thanks to Alysanne Lefford and her 'talent' at getting pregnant and
birthing boys. He needed to bid his time, see where the true power of the Company lay, and
then go about taking it for himself.

Viserys hated Aelor, but his brother had taught him well.

The council was already underway even as Viserys entered, only a few of the veteran
mercenaries bothering to rise and bow to Viserys before the King took his place at the head of
the table. It was a lack of respect they would all pay dearly for, though not quite yet.
'Homeless' Harry Strickland, portly and the exact opposite of what one would expect a
mercenary to look like, was talking. While he still hadn't figured out the true power structure
behind the Golden Company, Viserys was nearly certain that it didn't lie with Harry
Strickland, no matter the man's position as Captain-General. The great-grandson of a former
Lord of the Reach was somewhat craven, a belief given credence by the words the man was
saying right now.

"We do not have the numbers. Even with the elephants we are hopelessly outmatched."

Jon Lothston—another man under the guise of a supposedly extinct bloodline—viciously

countered. One of the serjeants, Viserys had noticed the red-haired sellsword was the biggest
of Strickland's rivals, constantly infuriated by the Captain-General's cowardice. "Their
strongest fighters are moving north as we speak, leaving their heartland undefended. Now is
the time to strike!"
Duncan Strong seemed to be the normal voice of reason of the council, and he continued that
role now. "They still have many times again as many men as we do in the south, even with
the allies we have in place. There is only so much havoc we could wreak."

Lothston whirled. "Scattered men, easy for the picking. We can turn Aelor Targaryen's own
tactic against him—pick the enemy off piecemeal, before they can unite. It nearly ended
Robert Baratheon's Rebellion before it truly began, if you recall." Lothston eyed Strickland
once more. "We cannot sit here in Essos like cowards and let this opportunity pass."

"Peace, Lothston," barked the rough voice of Maylo Jayn, his accent that of the far east. The
lean man turned to face Viserys, bowing ever so slightly. "The King needs to be brought up to
date."

That is precisely why you will receive a high lordship, my friend. The Westerlands should do.
Viserys eyed them all coolly, a tactic he had seen his brother use to great effect. "The meeting
should not have begun without me, Master Jayn. But I am willing to overlook it this time in
light of what I gather to be good news to our cause." None of the hardened mercenaries apart
from Strickland looked chagrined, but Viserys knew he had yet to win their respect—or their
fear. It would all come in due time.

Lysono Maar, spymaster of the company, filled the King in. The Lyseni, with his lilac eyes
and his pierced ears decorated with amethysts and pearls, looked more like a woman than a
man. But he had a vast array of contacts and spies nearly everywhere including Westeros, the
population of which seemed to be twenty-five percent spies in Viserys' mind. His network
was not as vast as Varys' of course, but enough to keep the Company very well informed.
"Your nephew and brother are leading a force of men to the Wall, to deal with an apparent
wildling threat. Half of the power of the North will join them there."

Lothston spoke again, voice excited at the prospect of finally beginning the invasion this
company was founded to undertake. "King's Landing is relatively undefended, with only a
few household guardsmen to defend her. We can strike now and take it, capturing many of
your kinsmen to hold as leverage as well as freeing the future Queen."

Viserys instantly liked Lothston a thousand times more than before when he referred to
Daenerys as the future Queen, but it didn't stop his skepticism. "Between Dragonstone and
King's Landing, my cursed nephew has one of the strongest fleets in the known world. All the
war elephants and experienced infantrymen in the world will do no good if we cannot land."

Strickland apparently agreed. "My point exactly."

Maar however wasn't finished, shooting the King a smirk that made Viserys want to smash
his feminine face in. "Our friends in Westeros have plans to remove that threat, at least long
enough for our own ships to make landfall."

The Prince of Summerhall waited for a clarification the spymaster did not give. "Explain."
Viserys demanded as calmly as he could.

Jayn obliged. "Your nephew has taken the levies of Duskendale as well as most of his
personal retinue north with him, meaning the most experienced and disciplined fighters for
the Iron Throne will be a world away from us when we land. Most important of all, however,
is that your brother is with them. He is the glue that holds your nephew's kingship together,
and with him too far to harm them…well, there are several powerful figures in Westeros who
have no love for the Dragon of Duskendale."

Maar took the rhetoric. "Your brother ruled ably, and most of Westeros will remain loyal it is
true. But there is no small number of Lords who have not forgotten or forgiven the atrocities
he has committed. They question rather he is truly sane." Viserys missed the glance several
members of the council shared at that, too focused on the task at hand as Lysono continued.
"We have been in contact with these lords since the day we learned Aegon exiled you, Your
Grace. We have support to overthrow the Dragon of Duskendale."

"My nephew is King, not my uncle."

Duncan Strong smiled. "There are many who would contest that point, Your Grace. When
these men hear Aegon the Sixth, they truly think Aelor the First."

Maar nodded. "With the Dragon of Duskendale too far to be an immediate threat, we can
strike hard and fast with the lords who ally with us, destroying the armies in the south one at
a time while Aegon and Aelor fight unwashed barbarians in the far north."

Viserys' heart was pounding at the possibility. Though he would never admit it to any of these
men, he was terrified of his older brother, and had spent all of his life trying to avoid Aelor's
retribution. But with said brother so far away, unable to strike back at Viserys, he could
feasibly take all he wanted in one fell swoop. If he captured Alysanne and the children, he
would have a bargaining chip keeping his brother at bay.

But all of that depended on the Golden Company landing and successfully taking King's
Landing. And that depended on a lack of a Royal Navy in their way, which these mercenaries
still hadn't explained how they were going to accomplish. Viserys leaned back in his chair at
the head of the table. "This tells me nothing of how we won't have a Navy in our way."

Black Balaq, the white-haired, soot-skinned commander of the Golden Company archers,
spoke for the first time, voice deep and resonant. "Your brother destroyed Tywin Lannister
without the Royal Navy because he had a substitute force. We shall destroy him in turn with
that same one."

Viserys' eyes opened wide in revelation. "The Ironborn?"

There was a chorus of nods, though Jayn was the one to speak. "Yes, Your Grace. Their
numbers were barely touched during the last war, and Balon Greyjoy is nothing like his father
Quellon. He has chafed under the rule of your brother, but he has had no opportunity to rise
in rebellion. Until now. He intends to start raiding the western coast, pillaging castles and
their armies and driving the Iron Throne to react. The Redwyne Fleet cannot handle the might
of the Iron Fleet by itself, so the Regent of the Crown—Tyrion Lannister, a less-than-
respected dwarf as luck would have it—will order much of the Royal Navy to assist them."

Viserys cocked a brow. "They will also muster their army, which defeats our purpose of
attacking them piecemeal."
Balaq bowed his head in difference. "A wise point, Your Grace. But the Golden Company
will strike before these armies grow too strong, and with the Crown split between two
enemies they will be overmatched and destroyed."

Viserys ran the merits and intricacies of the plan through his head. He wasn't a gifted
tactician like Aelor or Aegon, but he had learned much during the lessons he had so detested
as a boy. The plan relied on massive amounts of ifs and hopes, but the potential could not be
denied. This might be his only true chance to take both what was his by birthright—Dany—
but also what he had thirsted after since he was a teen.

Viserys' heart pounded ever harder as his hopes soared. This is my opportunity. This is where
I will make my name.

There was only one catch.

"What does Balon Greyjoy want in return?"

This time Viserys didn't miss the looks shared by the council, and he knew at once that he
wouldn't like whatever it was Balon Greyjoy was demanding. Lothston was the one to break
the news to him. "He wants independence for the Iron Islands."

Viserys jumped to his feet, slamming a fist on the table. None of the mercenaries flinched,
infuriating Viserys the more; when he'd seen Aelor do the same action, half of the lords
nearly pissed themselves. "Absolutely not. I am the King of seven kingdoms, not six."

Jayn spoke in a soothing tone Viserys sound annoying, though he tried to hold that anger in
check this time. "Your Grace, we agree that his demands are atrocious. But once he helps you
capture your Throne, nothing says we have to let him keep that independence."

Harry Strickland may have been Captain-General, but he had been deemed nearly nonexistent
to this point. It truly shows that he is not where the power lies. "We are the Golden Company;
we cannot go back on our word!" His voice was appalled, as if Jayn had spoken blasphemy.

"We will not go back on our word as the Golden Company," Maar said, voice slightly
annoyed. "But once we have taken King Viserys' thrown the Golden Company will be no
more. Westeros nobility have no qualms with betraying one another; if that is what we are to
be, we should not either. The Iron Islands will have no chance to stand against the other
Kingdoms once they are united solidly under King Viserys' rule."

Strickland opened his mouth to protest again, but no words came forth. Viserys' mind raced,
weighing the options. This was his chance. This is where he could finally take his heart's
desire.

Viserys rose, trying for all the world to look kingly. "We will not get a better opportunity. Let
us go to war, gentlemen."

For the first time since Viserys had come in contact with the Golden Company, each man
bowed.
 XLVIII

Aegon Targaryen had never been so cold in his entire life.

The Wall was a splendor to behold, so massive it made even a King wonder how man had
made such a thing, but it was seven hundred feet of ice. Aegon was of the south; he didn't
like ice. Or snow. Or the wind so cold it could cut through layer upon layer of fur and leather,
freezing his pale skin. Targaryen's were dragons, not bloody snow bears. They thrived in heat
and flame, not chill and snowflake.

Except Jaehaerys of course. His half-brother seemed right at home, surrounded by Starks and
a red-eyed, white furred beast of a direwolf. The King couldn't help but raise an eyebrow at
how well the animal's fur matched the white armor of Ser Borran of the Kingsguard, who had
travelled north with Jaehaerys over half a year ago. Aegon supposed it was the Stark that ran
through Jaehaerys' veins that gave him his cold resistance, the blood of six-thousand years'
worth of Kings of Winter flowing through the son of Rhaegar and Lyanna. Aegon was
buggered in that regard; on one side he was a dragon, on the other the bloody sun itself.
Neither lent much help in being prepared for the North.

Even the cold and the terrifying-looking direwolf couldn't stop the King from swinging off
his black stallion and striding to the black-haired Prince, even as the courtyard—Stark,
Targaryen and Crow alike—sank to one knee. With a chuckle he waved Jaehaerys up before
clasping his brother's wrist, slapping Jaehaerys' shoulder. "You look like shit, baby brother."

Jaehaerys grinned at that. "You'd best be careful, Your Grace," he said, tilting his head
towards the albino direwolf regarding the King quizzically. "He's somewhat protective of
me."

Aegon raised an eyebrow at the beast, trying to keep his face blank of the apprehension
standing near the creature gave him. Its red eyes bored into his violet ones, more intelligence
behind them than any animal had a right to possess. Though his slightly too-big legs and ears
indicated the wolf still had some growing to do, he was already bigger than any dog Aegon
had come in contact with before. "So this is the infamous Ghost, eh? He's….big."

Jaehaerys laughed at that, grinning. "You should see Grey Wind, Robb's wolf. Makes Ghost
here look like a runt."

Aegon had the suspicion that he in fact did not want to see Grey Wind, though the mention of
Robb Stark reminded the King of the Iron Throne that there were others present awaiting his
word. "Lord Stark, it is a pleasure to see you again."

The Lord of Winterfell rose, the others in the courtyard doing the same as Aegon's own party
began dismounting. "It is an honor, Your Grace," Eddard replied, Ice, the Stark greatsword of
Valyrian Steel, strapped across the layers of furs covering his back. A young man beside him
grinned even as the King and Lord Paramount spoke.
Aegon turned to meet that grin with one of his own, grasping the wrist of the heir to the
North as he had Jaehaerys' moments before. "Robb, it is good to see you again."

"And you, Your Grace." His blue eyes lit up with glee. "I would have loved for Grey Wind to
greet you as well, but I'm afraid he became distracted with a particularly juicy bone. I've not
been able to teach him proper priorities as of yet."

Aegon shook his head in wry amusement as he moved on down the line to a stocky, broad-
shouldered man in a black cloak. "Lord Commander Mormont, I presume."

The Night's Watchman's voice was as grizzled and rough as his aged face. "An honor, Your
Grace. The Night's Watch is indebted to you for answering our call."

Aegon shook his head. "It is my duty as King, Mormont, though I will not lie and claim that
my decision to turn north was deemed wise by all those at court."

Another voice, elderly and wizened, responded from the ranks of Crows. "Those at court
have not seen what we here at the Wall have, Your Grace." An ancient man, face lined with
more wrinkles than Aegon had coin, slowly walked forward, escorted by none other than
Samwell Tarly, who had attached himself to Jaehaerys' party when the Prince first went north
—to escape his father, no doubt, who ridiculed Sam but was unable to replace him as heir to
Horn Hill due to Samwell's friendship with Jaehaerys. The elderly man's hair was as white as
the snow around them, stature stooped from age, eyes milky and clearly blind. "What most of
us here on the Wall have seen, that is."

Aegon shouldered past Mormont and Robb, taking the hand of the oldest living Targaryen.
"Maester Aemon," the King breathed, unable to move as his great-great uncle's hand slowly
reached up to brush over Aegon's face, as if the blind former Prince was seeing with his
hands. Aegon realized with a start that he was.

"I have heard many good things about you, Aegon Targaryen. I believe you would have made
Egg more than proud."

Aegon didn't have time to question just who 'Egg' was before another presence appeared on
the Maester's other side, a gauntleted hand reaching out to replace Samwell Tarly's gentle
grip on Aemon's arm. "Uncle Aemon," Aelor nearly whispered, a direct contrast to the
authoritative tone the

Dragon of Duskendale normally wielded as a weapon. Aegon knew these two men, who had
at one time been the only adult Targaryen's left in all the world, had kept a correspondence
since before Aegon had even been born, meaning this meeting had a much more potent effect
on Aelor than it was having on Aegon. "I'm glad I can finally put a face to the name."

The old Aemon repeated the face tracing on Aelor even as he smiled knowingly. "I wish I
could say the same, nephew."

Aelor returned the smile even though the Maester couldn't see it, appropriately chagrined by
the faux pas in word selection. "I have several of my sons with me, uncle, one of whom is
named after you. He was nearly as excited at the prospect of this meeting as I was."
"Meeting another Aemon Targaryen would be a pleasure; for a time I wondered if there
would be any of my blood left to bear the name. But my bones are old, and the cold bothers
me. I would prefer to meet my great-great nephews in the warmth of Castle Black."

Aegon and Aelor both laughed, near identical sounds. "Of course, uncle," Aegon said,
turning to Lord Commander Mormont and Lord Stark, both of whom had been waiting
respectfully. "I suspect there is much to be discussed, my lords."

Mormont nodded sharply. "Aye, Your Grace. Much and more."

Tyrion Lannister had often said he intended to travel north, climb the Wall and piss off of the
edge of the world. Since the entertaining and brutally smart Lord of the Westerlands was
stuck back in King's Landing, Aegon Targaryen did the honors for him, no matter how
unkingly the action was.

The view from seven-hundred feet in the air was unlike any other the King of the Iron Throne
had seen before, particularly here at dusk. The setting sun painted the sky in oranges and
reds, making the savage land north of the wall look almost serene. Aegon looked out across
the forest and icy mountains and wondered how something so beautiful could produce
something as brutal as the wildlings.

And, just maybe, things much more deadly.

Reading of tales and reports from Beyond-the-Wall, passed to King's Landing in the scrawl of
Commander Mormont, was one thing; hearing those same tales from the men who had lived
the experiences was another. Aegon didn't necessarily believe the tales of giants and Others,
not even after the firsthand accounts of some of the Watch's most reliable men, but he
couldn't quite say he disbelieved them either. The sheer terror in the eyes of some of the
Rangers, men who were in normal circumstances every bit as tough as even Aelor, could not
be faked. None could say they had seen a White Walker themselves—though no one was
truly sure just what those even looked like—but they had most certainly seen something, and
whatever it was had frightened them.

That in turn frightened Aegon. He wasn't a craven, but he certainly wasn't a fool either.

The Royal relief force had arrived a few hours after dawn, and after a midday meal a council
had been convened. It had lasted until mere moments ago, Night's Watchmen, Northmen and
Southerners all debating the best way to handle the wildling threat, which was the foremost
issue on most minds despite the underlying, sinister threat. Reports consistently placed
Mance Rayder's in the tens and tens of thousands, numbers nearly unfathomable to Aegon's
mind but estimates the Rangers swore to. Aegon had brought with him fifteen thousand men,
the Starks another ten. The Watch itself numbered less than one thousand, with only a few
hundred quality fighting men among them. Aegon had no idea just how bad the state of the
Watch had become, and already was planning on rebuilding it back to strength.

Assuming he survived, that is.

On the trip north the idea that he wouldn't hadn't even crossed the King's mind. The wildlings
were supposedly unwashed, unorganized barbarians. While that may yet prove true, there
seemed to be a whole hell of a lot of them. While the higher quality of men and weapons the
Targaryen Prince possessed evened the odds considerably, there was something to be said for
sheer mass of numbers. Even so, with the Wall as a buffer between his men and the swarming
capabilities of the wildlings, the royalist had a startling advantage.

But that also provided a problem. There were near twenty-six thousand men on the Watch
side of the Wall, and while they had brought rations for their men as expected, Aegon
couldn't camp out on the Wall forever and eat through the supplies of the Night's Watch. As
the Starks so often said, winter was coming, and even after the wildling—and any other—
threat was put down the Watch would have to do battle with the cold. But if he sallied forth
north of the wall he'd be giving the wildlings the advantage; they'd see him coming with so
many men, and while his better soldiers could smash the wildlings in open field there seemed
to be a stunning lack of those north of the wall. If it became a war of attrition Aegon knew he
would come out on the losing side; each of his best men were worth ten wildlings, but all
reports of Mance Rayder claimed he was passing intelligent. The King Beyond-the-Wall
would know not to engage Aegon fully and would take to the forests and hills, wearing out
the horses and men of the King of the Iron Throne and bleeding Aegon slowly.

Aegon's one true advantage was that Rayder would have the same logistical problems; some
rumors placed his number of men at triple that of Aegon's, which meant triple the men to
feed. A large number of women and children were also among the wildling camps, which
provided their own set of issues. While Aegon couldn't stay at the Wall forever, Mance
Rayder couldn't keep so many hungry mouths together on the other side of it either.

Which led to the final issue; nothing said Mance Rayder would stay on the other side.

The Wall could stop an army, it was true, but it couldn't do much against one man. Small
parties sailed across the Bay of Ice in canoes to land on the other side. Others reportedly even
climbed it. While there was no chance of even near his entire force reaching the southern side
of the Wall, it was no secret that only Castle Black, Eastwatch-by-the-Sea and the Shadow
Tower were occupied. That left miles and miles of open territory where small bands could
cross and begin to wreak havoc on the North and on the forces at the Wall.

Which is why most of his force was leaving in the morning.

"Beautiful, isn't it."

Aegon turned to face the voice, tucking his manhood back into his breeches. Walking by the
ever-vigilant Ser Barristan was his brother, Jaehaerys covered head to toe in black. Aegon
nodded in greeting before turning back to the view. "Aye, it is."

"I have spent nearly all of my time up here since we arrived. I can't get enough of it."

"You enjoy it here, don't you."

Jaehaerys nodded. "I enjoy the North, yes. Something about it seems to draw me in, take a
hold of me. Like I…"
When Jaehaerys didn't continue Aegon smiled gently, laying a hand on his shoulder. "Like
you belong here." The black-haired Prince could only nod. Aegon chuckled lightly. "I hope
you don't start hating the south, brother. If I fall to wildlings or a giant—or just this stupid
cold weather—you are the King of the Iron Throne."

Jaehaerys shoved Aegon jokingly. "You will not fall, Aegon. Ser Barristan will not allow it,
correct Barristan?"

The older but always deadly Kingsguard grinned. "Correct, my Prince."

Jaehaerys turned back to the King. "You see? You will come out of this as whole as you went
in, mark my words."

They chuckled together before growing silent, observing the rapidly setting sun as the already
frigid temperatures dropped even more. After a long while Aegon spoke again, voice low.
"How is your mother?" The question was simple enough at face value, but both Targaryens
knew Aegon's true meaning in asking it.

Jaehaerys sighed, long and slow. "She loves me very much, and I her."

"…but?"

The half-Stark grunted. "She missed so much of my life that she wants to be in every waking
moment of it now. That was fantastic at first—I'd spent so long dreaming of meeting her that
the actual thing was bliss—but it's like she does not realize I am every bit Targaryen as I am
Stark. It is as if she wishes me to abandon the Dragon for the Wolf. And as if she doesn't
realize that I need time to myself as well."

Aegon nodded slowly, pursing his lips. "So you're saying your mother can be…"

"Annoying, yes, though the Seven know she means well and I love her for it. It took all
Eddard and I had to keep her in Winterfell and out of the war party. It's nice to be able to
breathe again." Aegon only nodded, though a small smile played on the corner of his lip.
Jaehaerys caught it, and though he threw his elder brother a glare the same twitch began in
his own lips. Before long the two brothers were laughing aloud.

When they sobered several moments later, Aegon asked the question he knew he probably
shouldn't. "I noticed you still aren't talking to our uncle."

Jaehaerys' face instantly resorted to its grim nature. "I...don't know what to say." Aegon said
nothing, allowing his brother time to gather his words. "Down deep I understand why he did
what he did, I truly do. I may not be happy about it, but if I were in his place I likely would
have done the same. I'm not saying all he did was right, because it certainly wasn't, but…I
wasn't correct in all of my actions either, particularly during the tourney at Duskendale. Gods,
it's all just a mess."

The King patted his brother on the shoulder once more. "You should speak with him, settle
the air. There are too few of us Targaryens in the world to allow infighting in our family."
Even as Aegon said it he felt ashamed. I am no one to talk on this matter, me who despises his
uncle's power.

Before Jaehaerys could respond or Aegon could voice his own conflict, the strong voice from
their youth spoke from behind them. "Jaehaerys." Both Princes whirled to find Aelor
Targaryen standing beside Barristan, scarred armor blending in with the rapidly falling night.
His equally scarred face was impassive, but Aegon could see no small amount of relief in his
uncle's violet eyes; it was all the King needed to see to know that he had heard at least the last
part of their exchange.

Jaehaerys opened his mouth to respond but whatever words he had intended to stay became
lodged in his throat, for the Prince didn't manage to make so much as a sound. That was all
well and good it seemed, for Aelor spoke again quickly. "I am taking my retinues and Renlor
and Baelon ahead of my force to scout out the way to the Nightfort before we garrison it. I
was…" Aelor hesitated. It was odd, hearing the man who so decisively destroyed cities be at
a loss for words. "I was wondering if you would like to come along."

Jaehaerys kept his silence for a long moment, Aegon knowing better than to say a word. His
uncle had volunteered himself and his two warlike sons to garrison the Nightfort, the largest
of the ruined and abandoned Night's Watch castles—and also the one with more legend of
terror surrounding it than any other. Jaehaerys had been meant to accompany none other than
accomplished ranger Jaime Lannister—the same Kingslayer Aelor had sentenced to take the
black all those years ago—to Queensgate, putting a fair amount of distance between
Lannister and renowned Lannister-slayer. But plans could be changed, and Aegon waited
almost as apprehensively as he knew Aelor was.

"Yes," the younger Prince said finally, nodding ever so slightly. "I believe I will, uncle."

The Dragon of Duskendale nodded, smiled ever so slightly, and quietly turned to leave.

Well, that's one battle over. Now all we have left is eighty thousand wildlings and mythical ice
demons; this should be a piece of lemon cake.

Jaehaerys had been raised with stories of his uncle's valor on the battlefield, of the marvelous
feats the famed Dragon of Duskendale had carried out. Even as he heard those stories from
the court his uncle had refuted them, claiming war was nothing like those stories led boys to
believe and that Aelor himself was nothing more than a cold-blooded killer.

The Prince realized now that his uncle had been correct on both accounts.

Their scouting force had encountered a raiding party of Wildlings just outside the Nightfort's
walls, proving the decision to garrison and patrol the ruined castles a good one. The wildlings
had been as surprised by the sudden arrival of four Targaryen Princes and their retinue as the
Targaryen Princes had been at the presence of the wildlings. The two sides were evenly
matched in number—though there were several thousand Targaryen and Night's Watch
soldiers rapidly closing in on the skirmish—and had seemed to crash into one another in a
mutual decision to kill.
Jaehaerys had never seen battle before, but he had drawn his sword and charged in alongside
his uncle and Ser Borran without hesitation. He hadn't even had a chance to think about it.

He heard the war of Warrior, his uncle's old warhorse, and found the stallion he himself rode
—one of Warrior's many descendants—echoing the cry. Or maybe that Jaehaerys himself, he
couldn't quite say. All that mattered was the sword in his hand.

His shield was strapped to his stallions back—they hadn't actually been expecting any sort of
battle—but Jaehaerys had wisely followed his uncle's lead and donned his black armor. His
personal sigil of the warring dragon and wolf, newly etched onto to his breastplate, gleamed
as his stallion barreled towards a huge wildling with a massive grey beard. They were all
afoot, dressed in boiled leather and many furs, against mounted men in armor, but the
wildlings joined the battle with a war cry of their own.

Jaehaerys catapulted towards the big wilding from the side, as the big man was distracted by
two men of the Night's Watch, scouts that had shown Aelor the way to the Nightfort.
Jaehaerys readied his blade, intending to skewer the wildling from the side with no regards to
if it was an honorable blow. The giant wildling cut down one of Watchmen as Jaehaerys grew
ever closer, turning to rain down blows on the other with stunning ferocity. The move placed
his back more firmly in Jaehaerys' path, however, and the Prince readied himself to land the
blow.

But suddenly an arrow sprouted from the eyehole in his stallion's armor, digging deep and
killing his horse instantly, and Jaehaerys found himself flung forward as the great destrier
crashed to the ground.

Before the Prince understood what was happening he was flat on his back, ears ringing and
visor angled up to block his vision, sword miraculously still in his hand. His vision swam for
a moment, left hand reaching up to pull his visor back down without any true conscious
thought.

And suddenly instead of looking at his visor he was looking at a sword, rusty but certainly
sharp, stabbing straight down towards his face.

Instinct took over, the countless hours Jaehaerys had spent training in the tiltyard all that
saved his life. He twisted his head out of the way, the sword that was supposed to sink into
his eye instead digging into the churned snow. In the same instant Jaehaerys drove his blade
up, his mind calculating where the wildling who was attempting to kill him was without any
effort on the Prince's own behalf. He felt the blade dig into something solid, felt something
flow into the gap between his gauntlet and vambrance, and he rose to a sitting position out of
instinct, driving the blade deeper. A wilding stood halfway over him, surprise across his
features as his lifeblood trailed in rivulets over Jaehaerys' arm.

Even as he struggled all the way to his feet in his armor, withdrawing his sword from the now
dead wildling, Jaehaerys knew he'd never forget the man's face.

Jaehaerys didn't dwell on it long, though part of his brain knew he would relive the moment
in his brain over and over in his dreams that night. The sound of battle still raged around him,
Jaehaerys catching a glimpse of Renlor and a wildling with an axe hacking away at each
other, seeing Ser Borran cut down another wildling and attempt to reach Jaehaerys' side
before being caught up by another. The slight knight of the Kingsguard was limping badly, an
arrow with markings matching the one that had felled his horse embedded in the gap of his
knee armor. Without truly thinking Jaehaerys rushed towards him, only as an afterthought
stopping by his very dead stallion to cut his shield free.

That afterthought was all that saved his life, as an arrow bounced off his shoulder pauldron as
the Prince bent down. If he hadn't have made the motion the arrow would have embedded
itself in his neck.

Jaehaerys shot back to his feet, only half holding onto the shield, and turned to face the
archer. He caught a glimpse of the man between a mass of fighting bodies and horses, and
inexplicably the Prince started towards him, gripping his shield firmly. He charged forward,
bashing one wilding locked in battle with one of the retinue knights in the side of the head
with his shield. Another wildling, this one roaring like an aurochs and wielding two axes,
appeared in front of him. Jaehaerys instinctually caught one axe on his shield and deflected
the other with his sword before pushing forward like a bull, shoving the wildling off balance
with his shield and driving his sword into the man's gut.

As the second wildling fell Jaehaerys found himself only a few feet from the archer, an arrow
staring at his face. The Prince brought his shield up just in time, the arrow digging into the
top inch of the banded steel and oak instead of his grey eyes, and with a roar of his own he
slammed into the archer, knocking their slight frame onto their back. Roaring like a dragon—
or snarling like a wolf, take your pick—he raised his sword, ready to land a killing blow.

His blade stopped in midair. Staring up at him was a woman.

Her hair was fiery red, her eyes blue-grey. Her bow had been knocked aside, her near-empty
quiver of arrows now useless. Fear had covered her features as she stared up at Jaehaerys, her
eyes—which were slightly too far apart—pleading, her mouth hanging open to reveal
crooked teeth.

She was beautiful.

His shield and sword dropped, Jaehaerys staring in his own slack-jawed shock and confusion.
He couldn't kill a woman, could he? There was no honor in that. A man trying to kill you was
one thing, but a woman? Would a true knight do such a thing?

His mind was racing with so many questions that he didn't see the glint of victory flash across
the wildling girl's eyes until it was too late. A dagger was suddenly in her hands as she
lunged at him, the point aiming directly for the gap under his chin. Jaehaerys' reflexes had no
chance of stopping her, and it suddenly occurred to him that he was going to die.

But then a sword flashed in, colliding with the dagger and knocking it out of the girls grip.
One whole finger and part of another went with it. The red-haired wildling barely had time to
look at her now maimed hand before a figure closed in and a gauntleted fist crashed into her
cheek, snapping her head around and sending the girl crashing to the snow unmoving.
Jaehaerys could only stare dumbly at the girls back, part of his brain registering the rise and
fall of her torso indicating she was still alive. His view of her unconscious form was suddenly
filled with black armor, and he looked up into his uncles raging violet eyes.

Aelor's voice was sharp and harsh. "A woman can kill you just as fast as a man; sometimes
even faster. Don't you ever hesitate; it will only get you killed!" With his words his uncle
shoved Jaehaerys' breastplate, sending him staggering back.

The motion returned him to his senses, and Jaehaerys looked around to see the battle was
largely over, a few wildlings still in sight as they scattered like the wind away from the scene
of carnage. Bodies, of both horse and man, littered the blood-soaked snow, some in the furs
of the wildling, some in the black of the Night's Watch, and still others in the armor of
knights from the retinue. Renlor and Baelon were both still standing, the former retching out
of the eye and visor holes of his helm as he desperately tried to pull the spiked piece of armor
off. The latter stood so stonily calm despite the blood on his blade that you'd think he had
merely been in a tilt instead of a battle. Ser Borran was limping towards them, armor bloody
from both his enemies and the arrow in his leg.

Aelor took his scarred helm off, eyes still blazing, but he finally stopped staring a hole in his
nephew and instead scanned the rest of Jaehaerys, looking for signs of injury and noting the
blood coating his arm and sword. When the Dragon of Duskendale met his nephews shocked
eyes once again they were slightly softer. "Otherwise you did well for a first battle. I am
proud."

A slick voice called to his uncle in that moment as the survivors began to act, tending to
wounded and taking stock of the carnage. A medium built man, with black hair and pale blue
eyes, stopped beside them. The man's name was Bronn, a sellsword who had joined Aelor's
retinue after assisting in the destruction of House Rogers. While once the men Aelor
Targaryen had kept were all knights of high valor, they had been replaced in later years by all
sorts of different men, both high-honored knights and cutthroats. All Aelor seemed to care
about now was men who were good at killing, and few were as good at killing as Bronn.

Jaehaerys didn't like him; he was amoral and a mercenary, only there to get paid. But
something about the man's sheer honesty and demeanor prevented Jaehaerys' from disliking
him either.

"What do you want done with her?" Bronn asked, gesturing with a bloody dagger down at the
maimed, unconscious wildling. Bronn never m'lorded or Your Graced, but Aelor didn't seem
to mind. Bronn was excellent at killing after all, and he seemed to understand better than
most the hatred and need for blood that Aelor carried with him.

Aelor opened his mouth to reply and Jaehaerys was certain eh would tell Bronn to slit her
throat. "Uncle," he protested, grasping the Dragon of Duskendale's arm, then realizing he
didn't know what he was going to say and slamming his mouth shut so hard his teeth rattled.

Even though Jaehaerys' hadn't put in in words Aelor seemed to understand what he was
asking. He stared at his nephew for a long moment before grunting. "Bind her hand and take
her prisoner; we'll see what she knows." He stopped Jaehaerys' bubbled thank you's with a
sharp glare and raised hand. "We'll get the information out of her by whatever means
necessary. Do the same for any others left alive."

Bronn nodded, whistling and gesturing for two other men. Even as they approached Aelor
turned and remounted Warrior, having dismounted in the midst of the fighting for one reason
or another. "I'm going to head back to the column and get some ravens sent to the other
garrisoning parties to be on the lookout."

Jaehaerys stayed rooted in his spot as one of the men Bronn had called for knelt beside the
unconscious wildling, binding the heavily bleeding stump where her fingers had been lopped
off. A dark bruise was already beginning to cover half of her beautiful face, where Aelor had
landed his fist. He only took his eyes off of her to notice the blood caked on his arm and
chest, and then couldn't help but notice her fingers lying in the snow.

Unlike Ren, Jaehaerys' managed to get his helm off before he emptied the contents of his
stomach all over the blood-churned snow. Even as he retched over and over, Bronn's amused
laugh filling his ears, all Jaehaerys' could think about was how happy he was the wildling girl
wasn't awake to see it.
 XLIX

He'd had four sons of fighting age that morning. Now he had one, and he wasn't entirely sure
of even that.

House Grimm of Greyshield had been founded nearly two thousand years ago, when King
Garth Gardener the Seventh had settled the Misty Isles with his strongest warriors to defend
against the Ironborn reavers. In those two thousand years the Grimms had battled all sorts of
enemies, from the Iron Kings to the Durrandons to the Lannisters of the Rock and the
Martells of Dorne, and they had lived to tell the tales.

Now it seemed their line was coming to an end.

The Ironborn attack had come out of nowhere, more longships than Lord Guthor Grimm had
ever seen streaking up the Mander. His own ships had barely been able to deploy before they
were swamped by the swift vessels of the Greyjoys, overrun quickly. His heir Horras' ship
had been the last to go down, boarded and then burned by three of the Ironborn vessels as
Guthor watched from where he was rallying the men at Grimston to defend the walls of the
castle. Guthor was a realist; he knew his oldest would never have stopped fighting for his
ship until the breath left his lungs.

Horras was dead. So were Lyman and Loras.

His twins had been among the first to rally at the gates when the Ironborn flung them open.
Guthor had joined them there with his best men, the sea-green banner with its iron studs and
longships waving as he tried to prevent the squids from breaching his gates. It had all been
for naught, though, as the sheer number of pillagers had overrun the defenders of Grimston's
gates. Lyman had died first, cut down by an armored warrior carrying a sword with a
moonstone-pommel and peculiar blade. Loras had tried to avenge his twin and met the same
fate, his throat slashed cleanly by that same odd blade.

It was only when the blade had driven into Guthor's guts that he'd recognized it as Valyrian
steel.

He should never have tried to take on the man who slew his sons; Guthor was an old man,
plagued by gout and half a dozen old wounds he'd taken in the wars he'd fought. But the Lord
of Greyshield had known he was going to die, and in the last touch of energy that had given
him he had barreled into the Valyrian steel knight.

The fight had been savage but short.

Guthor was dying he knew; his old hands couldn't hold all the blood pouring out of his old
body. He had never feared death in the prime of his life, and he didn't fear it now at death's
doorstep. The sound of feminine screams sounded form inside his keep, and Guthor knew in
his heart they belonged to his daughters. His second oldest son Oswell was in there
somewhere, trying to protect what remained of the Grimm dynasty. Guthor had tried to rise to
his feet and assist his son but had been unable, his body no longer able to match the warrior
he was at heart. He prayed to the Seven that his youngest children and his wife, the third of
his long life, would be able to somehow escape.

Leaning against the walls of the castle his family had ruled for generations, Guthor didn't
dwell on the death of his House. Instead he looked to the top of Grimston's keep, to the
watchtower. A fire roared in its brazier, one the Lord of Greyshield knew would be seen by
the other watchtowers, passing the signal of this attack on down the line to the mainland of
the Reach. Before long it would reach Highgarden, and the Tyrells would rally their men and
throw the Ironborn back into the sea.

His dying heart filled with pride at the thought. House Grimm would die today, of that there
was no doubt, but they had carried out the job they had had for two thousand years. They had
been the shield of the Reach, battling the reavers and giving the other Lords and Ladies of the
Reach the warning that they themselves hadn't had.

House Grimm had fulfilled their duty, from the beginning to the end.

Guthor of Greyshield died with a smile on his face.

Word reached King's Landing in a flock of ravens.

Tyrion Lannister was handling his duties as regent as capably as his long-dead father had
handled being Hand of the King. The halfman was smart, smarter than anyone Colmar the
Grey had ever met, and he didn't let the scoffs and jests at his diminutive stature stop him.
The Lion of Lannister was driven and willing, and the Grandmaester of the Iron Throne knew
Aegon had chosen well—even if the main reason for the selection had been Tyrion's last
name and not his capabilities.

But managing a realm during a sixteen year peace was one thing. Managing a realm at war
was quite another. Colmar hoped the Lion Lord wouldn't falter.

"Word has reached us from the Shield Isles as well, my Lords and lady," the deformed
Grandmaster said, taking his seat in the Small Council chamber and tossing several rolls of
parchment onto the table in front of him. "The Shield Isles were attacked as well. Greyshield,
Greenshield and Southshield have been overrun. Only Oakenshield was able to turn back the
original attack, having the benefit of being the closest to land. Old Oak on the coast was
taken as well, and the reavers are swarming Blackcrown."

Tyrion's tone was serious, something Colmar rarely heard. "What of Oldtown and the
Arbor?"

"Both have been left unmolested; the Ironborn knew chances of taking either were slim. The
Redwyne Fleet sailed to try and liberate the taken islands but were met with heavy opposition
and turned back. Lord Paxter pleads for naval aide."

Bronze Yohn Royce grunted. "The squids have been unmolested for years; they took next to
no losses in the Rebellion. They've been waiting, watching…"
"Growing," Tyrion finished.

Alysanne Lefford met Colmar's eyes, worry evident in them. "What of Highgarden?"

The entire council knew she was truly asking after Rhaenys and the Princess' children. They
had been Colmar's primary concern as well. "Highgarden was forewarned in plenty of time
and left untouched. Lord Mace has called his banners, though he too requests military aide."

Bronze Yohn raised an eyebrow. "He has more men than any other region, and he requests
our own?"

Colmar didn't answer; Bronze Yohn hadn't been looking for one anyway. The Lord of
Runestone had never been fond of Mace Tyrell, a sentiment shared by many of the veterans
on both sides of the Rebellion. Instead, the Grandmaester gestured towards another of the
parchments. "The reavers have hit the Riverlands and Westerlands as well. Kanet was taken
and sacked, as was the Crag. Seagard was attacked but Lord Jason threw them back into the
sea; Balon's heir Rodrik Greyjoy fell outside Seagard's walls. Lord Edmure has called his
own banners."

Alysanne was a smart woman; Colamr had seen that the moment he first met her. Her eyes
were calculating and fierce. "They cannot hope to hold out long. Even with our strongest
fighters at the Wall they are outrageously outnumbered."
Ser Manfred Darke grunted, face a deeper scowl than normal. He and Ser Roland Storm had
been selected to remain at King's Landing and protect the remaining Targaryens; neither had
been pleased about missing the war but the selection made sense. Roland was a deadly blade
and Manfred as fiercely loyal as a man could be. "The cunts don't mean to hold the territory."

Stannis Baratheon's scowl was nearly as deep as Manfred's. "The Ironborn have a stronger
navy than both the Redwyne's and the Crown individually. They mean to reave the coastal
castles and cities, taking loot and salt wives, and whisk them away to the Iron Islands. With
their own fleets on patrol there will be no getting them back unless we send the Royal Fleet
to merge with the Redwyne's."

Tyrion took a gulp of wine. "Balon Greyjoy has always hated being a vassal; it's why he
makes such a piss poor one." He turned to Alysanne for a moment before turning back.
"Forgive my language, My Lady. He is nothing like his father; he wants to return to their so
called Old Way, which is just a religious excuse to rape and murder."

Stannis ground his jaw. "We must respond to this threat. If we let the heathens raid at will
nothing will be safe."

Colmar and several others nodded. "I agree."

"We must, you are correct. Grandmaester, send word to the other regions to closely guard
their coasts, and send word to the King of the happenings south of the Neck. Lord Stannis,
you ate boot leather before yielding a castle in the last war; I suppose fishing for squid is well
within your capabilities."
Stannis' brow twitched. The Lord of Storm's End had yet to grow fully accustomed to
Tyrion's witticism and humor, and Colmar secretly doubted he ever would. "I'll take the fleet
from Dragonstone and merge with the Redwyne's."

"Leave some of the ships here, Lord Stannis." All eyes turned to Alysanne, who's own were
clouded in thought. "There is something off about all of this."

Lord Varys' chittering voice was heard for the first time. "Lady Alysanne has a point; Balon
Greyjoy and his three sons went reaving in Essos for a long while this year, though they did
little actual reaving. My little birds say he had several meetings with different men, but were
unable to overhear their conversations. They took heavy precautions."

Tyrion was eyeing the Spider closely. "Who were these men?"

"I could not say. The songs I heard were incomplete; both parties were very careful to leave
no indications of what they were speaking of or who the second party was."

Bronze Yohn's brows were furled. "Could it be a coalition of free Cities?"

"No," ground out Ser Manfred. "We provide them with a large portion of their goods trade;
they do not attack paying clients. The Eastern shits are pompous and greedy but not stupid."

"Then who?"

Manfred shrugged. "I don't bloody know. It could be something or nothing at all."

The conversation waged on over the issue for several hours, Alysanne leading the argument
for leaving a strong naval presence on the Eastern coast while Stannis argued that they
needed to worry with the current threat for now, as he would need a strong navy to counter
the Ironborn's superior experience at naval warfare.

Tyrion lead them to compromise in the end, wearing Stannis down to leaving ten high quality
ships and crews to defend the eastern coast while he took the rest to the west and the
Ironborn. Colmar was tasked with alerting the lords to the ongoing issues and passing orders
to Edmure Tully and Jason Mallister to assemble a force at Seagard. Once Stannis broke the
Iron Fleet they were to invade Pyke, while the Reach and Mace Tyrell would invade Great
and Old Wyke. Word was sent to Prince Doran in Dorne, requesting he task Oberyn with
collecting a force of Dornishmen to assist the Reach while simultaneously strengthening his
own port cities.

The council adjourned in the late hours of the nigh. As they shuffled out of the Small Council
Chamber Colmar couldn't help but notice the apprehension still on Alysanne's face.

He wondered why it was echoed in his own chest.

 L

The timing was brilliant, almost too brilliant to have been planned by mere mortals. Varys
was unrivaled as a spymaster, none could contest that fact. Yet even the Spider and all his
little birds had been caught unawares.

By the time the Iron Throne knew of the approaching fleet—sellsails mainly, a
conglomeration of vessels from all different ports and cultures all flying the banner of the
Golden Company—it was much too late to recall Lord Stannis.

The tall, stern Lord of the Stormlands had taken almost all of the Royal Navy from
Dragonstone and King's Landing and sailed down the coast to deal with the cursed Ironborn.
The Krakens hadn't let up, sacking Fair Isle and putting nearly all of House Farman to the
sword. Only one, a young squire named Albar serving with her husband at the Wall, was left
of the ancient line. They Greyjoys had kept mainly to the coastline of the still-weakened
Westerlands, though a few sorties inland had been made. One such had been crushed beneath
the walls of Crakehall by Roland and Lyle Crakehall, another had taken and burned Cornfield
and captured Ser Harys Swyft. Feastfires was embroiled in a vicious melee of a siege, the
bulls of Prester refusing to yield their castle to the squids who were just as adamant about
getting in and pillaging her treasuries.

The Reach was in slightly better condition, though not much. The fourth and final of the
Shield Isles had fallen to young Theon Greyjoy, though the reavers at Blackcrown had been
pushed back. Old Oak was still in Greyjoy hands as well, and Dunstonbury was threatened.
Oldtown and the Arbor remained unmolested, but Paxter Redwyne and his fleet were still
playing a cat and mouse game with the larger Iron Fleet. Despite the breadth of the Greyjoy
attack, there were always enough longships supporting one another that the Lord of the Arbor
couldn't engage one numerically weaker foe without others arriving in the midst of battle and
driving him back. Meanwhile castles and towns burned, innocents died by the score and
women and children were carried away as salt wives and thralls.

It was hell on the western coastline of Westeros. It seemed it was about to be hell on the
eastern coastline as well.

Alysanne Lefford was as well-educated as any other on the history of the Golden Company
and their ties to the dynasty she had married into. Founded by Aegor Rivers, one of King
Aegon the Unworthy's Great Bastards who was better known as Bittersteel, their purpose was
to subdue the Targaryen dynasty and place a Blackfyre, a house spawned from another of the
Great Bastards, on the Iron Throne. Their ranks were swelled with exiled Westerosi Lords
men who had lost their lands and titles fighting for the black dragon and who had joined their
best means of regaining them. Their sons served in the company, then their sons after them.
Five times these mercenaries and the 'nobles' among them had tried to return home, and each
time they had been thrown back. The Blackfyre line had ended alongside that fifth attempt,
snuffed out by a young Barristan the Bold, but now it seemed these men had found another
way to justify their invasion. Thousands of men were sailing towards a suddenly undefended
King's Landing under the golden skulls banner.
And the golden dragon's.

For all her efforts, she had never been able to form the relationship Alysanne had with Aegon
and Rhaenys with Viserys. Part—well, nearly all—of that had been the boys fault. He was
surly and unpredictable, even as the six-year-old, grief-stricken little boy he had been when
Alysanne first met him. He was inflicted with Targaryen madness even at that tender age, it
was true, and the death of his mother while birthing Princess Daenerys had further unglued
the unstable child. Regardless, Alysanne and Aelor had provided and loved for Viserys as
best they could. Though he had turned into a notorious rake, as evidenced by the two bastard
little girls here in King's Landing, and his obsession with Dany was both fierce and fiercely
disturbing, Viserys had turned out far better than he could have. While Viserys had never
returned the affection Alysanne showed him and by no stretch of the imagination was close to
any of her children, he did seem to care greatly for the Targaryen name and those who bore it.

Which made this betrayal all the more confounding…and painful.

Part of her mind still argued that it was a ploy, the banners sighted by the fishermen and
ambitious merchants who had reported them only an attempt by the Golden Company to
rattle the Targaryens in King's Landing, but in her heart Alysanne knew. Viserys had
disappeared months ago, neither Aleqou Garantis or Varys' little birds able to find him in the
Tyroshi tavern he had made his home. Wherever the boy had gone, he had done a marvelous
job of covering his tracks. Many—even Alysanne herself—had just assumed the Prince of
Summerhall had gone rogue, taking the time of his exile to explore more of the Free Cities.

Now it seemed he had joined a rebellion and was sailing to attack the family that had loved
him. As if Alysanne's hands weren't full enough.

Each member of the small council looked as harried as she felt, eyes bloodshot and jaws
clenched. Word had arrived the night before of the approaching fleet, and while a ship had
been sent to chase down the weeks-gone Lord Stannis and ravens were sent to call the
banners, all knew those efforts were in vain. The bulk of the crown's forces were in the
North, King Aegon haven taken the levies of Duskendale and Harrenhal in addition to his
own sizeable retinue and the retinues of most of the Lords in King's Landing, including
Aelor's band of killers. The Riverlanders and many of the Valemen were amassing at
Seagard, the Reachmen were swarming to Highgarden and the Westerlanders were covered in
Ironborn raiders. The North was also embroiled in whatever the hell was going on at the
Wall, with the remnants of her strength distracted by the potential for Ironborn raiders off her
shores. The Dornish were moving to assist the Reach, and the Stormlords—those that hadn't
sailed with Lord Stannis—were lacking a strong central figure to unite them, as Renly
Baratheon was who the hell knows where. Not to mention, several still held hatred for Aelor
and by default Aegon for both Robert's nearly successful Rebellion and House Rogers'
doomed one.

That left the capital mighty shorthanded, even with the levies of the Kingswood and
Blackwater Rush called and the presence of the strong City's Watch. It was unfathomable
how nearly seventeen years of strong, capable rule had so quickly gone to utter shit.

One of the only positives—perhaps the only positive—of the situation was Tyrion Lannisters
brilliant mind. The halfman had leapt into action before the shock of the situation had even
sunk into the others, having nearly emptied the extensive rookery with sent orders. "There are
thousands of bloodthirsty men knocking at our door. They will not show us an ounce of
mercy; nor should we show any to them."

Bronze Yohn Royce was grim and irritable, having spent all the previous night overseeing the
defenses his goldcloaks had hastily begun constructing, but he kept his tone even as he
responded. "The Lighting of the Lions was one thing; this is another."

Tyrion's mismatched eyes flashed. "Do not tell me of the Burning of Lannisport, Lord Royce;
unlike you, I was there. I watched from the windows of my old chambers in Casterly Rock as
Aelor Targaryen burnt down my family's city and nearly all of my kinsmen with it. It was
undeniably effective; the type of effectiveness we need now."

"The loss of life at Lannisport was astounding," pointed out Colmar the Grey to which Tyrion
had an instant rebuttal. Then again, Tyrion always had an instant rebuttal; matching wits with
Tyrion Lannister was an undertaking few could boast of.

"The loss of life here in King's Landing will be astounding if we do not use our only
advantage. At most we have four thousand men defending a city of half a million innocents
against perhaps ten thousand professional soldiers. No help is near enough to arrive in time to
be of use; half of the country is preoccupied with defending their own borders."

Alysanne spoke up, the men growing quite as she did so. "I understand that the Ironborn are
clearly allied with Viserys in this, but what does he hope to gain from this? He is horribly
outnumbered."

"I agree, Lady Alysanne, but those armies are spread far and wide. Some in Westeros will
rally to Prince Viserys to elevate their standing, or in revenge against your husband for the
wars of the past. Despite my name I am loyal to the Iron Throne, but there are many in the
Westerlands who want nothing more than to see Aelor Targaryen dead."

"And, my lady," Colmar cut in; "You and your children are here. There is nothing on this
earth that matters more to Aelor and Aegon than their family. If he captures you, he holds a
major card in getting what he wants."

"And we all know precisely what that is," Varys finished, the Spider having approached her
with information before the meeting that Alysanne prayed they wouldn't need to use.

Manfred spoke, harsh voice grown harsher in light of the new complications. "Then let them
leave. Slip them out, send them north to the King or South to the Dornish. Prince Oberyn will
protect them like his own children."

Royce nodded. "And his daughter Elia is already in the capital as a handmaiden to Princess
Rhaella, strengthening that bond." Bronze Yohn grunted. "Though I've never saw the girl act
anything like a lady in waiting; she's always in the stables."

Tyrion looked to Alysanne, ignoring the Lord of Runestone's final comment. "That may well
be the best course of action, my lady, though I would hear your thoughts on the matter."
Alysanne pondered a long moment, bloodshot eyes on the parchment in front of her, before
looking up. "Where would we go, my lords? Highgarden is dangerously near the reavers, my
father's castle is in the middle of a maelstrom of fire, and we would be tracked down and
captured long before we reach Sunspear."

Royce blinked in slight confusion. "Your husband is Lord of Duskendale—"

"And two thirds of Duskendale's population came from Lannisport, after my husband burnt it
to the ground. While they have prospered there, it is no secret that many still hold hatred for
Aelor for forcing them from their homes and businesses, even after nearly two decades.
While we were always safe there before, Aelor was always present when my children and I
were there, and the only thing they feel more for Aelor than hatred is fear. With a realm at
chaos and my husband hundreds of miles away…"

Varys nodded. "Lady Alysanne has a valid point. My little birds have rooted out many
conspiracies from former Tywin Lannister smallfolk over the years."

Manfred's hateful eyes turned even more hateful. "Yet they missed a fucking army massing to
invade."

Varys was unimpressed by Manfred's threatening voice. "My birds sing in the east and they
sing in the west, but their songs can be silenced. It was a concentrated effort to hide the
Golden Company from my view, one helped by some here in Westeros, though their names
are unknown to me."

Manfred lowered his head to glower across the table at the eunuch, like a bull preparing to
charge. "Or you are that assistant."

Varys chuckled in his tittering way. "If I had wished to replace Aegon Targaryen with
Viserys, I would simply have let the boy die during Robert's Rebellion. We both know I did
no such thing, Ser Manfred; you were there when I saved the King's young life."

The brutish knight of the Kingsguard grunted in annoyance, but he raised his head a touch in
deference. The exchange and Varys' words brought up a point Alysanne wished to make,
concerning the information Varys had given her before the meeting. "Lord Varys has
informed me of how Princess Elia and her children escaped the Sack of King's Landing. That
option should be available again, should Lord Tyrion's plan fail."

Manfred shook his head quickly. "Viserys escaped the same way; the little shit caused quite
the ruckus. He'll know about that secret passage, and at the very least he'll have a ship
waiting in the bay to capture any who exit it."

"There are other paths, Ser Manfred," Varys insisted. "Several were built in recent years
under the command of Lord Aelor himself. I trust if King's Landing falls I can evacuate Lady
Alysanne and the royal family, the same as I did years ago with the King and his sister."

"And the children of important families," Tyrion cut in, having kept his silence for much
longer than the halfman normally did. "Margaery Tyrell, Elia Sand…Myrcella. We can't have
the children of vassal lords dying while the Royal Family escapes."
A pang went through Alysanne at the mention of the last name. I'd nearly forgotten about
that particular issue.

Alysanne loved her eldest son, but she would strangle him with her bare hands when he
returned from the Wall.

Myrcella had arrived back in King's Landing in tears a little over a month after the King—
and Renlor and Alaric—had gone North. To Alysanne's utmost surprise, her mother had been
with her. Cersei Lannister was a cold, unforgiving woman, but she cared deeply for her
children; deeply enough that she had traveled to the city where her father had made his
gravest mistake to talk to the wife of the man that had brought him low and asked—in her
demanding, Cersei Lannister way—that they pull off a deception for the sake of her blonde-
haired eldest.

Myrcella Langward had been married to Renlor Targaryen in a private ceremony the day
before the march north. At least, that was the belief of the nobles in King's Landing. The
child growing in her womb was a legitimate future lord or lady of Duskendale, not a bastard
conceived of two young noble's rash decisions on the eve of one marching away to war.
Alysanne had promised both Myrcella and Cersei that the union would be truly carried out as
soon as her eldest son returned, no matter what objections her lustful son might have. She
meant to carry that promise out, even if she had to turn her much-larger-than-her son over her
knee like he was a toddler again.

Only a few outside the three women involved were aware of the truth—Daenerys and
Rhaella, as they were old enough to know that there was no possible way they would not
have been informed of the match, Colmar the Grey and Varys because they knew everything
that happened in the Red Keep, and Tyrion, because he was much too smart to deceive when
it came to his favorite niece. He'd been crucial in the success of the plan so far, covering for
the gap between the 'marriage' and the revelation of it to the nobles in a way only his brilliant
mind could. He'd also made sure no letters of congratulations were sent North to Alaric or
Aelor or, Seven forbid, Renlor himself, claiming Myrcella didn't want word of her condition
distracting her 'husband' or father. It was thin and it was doubted by several, but with the
influence of Varys it had been maintained.

Thank the Seven for it, too. If Aelor doesn't kill our son for disobeying his orders to not
seduce Myrcella, Alaric will. I only pray Cersei can convince her husband it was a mutual
decision between Myrcella and Ren, or there will be Seven hells to pay.

All of that ran through her head in a matter of moments, Bronze Yohn speaking again. "That
is all well and good, my lady, but I still disagree with Lord Tyrion's plans. Lannisport was a
horrifying thing that my eldest son still has nightmares about, despite his bravery; I shudder
at the thought of another."

"This is a war, Lord Royce. The men approaching our city will give no mercy to either you or
I; why should we show any to them?"

"The galleys we have—"

"Are not enough." Tyrion took a long gulp of wine, clearly irritated. "This is their best use. It
may not be honorable, but it may keep our heads on our shoulders a while longer. I don't
know about you, Lord Royce, but I am quite fond of my own."

Colmar interrupted then, booming voice gone quiet as it so often did when he mediated
arguments between the council. "Aelor once told me that honor is the first casualty of war. He
sacrificed his own, and by doing so he brought the realm nearly seventeen years of peace,
only undone by the greed and lust of a few powerful men."

Royce stared at the Grandmaester, eyes twitching, before cursing under his breath. "Fine."

Tyrion nodded in thanks to Colmar. "I will make preparations immediately."

Before another word could be said, a Targaryen man-at-arms burst into the chamber. "An
army approaches from the South, my Lords, my Lady."

Alysanne's heart soared with hope. "What banner? Is it Prince Oberyn?"

The man-at-arms' face was as confused as his voice. "No, my lady. They bear the black stag
of Baratheon."
 LI

It is a miracle Renly and Stannis Baratheon are brothers.

While both men were tall, black haired and blue eyed, that was where the similarities
stopped. Stannis was muscular where Renly was lean, balding while Renly wore his hair to
his shoulders. He was grim and sullen, whereas his younger brother was always smiling and
jovial. Stannis wore almost exclusively black, from his everyday clothing to his armor, while
Renly rode into King's Landing in a suit of green and gold plate. Stannis hated pomp and
circumstance, while Renly seemed to thrive on it.

Alysanne also trusted Stannis, and she sure as hell didn't trust Renly.

The youngest of the three Baratheon brothers had brought nearly ten thousand men with him,
and the first thing Alysanne had noticed was how young they all were. Renly himself was
two and twenty, and his second in command seemed to be the even younger Loras Tyrell,
who seemed to have forsaken his sieged homeland to relieve the sieged capital. Boys, much
like her Renlor and Aemon, made up the vast majority of their forces. The knights—with the
exception of a few hedgeknights—were all young men, too young to have seen the Rebellion.
It was painfully clear to Alysanne that they were all spitfires, desperate for a war to prove
themselves in, dragging along their father's levies or their own in the case of young lords.

Those were the first things she had noticed. The second thing she had noticed was the Houses
they all seemed to be from.

These were not Stormlords levies and retinues, though a few were speckled in. Though the
banners they flew were all the Baratheon flag, the surcoats and shields of the men themselves
told the true story. There were a conglomeration of eagles and deer and bulls, all sorts of
animals and sigils. Boars of Crakehall, golden coins of Payne, candles of Waxley; to a man,
the shields and surcoats were from Houses that had warred against the Targaryens near two
years ago. That was the first warning bell.

Alysanne instantly noticed the plethora of three buckles on a blue field, the sigil of House
Buckler; that was the second. Their Lord, a tall and stern-faced man of three and twenty
named Andrus, sat a grey stallion near the front of the procession of nobles. His presence
turned Alysanne's feelings of relief and hope into a conglomeration of anxiety and concern.
Andrus was half Rogers', his mother having been from the House that Aelor had destroyed so
thoroughly. While Lysa Rogers had been a kind woman who had cooperated with Aelor
during the Rebellion, opening the gates of Bronzegate to save her husband and brother,
Alysanne had no doubt Aelor would have killed her had she still been alive after her brother's
attempts to assassinate Alysanne and Renlor had come to light. It was through luck—for
House Buckler, not for Lysa—that an illness had taken her and her third child mere months
before the purge that claimed the lives of all her father's family. Lord Ralph had joined her in
the grave five years later.
Lord Andrus had been eight when his uncles and cousins were all killed, and he hadn't had to
suffer his mother dying the same way. But Alysanne was under no illusions as to just what
the man must think of Aelor, and his presence and the presence of all his knights and levies
worried her.

Renly, however, was doing his best to assuage those fears. "Lady Alysanne, an honor to see
you again." The dashing Baratheon dismounted a white stallion straight from a song, his
green helm adorned with the antlers of a stag. Just like Robert's had been. He struts like a
King, not like a man fourth in line for a single region.

Alysanne's unease grew even as she curtseyed in response to Renly's own short bow. "Lord
Renly, the honor is mine, especially in these circumstances."

Tyrion bowed as well, smiling up at the tall Baratheon. She had been on the Small Council
with Tyrion Lannister long enough, however, to see her own concerns were running through
his mismatched eyes. "You have come at an excellent time, Lord Renly. Your timing was
nearly…uncanny."

If Renly was here to sack instead of save, he was excellent at hiding it. His smile was smooth
and natural. "While my brother was preparing to sail, my companions and I took it upon
ourselves to gather men to aide in repelling the Ironborn from our coasts. It was through
sheer luck that we were passing through Dalston Keep when word of your impending trouble
reached us. We turned north to the capital as soon as we heard." Renly looked around, smile
never faltering. "I take it we're not too late."

"Quite the contrary," Tyrion replied cheerily, though Alysanne knew he was anything but
cheerful inside. "You're just in time."

Though just what Renly Baratheon and his companions were in time for was looking more
and more doubtful.

Laswell Peake was sailing home.

Over one hundred years prior, his great grandfather had been exiled from the Reach, stripped
of his lordship of Dunstonbury and his castle of the same name by King Daeron Targaryen
the Second. House Peake had fought to but a Blackfyre on the Iron Throne and had lost two
of the three castles that to this day were represented on their family banner. Only distant kin
still occupied Starpike in Westeros, the lucky branch of the family that had been granted
clemency while the others had foundered.

Now, after three generations and four more wars attempting to overthrow the red dragon,
Laswell and his brothers sailed to fight a Targaryen again, only this time they intended to
place a different one on the throne. The man they fought for now, Viserys Targaryen, wasn't
much of a dragon, and Laswell doubted he'd be much of a King either. The lad—for he still
acted like a boy, despite his age—was damn near insufferable at times, his new power
seemingly going to his head, and was as unforgiving of slights both real and perceived as he
was impatient to claim his throne.
But that mattered little to Laswell. He didn't give a damn who sat on the Iron Throne at the
end of this war, be it Aegon the Sixth or Viserys the Third or even bloody Harry Strickland
the First. He didn't give much of a damn what kind of king Viserys might make either, be he
the second coming of Jaehaerys the Conciliator or Maegor the Cruel.

All Laswell Peake cared about was Dunstonbury, the home he had been raised hearing about
but had never so much as stood on the same continent as. The Ironborn, their allies in this
invasion, had been warned away from doing damage to Dunstonbury despite its close
proximity to the coast of the Reach, instructed to forgo battering rams and looting although
they were welcome to take the castle from the squatting House Dunston. The wretched filth
had been awarded Dunstonbury just as soon as Laswell's great grandfather had had it
revoked, even though they hadn't a drop of noble blood in their veins; their founder had been
a simple man-at-arms who had, to the vast benefit of his children, saved Leo 'Longthorn'
Tyrell on the Redgrass Field, where Daemon Blackfyre and the rebellion had died. The man
had named his new dynasty after the castle they had usurped, as if he had had a right to it.
The audacity boiled Laswell's blood to this day.

He hoped the Ironborn starved the Dunston's slowly, but he wouldn't complain too much if
they didn't. If they left him one or ten to torture to death, that would be acceptable as well.

But this was all after they had defeated the current Targaryens, no mean feat. The king they
intended to usurp was a competent young man who had ruled well when given the chance,
though he wasn't the one to be concerned with. It was the uncle, the Dragon of Duskendale,
whom the council had decided was the biggest obstacle to their effort, and would remain so
despite being with Aegon the Sixth thousands of miles away. While his brutality had swelled
their ranks to be sure, many nobles with grudges old and new opting to swear for Viserys
simply to see the Burner of Lannisport fall, fear of him also held many lords in place. If this
strike on the capital worked as was planned, allowing them to capture the Dragon's loved
ones, they could remove him. For all his ruthlessness, Aelor Targaryen was known to value
nothing in the Seven Kingdoms more than his family; the Golden Company would trade
them, his family for the glue to the Targaryen dynasty, and then execute him.

And then, without fear of his martial ability or of his vicious retribution, lords would flock to
Viserys' banner. Or so that was the plan.

The first step in it all was the capture of King's Landing, and as Laswell and the ship beneath
his feet neared the future Lord of Dunstonbury was reaffirmed that they would do so. A
Baratheon banner billowed above the ramparts of the Mud Gate. Laswell knew for a certainty
that they weren't those of Stannis; the Lord of the Stormlands—for now, anyway—had taken
the bait the Ironborn represented, sailing the strength of the Royal Navy and thousands of
soldiers around the Broken Arm of Dorne to relieve the beaten and bloody coastlines of the
Reach and Westerlands. That meant the banners currently flapping in the wind represented
one thing; Renly had successfully 'relieved' King's Landing.

The Golden Company was likely sailing towards gates that would wing open as they made
landfall; while the prevalence of Red Targaryen Dragons meant Renly either hadn't begun or
hadn't finished his coup, the appearance of the fleet would kick him into action. The only true
obstacle between Viserys and the city of his birth was the small fleet of ships left behind by
Stannis, a token lot that Renly couldn't insist to help man without raising too much suspicion.

But as the ship beneath him neared—Laswell had been awarded a place of honor aboard the
first ship in the line, a position won by flattering Viserys in one of the council discussions—
he saw that even that token fleet wasn't moving, save for one. It struck him as odd; the capital
surely had known of the nearing Golden company fleet for days, the fishing boats that had
been allowed to return and give warning—as well as signal Renly—certainly telling of the
Golden Skull banner. The captains and crews of this last line of naval defense should have
been on high alert, ready to leap into defense of the Blackwater Bay as soon as the Golden
Company came into view, but all but one staid stationary, and even it was moving slowly,
rudderless and choppy.

And all of the sudden, Laswell Peake became uneasy.

I have earned this.

It was the millionth time he'd told himself that since he'd arrived in the city, but Renly
Baratheon still didn't quite believe it.

His brother would kill him for this, should Stannis survive the battles with the Ironborn.
While Renly didn't care for his elder brother, he wasn't entirely sure he wanted him to die
either. Renly certainly held no malice for his niece or nephews; Shireen was in truth a
charming girl despite the toll greyscale had taken on her, and the boys had done nothing to
Renly themselves. But Renly would make a better lord than Stannis ever could, and while the
third Baratheon brother was a man of different taste than most, he certainly didn't lack in
ambition.

Yet he wasn't heartless, and he knew Stannis must die. And though Renly knew there was no
turning back, not now, and he knew Stannis was in his way from ascending to the rule of the
Stormlands that he deserved, Renly hesitated. And hesitated. And hesitated.

His men waited for an order he had yet to give, ready to turn on the men in golden cloaks and
Targaryen livery, to slaughter them to a man and open the gates of King's Landing to the
invading army of sellswords. Loras stood beside him, ready to plunge his talented blade into
the back of Kedge, a lowborn Captain in the City Watch. He was the commandant of the
defenses of the Mud Gate, along with several hundred goldcloaks. The Commander of the
City Watch, a grim man of House Bywater named Jacelyn but called Ironhand, was at the
Red Keep, along with most of his strongest fighters and the strongest of the knights left in the
city. Renly had protested weakly when none of his men had been stationed within the Red
Keep itself, Alysanne Targaryen and Tyrion Lannister politely but firmly declining the offer
of his best swords, and Renly had been unable to press the matter for fear of proving his true
intentions.

Though it seemed they had gathered those intentions already. Every Targaryen in the city, as
well as the sons and daughters of nobles serving as pages or squires throughout King's
Landing, had been drawn back, under the protection of the remaining Kingsguard and men
loyal to Aegon. Renly knew they wanted to trust him, but wisely they had opted not to.
That made this job much more difficult, as did the fact that Renly had no idea what was going
on in the bay at the moment.

The Golden Company neared, their ships already entering Blackwater Bay, yet none of the
few ships of the Royal Navy below showed any sign of crews preparing them for battle. Only
one ship sailed to counter the invasion force, and it was floating forward at an infuriatingly
slow pace. No crew stirred on its deck, no doomed captain shouted orders. It seemed a ghost
ship, steadily but slowly plowing forward to its demise.

Renly watched, unable to give the order to turn as the ships neared, something about it
drawing his entire focus. He heard the shouts of the men of the Golden Company as the lead
ship crossed paths with the slowly moving sole defender of the bay, yet the sound of
whistling arrows or calls to board were not among them. Next to him Kedge raised a big arm
and in it a banner, and as he chopped it down like an axe on the executioner's block, the
banner thrown to the ground below them, Renly realized he had hesitated too long.

The shouts of panic from the Golden Company ship were easily heard even from here. Renly
added his own voice to the maelstrom, bellowing out "Now!" and drawing his sword even as
Loras drew his own and buried it to the hilt in Kedge's back, the big goldcloak Captain falling
to his knees. Even as trumpets blared their signal and the butchery began all around him,
goldcloaks and Targaryen soldiers murdered by the hundreds in the space of a few seconds,
Renly knew he had waited too long.

Though nothing could truly be heard above the sounds of death and treachery all around him,
Renly heard a song. It wasn't playing in reality he knew, for even if it was it'd be drowned out
by the death cries and enraged roars of King Landing's true defenders, but Renly heard it
clear as day in his mind. As a single flaming arrow floated through the air, fired from some
place other than the battlements, a violin played a song of a long ago act by a long dead man.
The stories said Aelor Targaryen had played the same song in the moments before he had
destroyed Lannisport, to the terror of those both enemy and friend.

It terrified Renly now, all these years later, as he helplessly watched the arrow fall to the
water in the wake of the single Royal Navy ship.

And then, just as Lannisport had seventeen years prior, Blackwater Bay exploded.
 LII
Chapter Notes

Apologies for the wait. I'd give you a viable excuse if I had one. I hope you enjoy
anyway!

Black and crimson, pale and cream, green and bronze. She knew every contour of every
angle of the prized possession of House Targaryen, every slight variation in the feel or color
of their smooth shells. She knew the exact way to turn the forest green egg to show the most
blotches of pure bronze. She knew how, in the right light, the cream egg became almost
white, its golden streaks all the more radiant when it did so. The black egg, as fierce and
foreboding as any inanimate object could be, held its own ferocious beauty in the brilliant
streaks of red that engulfed it, and though she knew it had been petrified long ago she could
swear it held an unnatural heat when she held it close.

They had been her fascination since she had been a small child, and all these years had not
changed that fact. She would die before she would abandon them, so there they sat in a chest
she held in her lap.

She was deep within the safety of the Red Keep, surrounded by the high walls of Maegor's
Holdfast and hundreds of Targaryen loyalist—chief among them Ser Roland Storm of the
Kingsguard, the brother of the dead Lord who had nearly won her heart—but Daenerys didn't
know what to feel. Her youngest brother was nearing to try and take the city, and by default
her as well. She knew that was Viserys' intent; her elder brother Aelor had tried to shield her
from it, the intense obsession Viserys held for Daenerys, but a blind man could see it. He was
of the traditional mindset, the mindset that likely would have seen married, while Daenerys
and blessedly Aelor were not. Part of her wanted to hate Viserys, the man who had lusted and
pined for her despite the fact that she didn't return the sentiments, the man that had murdered
the suitor she had been so enamored with. Daenerys wished she could hate him.

But no matter how hard she tried, the hate would not come.

Every time the Princess relived that moment on the beaches of Duskendale, when Viserys
couched his lance upwards and Bryce's lifeless body flipped over the back of his courser, she
was suddenly assaulted by images of she and Viserys when they were children. He'd always
dotted on her, bringing her whatever she wanted whenever she wanted it. He would play dolls
if she so desired, sing off-key to woo her when she pretended to be a Queen…he would even
go around on all fours, neighing like a horse, as she sat on his back and laughed until she
could hardly breath. It had been a beautiful, wonderful time in both of their lives.

The tear splattering against the black shell of the largest egg brought her back to reality.
The calls and bleat of the trumpets, warning that the enemy fleet was approaching, had
prompted the soldiers to shepherd the noble children into the Queen's Ballroom. Ser Roland
and ten guardsmen—old men and young boys—stood guard, and the pox-scarred Kingsguard
periodically warned the huddled children and teenagers to be ready to move at any moment.
Unlike most of the others here, Dany knew that if the battle outside went the wrong way they
would be ushered into the hidden passages, to flee as Princess Elia Martell and her own
nephew Aegon had years prior. She had recruited several of the nobles around her to assist
her with the eggs should that time come.

Of course, if that time truly comes, all may well be lost.

Rhaella sat beside her, snow-white hair brushing the cream egg as the future Queen of
Westeros held little Alyssa in a desperate hug. Her niece was a sweet girl and smart as a tack,
but she was of a gentle nature; the fear of the coming fight had reduced her into a quivering
mass, her terror affecting the baby she held in her arms. Dany secretly worried for her future
as the Queen, as Rhaella had inherited none of the steel resolve that her father—and mother
—possessed. She would excel at hosting balls and flattering nobles and their ladies, but as for
the rest…well, time would tell. None could deny that Rhaella was a good-hearted girl who
would make a kind Queen someday in any case.

Dany just hoped she had the chance.

Her handmaiden Aemma Arryn settled in on Dany's other side, heavily favoring the Tully's in
her coloring. Four and ten, she was the eldest child of Lord Paramount Jon Arryn and his
wife Lysa Tully, born a full five minutes before her twin brother Artys. The heir to the Vale
was currently marching to Seagard with his father to counter the Ironborn, leaving his mother
Lysa and the third and final Arryn child—sickly Robin, whom Aemma affectionately referred
to as 'Sweetrobin'—in charge of the fortress of the Eyrie. "If only they were real, Princess.
They would be quite the boon on the walls."

Daenerys quickly corralled her emotions, forcing her voice to come out calm and collected.
"If only, Aemma. As I'm sure Aelor would say, the fear of them would be a great boon in and
of itself."

She didn't miss the flicker of anger that crossed her handmaids face at the mention of Dany's
older brother. Aemma had taken a moral outrage to the Dragon of Duskendale's past methods,
a sentiment shared by many, but the Arryn girl had always kept that opinion to herself. Still,
Dany supposed others who thought the same were part of the reason they were in the
situation they were now. "I believe I would prefer their affinity for fire-breathing and
devouring their enemies."

A melodic laugh joined from a few feet away. "I would have to agree with Lady Aemma,
Princess Daenerys," said a smiling Margaery Tyrell, the infant Daena Waters—daughter of
the very man sailing to attack the City—in her lap. The Reachwoman was new to King's
Landing, only recently having travelled to the capital as a handmaiden to Princess Rhaella.
Though her smile was completely confident, Dany could see the conflicting emotions in her
eyes; her brother Loras had not sent word to her or her family of Renly Baratheon's intended
moves or his own part in them. While nothing had been said to the other nobles of Alysanne's
and Tyrion's doubts of the Baratheon's motives, Margaery was passing intelligent; she had
gleamed that something foul was afoot, and that she and her brother were on opposite sides
of whatever it was. While Daenerys didn't agree with Margaery's flamboyant and flirty
mannerisms, she felt a ping of sympathy for the girl from Highgarden; there was a distinct
possibility that she would find herself in Dany's shoes, with a brother in the army facing her
own.

"As would I," chimed in Elia Sand, Prince Oberyn's daughter. Known as Lady Lance, the
copper-skinned, boyish Dornishwoman was perhaps Daenerys' favorite lady-in-waiting in all
of King's Landing. Several other voices, including young Ben Cuy, squire to Ser Roland, and
Liane Vance of the Vance's of Wayfarer's Rest, gave their own agreement, and a ripple of
laughter broke through the huddled nobles.

A ripple that died instantly with the massive boom that shook the very stones of the Red
Keep beneath them.

Ser Roland called down the panicked exclamations, voice firm and fierce. He turned to the
guard nearest him, giving him hushed orders before the man turned and rapidly exited the
room. A tense few minutes passed before, with a ferocity that caused several of the noble
women to shriek in fear, the door was kicked open.

Daenerys was on her feet, the chest of dragon eggs on the ground in front of her, before the
familiar, boulder-like voice crashed through the ballroom. "On your feet!" Ser Manfred
Darke, short and stout with the neck of a bull, stomped into the chamber with Alysanne and
Tyrion Lannister hugging his heels. That ugly, scowling face from her childhood was even
angrier than usual, no mean feat. The other nobles instantly obeyed the aging Kingsguard,
each rising hastily.

Alysanne's voice was much more subdued than Manfred's barked command, but her tone said
she would broker no argument. "All of you need to follow Ser Manfred and Lord Varys
quickly and quietly. All will be explained, but for now you must follow our instructions to the
letter." The de facto Queen strode forward, taking her youngest child from Rhaella's arms, the
future Queen near frozen in fear. Young Daemon tried to rush towards her but Aemma
stopped him, stooping to comfort the little boy.

The Spider had materialized out of nowhere at the mention of his name, Manfred stomping to
join him at the front of the rapidly forming procession of noble children and teenagers while
Ser Roland silently moved to take the rear. Daenerys stooped to take one handle of the chest
containing the dragon eggs, and to her utmost surprise Rhaella became unfrozen and took the
other.

The procession moved quickly as the distant, the muffled sound of steel meeting steel and
screams growing steadily closer as they moved from chamber to chamber. Daenerys' knew
this castle nearly as well as she knew the dragon eggs, but even she found herself getting
turned around due to the rapidity of their movement and the struggle of carrying the chest.
None of the guardsmen or Ser Roland moved to help her, instead staying on high alert as if
they expected to suddenly be in the middle of combat at any moment.

Dany realized they were.

She was not as surprised as the others were when a wall suddenly rotated out of the way to
reveal a hidden passage, and obediently entered the dark, foreboding passage, she and
Rhaella having fallen to the back of the convoy of nobles. They moved quickly through the
passages, each individual barely able to see the one to their front in the dark, and Daenerys
had started to feel a flicker of hope when it all went to shit.

Suddenly there was a roar of rage and the clash of steel, and amidst the screams of those in
front of her she heard Manfred's voice. "Run, scatter!" A man cried in pain, a woman
screamed in terror, and without knowing what she was doing Daenerys was moving down a
side passage, Rhaella following obediently, the chest between them. It wasn't until they were
far down it, the sound of whatever battle happening in the passages having faded
considerably, before the two Targaryens realized they were alone.

Rhaella whimpered, and Dany found herself barking at her to be silent, the back of her mind
wandering at the strong, choking scent of fish and how much more slippery the stone of this
passage was compared to the others. Her arms burned, the chest having grown more and
more cumbersome and heavy as they fled, but she refused to leave it behind, and Rhaella at
least seemed to agree on that point. The Princess had no knowledge as to where she was, but
she knew backwards was not the way to go. Dany's mind raced, trying to recall the mapping
of the passages both ancient and recently constructed at Aelor's order, and realized with a
pang of desperation that it didn't help; they were truly lost in these passages, with no known
way of escaping and—judging by the skirmish they'd just fled—enemies somewhere with
them. And then, as if all of that wasn't enough, they came across the body of a child, her tiny
throat slit in a grisly smile, her body soaked with both blood and the source of the scent.

One of Varys' little birds, and...oil. With a tremor of terror, Dany realized the plot. "Turn,
Rhaella, run!" Yet before the two Targaryen Princesses could even begin, the roar of flame
and a sudden burst of light greeted them, as the fish oil coating the secret passage ignited, its
steady flame rushing towards them.

Both women ran, neither abandoning the chest either through sheer determination to not or
being too terrified to realize how much it slowed them down, back the way they came. Each
adjoining passage they came across—Dany hadn't realized in the darkness how many there
were—was likewise slowly being consumed in fire, flushing them towards the scene of the
battle.

She felt the heat on her heels, the light in the passage becoming more and more intense, and
she knew without looking back that the oil was lighting faster than they could run. With a
scream of terror Rhaella fell, the chest hitting the passage floor and sending the eggs jostling
across the burning floor. Daenerys stumbled forward as well, thrown off balance, and turned
to help her niece.

She turned in time to see Rhaella Targaryen catch alight, the oil that had soaked into her
clothing from their flight in the passages bursting the cloth and silk and lace, catching her
white hair and flawless skin, Rhaella's terrible screams overpowering the roar of the flame,
the very stone itself seeming to burn.

Daenerys knew it was over even as her own clothing caught flame. Aelor had once told her
death lost its sting when a man believed without a doubt that he had met his own, and in a
moment of clarity she understood perfectly what he meant. The Targaryen Princess dove
forward into the fire, feeling the flame engulf her, wrapping her arms around her dying niece
and her dragon eggs as the blaze overtook all.

Ser Manfred Darke was a failure.

He had served Aelor Targaryen loyally, ever since that day decades ago when the young
Prince, five and ten and still all arm and legs, had found him dying in a gutter of Duskendale
with a blade under his ribs and the blood of three of his attackers coating his hands mere days
after the Darklyns and Hollards had been exterminated. Manfred was of a distant relative
branch to the Darklyns, his House founded hundreds of years ago by a bastard of that line,
and as such had hidden among the citizens of Duskendale when the roundup of his far distant
kin had occurred, drowning his sorrows and anger at his own cowardice in a tavern. The fight
he had picked had been a foolish one, even for him, and it had nearly granted him the death
he desired.

The young Prince, authoritative and fierce even at that age—and a much happier man then
than he ever would be again—had ordered Ser Barristan to assist Manfred despite his fierce
objections and demands to be left to die. Aelor had ordered him patched back up, protected
him from Aerys through means Manfred had never learned, and when he finally stopped
wishing to die, Manfred had joined his still-forming retinue. Years later that position would
grant him an honored spot on the Kingsguard, a position held by only one of his House in the
history of Targaryen Kings. Aelor Targaryen had given him a purpose, a life; he, Elia Martell
and Alysanne Lefford had given Manfred Darke a family.

And he had repaid all that debt with nothing but failure.

He had let Elia Martell die those years ago, the memory of her lifeless body curled in on
itself in a pool of her own blood revisiting the Kingsguard knight every time he slept. He had
saved Alysanne and Renlor years later, it was true, but now it seemed he was doomed to let
another Targaryen die under his care.

Manfred didn't know how these men, arms covered in golden rings, had gotten into the secret
passages. It didn't matter, as the nobles behind him shouted in fear as they leapt at him from
within the passages themselves. Manfred had failed; he had lead Alysanne and the Princesses
into a trap, set by an enemy that had called their move. Men were pouring towards them,
jostling with each other in the tight quarters.

Manfred did the only thing he could. He shouted for the nobles to scatter even as he impaled
the first man to draw near, hoping they would be wise enough to take a variety of different
passages. Many of them would become lost and be captured or killed he knew—there likely
was more men in the maze of other passages lying in wait—but there was a chance some of
them might escape.

As they did so, their shouts and the scuffle of their feet scattering behind him, Manfred did
what he knew he had to do.

He became what he had always been jokingly called.

He became a boulder in a river of enemy, holding them off as his family fled behind him.

There were more men in these passages than the ones facing him, Ser Manfred knew, but he
couldn't stop those; these, however, he had the ability to slow down, and slow them down he
did.

At most two could come at him at once, and Ser Manfred parried and struck and roared,
buying time for the family he had failed to flee. He cut ones throat, smashed another's head to
a pulp with his shield, called those still coming everything from Lyseni whores to
swordswallowers to 'bloody stupid cunts' as they clamored over their dead companions to
come at him. He taunted, he fought, he spat and roared.

The first blade slipped through his guard to dig into his shield arm, but still Manfred Darke
fought on even as that limb went limp. The second burst into the gap in his armor at the
thigh, but still Manfred Darke cut its wielders throat and stood like the stone he was as his
lifeblood pumped out the room. Even as the passage, alight now with the torches of his foes,
went dark again with the loss of blood, he stood his ground.

His sword finally clamored from his numb fingers sometime later, and Manfred sank to the
ground as two swords were instantly sunk into his chest. Warriors slipped around him, giving
chase to the nobles who had fled a second or minute or hour earlier. As the owner of one of
the swords in his chest leaned forward to withdraw the blade Manfred wrapped his sausage-
like fingers around the man's throat, using his remaining strength to lock his strangling grip.
The Lyseni flailed and pulled and panicked, but Manfred didn't let go even as he sank
sideways to the ground, dragging the choking man down with him.

He spoke through bloody lips one last time, spitting phlegm and frothy bubbles as he did so.
"You're coming too, you fucking whelp of a whore."

And with that one last insult, Manfred Darke died.

The City of Kings was hell.

Kin's Landing had suffered a sack nearly two decades earlier, one that had seen the slums of
Flea Bottom become a raging inferno and eventual funeral pyre, seen a King die at the hands
of his bodyguard, and seen a Royal Family flee in terror. This one, seventeen years later,
seemed much the same, though he doubted a King would be killed this time around.

If one did, his whole plan went to shit.

Bodies clogged the ramparts, men in gold and crimson cut down in droves, their corpses
nearly upholding the formations they had once stood in. More filled the blood-strewn streets,
joined by the occasional man in Buckler blue or Payne purple…and the occasional innocent.
Screams filled the air, shouts of rage and terror and pain. The clang and scrape of steel
meeting steel sporadically joined them, pockets of King Aegon's men still putting up
resistance, but he knew the most of the shrill shrieks filling the air didn't come from the
hundreds of men in the streets. Many of his soldiers had turned from the battle, forsaking
their orders against pillaging and raping and instead tearing into the defenseless homes and
businesses around them to do just that. He hadn't even attempted to stop them, knowing that
for every one he managed to halt ten more were doing it anyway. He gritted his teeth at the
shrill cry of a child coming from the building he was walking by, followed closely by the
guttural laugh of their tormentor. He sealed his mind from wandering at just what exactly was
happening and strode on, his guard close by his side with drawn steel. These soldiers were
wolves among sheep, savaging the soft peasants and merchants of King's Landing.

And Renly had let them into the pasture.

He was ambitious and power-hungry, but Renly wasn't Aelor Targaryen. He wouldn't
slaughter civilians and write it off as collateral damage to the destruction of his enemy. So as
he passed the burning homes and dead bodies of innocents, their bodies strewn in the street,
Renly couldn't help but wonder if it was all worth it.

The future Lord of the Stormlands had nearly been knocked off his feet by the aftershock of
the blast that had decimated the first dozen or so ships of the Golden Company, but he had
seen to his relief the dozens more behind it start lowering boats full of soldiers, their men
intent on landing farther up the beach, away from the roar of green flame. The smartest of
King Aegon's followers had taken the shock and disarray following the explosion to flee
towards the Red Keep, but there was a lack of sounds of battle coming from that direction,
and Renly surmised that it had been taken. He was following well in the wake of the
vanguard lead by Loras, the streets cleared of enemy soldiers long before he got there, and he
had been told that there were additional plans as to how to tackle the Keep if his men didn't
gain access peacefully. As he neared he found that to be the case, dead Targaryen men in
heaping piles and the gates open and drawbridge down.

His coup had worked, it appeared. Renly wondered why he felt none of the elation he had
expected.

As he entered the courtyard, he saw Loras arguing furiously with a tall man in Golden
Company rings. As he approached, his lover's frantic words became clearer and clearer.

"You set them alight!? You fool, my sister was one of their number! I was promised her
safety!"

The tall man, a commander it seemed, was unmoved. "I was ordered to enter the passages
with my best men and kill whoever lurked there, as well as soak it with fish oil. If the false
Targaryen family entered, I was to light that oil and drive them back into our custody. I had
no orders to discriminate whom I was driving."

Renly came to a stop beside them, and Loras whirled. "They burnt the passages. They lit
them on fire, trying to herd any escaping into certain passages where they waited to
apprehend them. The fucking fools; they might have burnt Margaery to bits! I must find her!"

Renly couldn't afford to show too much affection towards Loras' pleas, but he spun on the
Captain of the Company with more anger than he otherwise might have. "On whose orders
did you act?"

The man met his eyes evenly, unafraid. "Laswell Peake's. My brother."
"Did King Viserys know of this?"

The man—a Peake, apparently—smiled cruelly. "We figured His Grace might find…
objections to that command. We thought it wise to leave the oil bit out when he explained the
cove entrance to the passages to us."

Renly gritted his jaw, containing his anger even as he placed a calming hand on the
blubbering Loras. "Did your plan at least work?"

The Lord of the Stormlands—soon to be, anyway—felt a jab of pain at the betrayed look
Loras shot him, but he kept his blue eyes on Peake, noting how the man's grin disappeared.
"We captured several nobles hiding in passages after we cleared out the Keep from the inside
and the fires burned out—a Vance and a Bulwer and a Sand, among others—but we haven't
found any live Targaryens'. There were more tunnels, more than even King Viserys knew
of…and we've found several burned corpses. We don't know who is who yet."

Renly didn't even try to stop Loras as he drew his blade and drove it into a surprised Peake.

That was not the agreement.

The full weight of his actions crashed down on Renly Baratheon's shoulders. What have I
done?

Alysanne Targaryen nearly wept when Aemma Arryn arrived with Daemon and Varys.

The fires of King's Landing were bright in the night sky as the survivors staggered into the
hidden washout on a side creek of the Blackwater Rush a mile from the taken capital. Horses
and provisions had been waiting in this hidden cove, ordered by Varys. When Alysanne had
stumbled out into the storehouse outside the City's Gates, clutching Alyssa to her breast and
followed by Tyrion, the halfman struggling to pack along a crying Saera, she had thanked the
Seven profusely. They had discovered the route more by blind luck rather than any memory
of one of Aelor's newly constructed passages, both of them having mindlessly fled down the
side passage at Ser Manfred's bellowed cry of warning.

She didn't know where the big boulder of a knight was; he hadn't arrived.

All the troops in the area were fighting or looting King's Landing, so making their way to this
hideout had been relatively simple due to the darkness and cover of the thousands of fleeing
peasants. They had found Ser Roland, Beony Farring of Farring's Cross and Margaery Tyrell
awaiting them with the retainers and horses, the Highgarden girl with tear tracks on her
beautiful cheeks and a squalling Daena Waters in her arms. Alysanne had demanded they
wait longer for more of the fleeing party, desperately praying for her other children.

Those prayers had been answered in part when Aemma, clearly exhausted, entered the cove
with her baby boy in her arms.

"Are their others behind you?" Alysanne demanded of the Spider when she finished clutching
and fawning over her silver-haired son.
Varys shook his head, reeking of fish oil. "I know of no others. They lit the passages aflame."

Tyrion's voice was sharp and mean. "We saw that, eunuch! How did they infiltrate those
passages?"

The spider turned on him, for the first time in Alysanne's memory allowing some measure of
emotion into his voice. "Viserys, I'd wager."

"Your little birds…"

"Are dead. Their throats were slit, one by one, their little bodies littering the passages we fled
down. Even I can't hear songs sung by the dead, Imp."

Ser Roland stopped their bickering. "We need to move. We need to take advantage of the time
it takes them to realize we aren't captured or dead."

Alysanne turned to face him, face horrified. "But Daenerys, Rhaella…"

Ser Roland's eyes were sorrowful. "I'm sorry, Lady Alysanne, but they ignored my order to
follow me and fled down the very chamber the Golden Company entered. They're captured
or…"

"No," Alysanne nearly roared. Roland would tell her later that she had reminded him of Aelor
in that moment. "I will not abandon them!"

"We must ride, my lady. We need to escape while we can."

"My daughters are back there!" Alysanne could barely speak, the knot of terror that
something had befallen Dany and Rhaella in the confusion of the flight that she felt like
folding in on herself and dying.

Roland's voice still held sorrow, but it held no small amount of steel either. "They are
captured or dead, my lady. There is nothing we can do about it now."

Margaery spat a curse at the man who had lead her out of the passages, apparently forgetting
in her anger that it had only been his memorization of the new additions built by Aelor that
had saved them. "How dare you say such!"

She was so engrossed in the following argument, Roland, Varys and Tyrion calling for hasty
departures while the rest demanded they stay, that she nearly didn't notice her until she spoke.
"I am sorry, mother."

Alysanne turned at that sweet voice, and saw stumbling through the shallow sidewater of the
Blackwater Rush the pale form of Daenerys. Her heart soared as she charged towards her
daughter in all but blood, so thankful of her life that she saw nothing else for a long moment.

She pulled up short, however, when she realized what she was seeing. Her daughter was as
naked as the day she was born, her hair burnt away. Her skin was covered in grim and dirt,
yet none of it had so much as a single blemish. Simultaneously to those realizations was the
one that Rhaella was not with her.
Alysanne felt the choke of fear again. "Rhaella?"

Dany shook her head absently. "She…she's gone."

The grief Alysanne Lefford felt was so great that she collapsed to the ground, tears she had
left unshed pouring out of her in soul-wrenching sobs. Her daughter, the future Queen of
Westeros, dead. She didn't know how long she stayed there, sobbing, before something cold
nuzzled her face.

She looked up into the reptilian eyes of a tiny…

Dragon.

Hundreds of miles north, seven Targaryen's jerked awake.

 LIII
Chapter Notes

The first part of this was an index of the families I created for the readers on the dot net
when I was searching for pairing ideas and wanted their input. While that has clearly
been sorted out (the story is posted in full under the same pen name on that site), I saw
no harm in posting it before the chapter content here as well. Hopefully it will help
everyone keep track of the vast influx of ages and names for my far-different world than
the great George's!

House Targaryen of King's Landing

King Aegon Targaryen- nearing 19, no longer betrothed

Princess Daenerys Targaryen- nearing 17, not betrothed

Prince Jaehaerys Targaryen- nearing 17, not betrothed, heir to Iron Throne and Prince of
Dragonstone

Princess Rhaenys Targaryen- 20, married to Willas Tyrell

House Targaryen of Duskendale

Lord Aelor Targaryen (38) and wife Alysanne Lefford (35)

Renlor Targaryen- 16, 'married' to Myrcella Langward, heir to Duskendale

Aemon Targaryen- 15, not betrothed, heir to Golden Tooth (through Alysanne's father Lord
Leo Lefford)

Rhaella Targaryen- 13, deceased

Baelon Targaryen- 12, not betrothed

Daemon Targaryen- 6, not betrothed

Saera Targaryen- 3, not betrothed

Alyssa Targaryen- infant, not betrothed

House Targaryen of Summerhall

King Viserys Targaryen- 22-23, not betrothed, currently waging war for Iron Throne
Daena Waters- 1, not betrothed

Daenella Waters- 1, not betrothed

House Arryn

Lord Jon Arryn and wife Lysa Tully

Artys Arryn- 14 Not betrothed, heir to the Vale

Aemma Arryn-14 Not betrothed

Robin 'Sweetrobin' Arryn- 9, not betrothed

House Stark

Lord Eddard Stark and wife Catelyn Tully

Lyanna Stark- 34, not married, mother of Jaehaerys Targaryen

Robb Stark- nearing 17, not betrothed, heir to the North

Sansa Stark- 14, not betrothed

Arya Stark- 12, not betrothed

Brandon Stark- 11, not betrothed

Rickon Stark- 7, not betrothed

House Tyrell

Lord Mace Tyrell and wife Alerie Hightower

Willas Tyrell- 24, married to Rhaenys Targaryen, heir to the Reach

Alester Tyrell- 3, son of Willas and Rhaenys, not betrothed

Osmund Tyrell- 2, son of Willas and Rhaenys, not betrothed

Garlan Tyrell- 21, married to Leonette Fossoway, no issue

Loras Tyrell- 17. not betrothed, in service to Renly Baratheon

Margaery Tyrell- 16, not betrothed

House Baratheon

Lord Stannis Baratheon and wife Arnette Swann

Shireen Baratheon- 13, not betrothed

Steffon Baratheon- 7, not betrothed, heir to the Stormlands

Lyonel Baratheon- 1, not betrothed

Renly Baratheon- 22, not betrothed, currently pressing claim for Storm's End alongside
Viserys Targaryen

House Lannister

Lord Tyrion Lannister, unmarried

Cersei Lannister, married to Lord Alaric Langward

Ser Jaime Lannister, Brother of the Night's Watch

Ser Kevan Lannister, heir to the Westerlands in absence of issue of Tyrion

House Tully

Lord Edmure Tully- 29, unmarried

Catelyn Tully, married to Eddard Stark

Lysa Tully, married to Jon Arryn

*heir to Riverlands is Robb Stark in absence of issue of Edmure

House Martell

Lord Doran Martell and (estranged) wife Mellario of Norvos

Princess Arianne Martell- 23, not betrothed, heir to Dorne

Prince Quentyn Martell- 19, betrothed to Gwyneth Yronwood

Prince Trystane Martell- 16, not betrothed

Queen Elia Martell- deceased, mother of King Aegon Targaryen and Princess Rhaenys
Targaryen

Prince Oberyn Martell and paramour Ellaria Sand

Oberyn's bastard daughters the Sand Snakes, Obara, Nymeria, Tyene, Sarella, Elia, Obella,
Dorea and Loreza

House Greyjoy

Iron King Balon Greyjoy and wife Alannys Harlaw

Prince Rodrik Greyjoy- slain by Lord Jason Mallister of Seagard

Prince Maron Greyjoy- 30, married to Gysella Goodbrother, no issue, heir to Iron Islands

Princess Asha Greyjoy- 25, not betrothed

Prince Theon Greyjoy- 21, not betrothed

Victarian Greyjoy, brother of Balon, wives are deceased, no issue

Euron Greyjoy, brother of Balon, not married

End of Index

She's dead. All these years I've taken for granted that she would one day be my Queen, and
now she is dead.

King Aegon Targaryen, sixth of his name, sat with his head in his hands, elbows braced on a
small table in the King's Tower at Castle Black. Out of the window on the wall facing him he
could see both the gate and bottom of the stairs going up the Wall. He'd been the first King in
over one hundred years to stay in the one hundred foot tall tower; Aegon had noticed as soon
as he'd stepped through the oak and iron door how clean the tower had been scrubbed, clearly
having been gone over immaculately since the Night's Watch received word of his imminent
arrival.

Aegon hadn't loved Rhaella by any means. She was—had been—a sweet, kind girl whom he
had been raised with since he was five years old. Although he had always known she was to
one day be his Queen, it had still been difficult for Aegon to not see her as a sibling, as he did
her elder brothers. I suppose that wouldn't have been too terribly amiss, what with our family
history.

He remembered how confused he had been as a boy, when he'd read of the Targaryen custom
of brothers marrying sisters. Shouldn't that mean he would one day marry Rhaenys, not
Rhaella? His uncle had put those questions to rest in a way that would sooth a child, and it
wasn't until years later that Aegon learned Aelor believed the incestuous couplings of their
ancestors—including his own mother and father—the reason so many Targaryens went mad.
Aegon was prone to agree; Aelor was self-admitting proof of it himself.

A marriage between cousins, however, was commonplace in Westeros nobility, even in

Houses who didn't have three-headed dragons on their banners, and Aelor hadn't entirely
forgone the idea of keeping the blood of old Valyria as pure as reasonably possible. So
Rhaella had been raised from birth to one day be the Queen of Westeros, a position her
mother had unofficially held for years, and Aegon had been encouraged to always treat her as
a betrothed. He didn't realize how much he had taken that for granted, the whole-hearted
acceptance that they would one day be married whether they wanted it or not.

Now she was dead, burned to death in the same passage his birth mother had once carried
him through to safety. Dead due to the machinations of the uncle he had exiled and,
indirectly, empowered.

Dead due to Aegon's inability to do what needed done. I should have killed Viserys then. I
was weak when I should have been strong. I was Aegon, when I should have been Aelor.

The ravens and messengers had come within hours of one another, great flocks of them from
seemingly every noble house south of the Neck, telling their stories of the hell the city of his
birth had become. They'd received words of the Ironborn weeks prior, of their pillaging along
the Eastern coast, but his advisors both here at the Wall and back in the heart of the Seven
Kingdoms had urged him to remain in the North, as they had the Ironborn horribly
outnumbered and men like Jon Arryn and Jason Mallister were perfectly capable of handling
the situation.

Aegon would have ignored that and rode south anyway if not for the things he had seen.

The men of the Watch had been hesitant of taking a King ranging what with the wildlings
and…other hazards, but Aegon had been adamant and they knew better than to deny him. He
hadn't been in a skirmish as his uncle and cousins had reportedly been, a fact that rankled
him, but he had ridden days north of the wall, and seen something that scared him far worse
than the Ironborn had.

A hundred thousand men, women and children were hard to hide. Aegon, Ser Barristan and
his Night's Watch escort has sighted them in a distant valley from a ridge named this that or
the other. They had stretched nearly as far as he could see, an ocean of wildlings descending
on the Wall.

It had been as close as the rangers had taken him. It had been close enough.

Twelve hours ago Aegon Targaryen would have told you nothing would move him from his
spot defending the Wall. Now, however, the bustle of men and horses preparing to move
could be heard outside his tower.

He would forever be thankful for Aelor's decision to build more passages and for Viserys'
disregard for learning about them, for it had been all that saved his aunt and the rest of his
family. The preparations made by Alysanne, Tyrion and Varys had allowed them to escape to
Rosby, from which a fishing boat from a nearby village had been sent on to Rook's Rest and
the fastest of the ships docked there had been sent to Eastwatch-by-the-Sea, dodging the
ships of the Golden Company. Another of the endless ravens had been sent from Cotter Pyke
at Eastwatch, and with it the letter.

The message from Alysanne had been brief and to the point, and Aegon couldn't help but
think she had left something major out, though he had no knowledge as to what it might be.
The calligraphy in Alysanne' steady hand informed him of the successful escape of Daenerys,
Lord Tyrion and the others, as well as the death of Rhaella. She also mentioned those who
hadn't made it to the mustering point; Elia Sand, Ser Manfred Darke and, perhaps most
devastatingly, Myrcella Langward, who was apparently pregnant with Renlor's bastard. Wise
of them, to create the story of a hasty marriage. I'll have to commend her if I ever see her
again.
The Seven I hope I see her again.

Atop the pain of Rhaella's death was the fear for the rest of his family. There were no loyal
men to protect them from Viserys and his army, all of them by the design of his youngest
uncle—or at least his advisors—hundreds of miles away preparing to ransack the Iron
Islands. While they certainly had known of Viserys' invasion for days now and were
undoubtedly moving to counter the threat, Aegon knew full well that Viserys would stop at
nothing to track down his sister and the rest of the family who had loved him so. It was why
they hadn't fled to Duskendale—it was both the obvious choice and farther than Rosby, and
the Golden Company fleet had undoubtedly instantly sailed there at the discovery that the
Royal Family had escaped.

Alysanne was fully aware of their danger. Lord Tyrion, stubborn in his role of Regent, had
ridden towards Seagard, to meet with whatever army he came across first. Alysanne and the
others had barely stayed long enough for her to pen the letter before they had ridden towards
the Eyrie. Aemma Arryn was among those with his family, and she was to get them access to
the impenetrable castle in the Vale. Lord Gyles Rosby—too old and ill to have traveled with
his men to the war in the west—had offered the rest of his household guard to escort them,
despite the likelihood that his hold would soon be assaulted.

It was a long way to go with a high level of risk—for all they knew, the very message
Alysanne had sent might be intercepted—but it was there best bet. Aegon had sent a
detachment of his best riders on his fastest mounts south with Ser Arthur Dayne to try and
link up with them, but he knew it was unlikely they would before Alysanne and the others
reached the Eyrie, if they made it that far. While Ser Arthur could move faster with his riders
than Alysanne could with the women and children, they had many more miles to cover in
harsher terrain.

Still, Aegon had to do something. His Kingdom was falling apart, and he was too damn far
away to do anything about it.

He had sent orders for Aelor to take command of the Targaryen forces at Castle Black. He
had left out word of Rhaella's death. Aegon meant to march south with a clear head, to handle
this as a King would, not with the blind hatred Aelor was sure to bring. He knew in his heart
Aelor would likely follow anyway, but he had ordered nothing of the Princesses' death to be
mentioned before Aelor arrived here at the center of the Wall. He hoped his uncle would
realize that a true threat resided on the other side, though he doubted the man would. Still, he
intended to be far south by then.

Aegon also knew in his heart that this was the action of the jealous boy he still was inside,
wanting to handle this direct action over the defense of a Wall, but he had justified it to
himself so much he had started believing it.

The King grunted as he heard the door to his tower open, not taking his head from his hands.
"Leave me. I do not wish to be disturbed until the men are ready to ride south."

An ancient voice answered, old and wizened. "Not even by an old man?"
Aegon's head shot up to see old Maester Aemon in his doorway, one hand still on the wall the
blind man had used to guide himself. The King of the Iron Throne shot to his feet and rushed
to his kinsman's side. "Uncle Aemon! You're intrusion would be most welcome."

Aegon helped his great-great uncle to the chair opposite the one he had just vacated. "Aemon
has spent most of his time in the North in my library. He seems to have taken more after me
than my name."

The King nodded, smiling though he knew the Maester of the Night's Watch couldn't see it.
"He has always loved books."

"Aye, so Aelor wrote to me. But today Aemon came to me in tears, speaking of a sister he has
lost."

Aegon dropped his head. He had felt the younger Aemon deserved to know of his sister's
death, no matter how hard it had been to deliver the news. He had taken the news in silence
with a strength Aegon didn't know he possessed, rising and leaving with a carefully blank
face. "I spared my uncle Viserys for a crime nearly a year ago. Now it seems that mercy has
gotten my future Queen killed."

Aemon said nothing, the oldest living blood of the dragon regarding the King with sightless
eyes. Before he knew it, Aegon suddenly found himself speaking again. "For years I was
raised worshipping Aelor like one of the Seven. I heard tales of his bravery on the battlefield
and his decisiveness in handling Robert's Rebellion. I heard how he killed the oldest
Baratheon in single combat over the body of my dead father, saving not only me but our
entire dynasty at the same time. As a boy, I thought he was the Warrior himself.

"And then I grew older, became more independent, and the stories changed. Instead of the
praises sung by mean seeking his favor, I heard the atrocities he committed. How he burned a
city to the ground, not caring if there was innocents left inside its walls. How he gave a Lord
Paramount over to a Prince of Dorne to be tortured to death, then mounted his head on a
spike for over a year. How he slaughtered babies for the sins of their fathers when the Rogers'
tried to kill Alysanne. How his cruelty matched his compassion for his family. No longer was
Aelor a man to be worshipped, but a monster to be abhorred. Yes, I learned from him. I
absorbed my lessons on stewardship as earnestly as I received his guidance on
swordsmanship and tactics. I hung at Aelor's heels, desperate to earn the respect others held
for him, and then realized that respect was brought more from fear than anything else and
began plotting to earn it through other means. I told myself I would be a better man than my
uncle is, that I would not kill so wantonly, that I would rule with a just hand. I told myself I
would be a better man, a better ruler, just and kind and loved by my vassals. I told myself I
would be everything my uncle was not."

Aegon found himself on his feet, staring out the window overlooking the gate as his hands
gripped the sill with white-knuckles. "And in my effort to be so, I made a weak decision that
ended in the death of my cousin, the sweetest child the Seven had ever graced Westeros with.
In my jealousy to be anything but Aelor Targaryen, I became a fool who allowed a murder go
unpunished." Aegon chuckled darkly. "I succeeded in one thing, at least. I am certainly not
my uncle. He would have executed Viserys, and none of this would ever be happening."
Aemon had remained silent through the King's tirade, though when Aegon turned from the
window he found the old man had twisted in his seat to face him, having followed the sound
of his voice. The two regarded one another, the young man in sudden shame and the old man
in blind contemplation, before the Maester spoke. "You did the right thing, you know.
Sparing Viserys."

"Clearly not, or Rhaella would still live."

"If you had killed Viserys as you claim Aelor would have—a point I disagree on—you would
be called the Kinslayer, and none would follow you any more willingly than they followed
Aelor." He waved a hand, cutting off Aegon's protest. Bloody hell, how did he even know I
was going to talk? "Your uncle confided in me long before the long years he protected your
reign, Aegon Targaryen. He was once much like you believe it or not, a young boy who was
just and kind. He is that no longer, it is true; I have seen the change in him through his letters.
The stories of your uncle's valor are every bit as true as the stories of his atrocities. They are
who he is, just as you are who you are. "

The old man reached his hand out, and Aegon went forward to take it. With surprising
strength the maester pulled Aegon down close to his face, leaning close to talk in his soft
voice into his young kinsman's ear. "Justice and kindness are not sins any more than they are
virtues. A King rules as a King must. There is no written book of rules, no instructions on
what makes a great King. A great King takes what is thrown his way and he overcomes it.
You have done all you have known to do, but now you must do what must be done."

The Maester released his grip, though he had not finished speaking. "You are a young King
who has had the virtue of time to be a boy. But now that time is over. You have the potential
to be the greatest King since Jaehaerys the Conciliator, but not by becoming your uncle. You
have to be the King you are inside. You have to be the man you are inside.

"I will tell you the same thing I told your uncle Aelor during the Rebellion.

"Kill the boy. Kill the boy, and let the man be born."
 LIV

The wind and snow were only half as cold as his father's voice.

"I don't care if there is a storm coming. We leave now."

The stablemaster of the Night's Watch—Galen or Guyard or some such—was walking a fine
line of disfavor with the Dragon of Duskendale, and the quiver in his voice betrayed that he
knew it. Still, the heavily cloaked man tried to intervene on the behalf of the horses currently
clustered together in the courtyard of Castle Black. It was noble of him, though terribly
foolish. "But, my lord, the new snow may block fox dens or—"

The stablemaster stopped midsentence when Aelor Targaryen whirled on him, violet eyes
burning. "I am fully aware of the dangers to my horses, Stablemaster Garth. If they die in this
storm from exposure or a misplaced step I'll be afoot, and that doesn't bode well for my speed
in returning south now does it? I will take the utmost caution. Now bugger off."

Renlor winced in sympathy for the rebuked Black Brother. The man was merely expressing
concern for the coursers, destriers and pack animals that were hastily being prepared to depart
despite the coming storm, an admirable quality in any stablemaster. Still, he had chosen a
particularly poor time to voice his concerns to the Lord of Duskendale; Aelor Targaryen had
never been particularly good at listening when he was angry, especially to opinions that
differed from his own. And although Renlor was of a considerably more relaxed nature than
the man who had fathered him, he totally understood Aelor's anger.

Rhaella was dead.

Renlor remembered the day his sister had been born, in the fuzzy mix of images and sounds
and recalled emotions that constitute the memories of a three year old. She had been tiny,
even smaller than him, and his mother had let him hold her sleeping form. It had pleased the
toddler Ren to no end, and he remembered sitting on the bed in the birthing chamber with the
newborn in his tiny lap, his mother holding Aemon and his father's broad arm encircling them
all.

And now that babe was dead, burned to death in the secret passages Ren had played in as a
child.

He and his sister had never been overly close as they grew, what with Rhaella being
pampered from day one to be a queen and Renlor to be the lord of Duskendale. While he had
spent hours sparring with Sers Manfred Darke and Barristan Selmy, she had spent hours on
her needlework, learning not only to sew but also to make pleasant conversation to the other
ladies doing the same. While he had learned diplomacy at the feet of Grandmaester Colmar
the Grey and Lord Wyman Manderly, she had learned courtesies with their mother and
Ashara Dayne. Still, despite the few similarities they shared in either education or character,
she had been his sister; for a decade, she had been his only sister.
And his uncle had killed her, the same uncle who had tickled them when he was small, been
Daenerys' courser and Kingsguard, and allowed Ren to win in clumsy sparring matches when
Ren could barely pick up a wooden blade. Betrayal, rage, sadness, pain…Renlor felt them all.

The Seven knew what his father was feeling.

Renlor watched from atop Balerion, the black-hided and muscled great grandson of his
father's horse Warrior, as the Dragon of Duskendale marched towards them in long, angry
strides. Alaric Langward, thankfully unaware of just how close Ren and his daughter had
grown, limped alongside him, ever his father's advisor. Ren had always split Aelor Targaryen
into two different entities; there was Aelor his father, who taught him swordplay and threw
him in the air as a child and ruffled his hair affectionately to this day, despite Ren's protests.
And then there was Aelor the Hand of the King, who was stern and unsmiling and utterly
ruthless in both war and negotiation. Ren had learned at a young age that you could reason
with Aelor the father, but it was best to remain silent around Aelor the Hand of the King.

Lord Commander Mormont and a few Black Brothers followed his father, the gruff
Northman clearly unpleased at even more men leaving the Wall in this time of trouble.
Aemon—the brother not the old uncle—were also walking across the muddy courtyard,
dressed heavily in furs, along with Jaehaerys, who had gone as pale as the falling snow. His
closest sibling in both age and heart had remained behind when Ren, Baelon and their father
had traveled to the Nightfort some weeks ago, burying himself in the library of Castle Black
with a relish for learning Renlor had never shared. He silently prayed his little brother wasn't
coming south—while there was certainly an enemy in the north as well, the blood Renlor had
shed and the wildling girl Jaehaerys had captured proof of that, the chance of another battle
soon seemed low. In the south, however, it was guaranteed, with the Ironborn and Viserys
running amuck over their homeland. Aemon was bookish and frighteningly intelligent, but he
was no warrior; Ren prayed their father realized that in his wrath.

As the group neared, Ren heard Mormont's gruff voice over the howling wind. "I am sorry
for your loss, Prince Aelor, but your men are needed here."

His father's voice was in turn sharp and cold, and it was clear to Ren that his mind was settled
on the matter. "Which is precisely why I am leaving the vast majority of them here under my
nephew's command, Lord Commander Mormont. You still have thousands of troops and a
seven hundred foot tall wall; you can spare my retinues and I."

Jaehaerys cut in, voice concerned and eyes fixated on the man he had hated mere months ago.
"Uncle, I am not suitable for this position."

Aelor snorted as he waved his hand to Baelon, who instantly brought old Warrior forward,
the beast's breath billowing into the cold air in great clouds of steam. "You are suitable if I
say you are suitable, and I say it."

"I have no experience leading men, no—"

Aelor turned to him, and the procession stopped as he did. Renlor had desperately tried to
learn whatever skill his father had for completely taking over a situation, and to his chagrin
he had never mastered it. "Lord Commander Mormont will advise you as well as obey you as
a Prince, as will your uncle Maester Aemon and Ser Borran; you are far from along
Jaehaerys. What more, you have been trained nearly since your birth for command. You've
learned swordsmanship under Arthur Dayne and Barristan Selmy, stewardship under Colmar
the Grey and tactics under Randyll Tarly. That and you have been bloodied, accounting well
for yourself in the skirmish outside the Nightfort. And, above all, you are a Targaryen. All of
your life has built you up to this moment; now you need to seize it."

His father swung onto Warrior's massive back, taking the reins from Baelon so his third son
could mount his own stallion. His face was still masked in a cold scowl, though it softened
slightly when he glanced at Aemon. "Are you sure, son?"

The young Targaryen nodded. "I will be of no use in the south. Here, Sam and I may be able
to find something that will turn the tide in case of…" His brother trailed off, and their father
nodded in understanding.

Ren felt himself straighten when his father sat up straight in his saddle, turning to face the
men of his retinue who had finished packing provisions for the ride south. They were few as
far as war parties go, roughly one hundred of Aelor's meanest and most deadly fighters. The
levies were to remain at the Wall with Jaehaerys, as Aelor intended to overtake Aegon and
his army as well as mass with the moving armies in the south. That left Aelor, two of his
sons, Lord Alaric Langward and near one hundred knights and cutthroats to ride south after
the King who had so callously left them behind and the pretender who had provoked the
dragon's wrath.

His father's voice was authoritative and booming. "Prince Jaehaerys has command at the
Wall. We ride."

And with the sound of howling wind and creaking tack, Aelor Targaryen rode to war.

He had thought his victory would make him feel invincible and powerful, but it had instead
left him angry and hollow.

Viserys had never seen battle, though he had heard the roar and inhumane screech of it
clearly when the Lions of Lannister had invaded his home as a child. Most of his youth had
been spent in times of peace, caring for his sister and suffering through the lessons his brother
insisted he take. It had spent in this very city, the city where he had been born.

The city that now burned.

The battle was long over by the time Viserys made landfall. He had chaffed at being kept
from the fray—Aelor would never hang back while men died for him, and while Viserys
knew he wasn't his brother he certainly wasn't a coward either—but his advisors had insisted
he do so until they at least made landfall. It had proven a wise decision, as Viserys had
watched from behind as at least a dozen of the lead ships and all the men on them, among
whom he would have been had he had his way, exploded into the green flame that had made
both his brother and his father infamous.
Laswell Peake, the man who had taken Viserys from his exile and made him a King, had
gone to ashes in that blast.

The streets were still clogged with bodies, most in gold or crimson and black, smoke heavy in
the air as a fire or fires had started and been beaten out. Viserys rode over the drying blood
and age-old filth, atop a brilliant white stallion. It was a magnificent mount befitting a King
to be sure, but Viserys silently found himself missing the black-hided beast he had left behind
when he had been forced from Westeros by his cursed nephew. The bloodline of Warrior
made for unparalleled beats of war, but Viserys supposed this was more for show anyhow.

Alester Strong, his squire/bodyguard, rode beside him on his left, Captain-General Harry
Strickland his other. An honor guard rode to the rear and front, though Maylo Jayn had
methodically combed the city for remaining Aegon loyalist in the hours since the Red Keep
had fallen. Viserys quietly hoped a danger would appear; he was itching to test his skills in
true battle, and the blade at his side made him feel invincible.

The Seven had certainly deemed him the true King of the Seven Kingdoms. It surprised him,
considering he had never given a whit about them before nor they him, but he had no doubt
of their blessing now.

He possessed Blackfyre, the blade of every Targaryen King until Daeron the Good and the
wars fought after that succession. He, Viserys Targaryen not Aegon Targaryen, wielded the
blade of Aegon the Conqueror and Daeron the Young Dragon.

Even as he rode up the Hook towards Aegon's High Hill he let his left hand stray to the hilt of
the blade on that hip. The hand-and-a-half longsword had a smoky black blade, its pommel
with a ruby in its center. When Viserys laid his hand to its worn grip he swore he could feel
the power of the Targaryen Kings both good and bad who had wielded the mighty weapon. It
made Viserys feel powerful, confident and in command.

It made him feel Kingly.

The members of the Golden Company had bestowed it upon him on the eve of assault, and
Viserys in his joy had taken both Sylara and Lilas with a ferocity he hadn't known he
possessed. It had been one of the finest moments of his life, holding the blade of his ancestors
as he sailed forward to claim his Kingdom and his bride.

Except he had claimed neither. Not even Blackfyre could abate the anger he had felt when he
had been informed that Alysanne and his nieces and nephews—and Daenerys—had evaded
his grasp.

The Red Keep had taken the longest to fall, though fall it had. If not for the secret passages
and the men who had infiltrated the castle through them Viserys had no doubt they would still
be battling for it at this very moment, in the early morning light of this new day. Still, the
battlements and courtyards left no doubt of the ferocity of the fighting that had taken place
there. Viserys rode through its gates into its carnage, though men were even at this moment
moving to clean the bodies and gore from the cobbles and red stone walls.
Renly Baratheon awaited him, taking a knee as any good vassal should when Viserys swung
from his horse. "Your Grace, the city is yours."

Viserys tried to keep his voice calm, tempering his anger at the youngest of the Baratheon
brothers incompetence with the knowledge that without him King's Landing would likely not
have fallen. His voice came out forcibly cheery as he waved for the Stag to rise. "So it is,
Lord Baratheon. Though it appears Alysanne Lefford and her spawn are not. Nor is my
sister."

Baratheon kept his face emotionless. "The Keep was taken in quick order, though pockets of
resistance lasted for a long while. Many nobles escaped through the tunnels, among them
Lady Alysanne and her children."

"I had men in those tunnels. Are you telling me they waltzed right through them?"

Franklyn Flowers, who had alongside Pykewood Peake been in command of the men
infiltrating the secret passages, spoke quickly. "There were more tunnels than the one you
used, Your Grace."

Viserys' face twitched at audacity of the Bastard of Cider Hall. Still, he kept his voice calm.
"I: warned you that was the case, Flowers."

Baratheon cut in, his voice full of anger. "They lit fire to the tunnels, Your Grace. To 'smoke
the nobles out'. They have found several bodies."

Viserys felt a rage unlike anything he had ever felt before, intertwining with a fear of the
same magnitude. Not even the anger he had experienced when that imbecile Bryce Caron had
courted his sister came close. "You risked my sister's life? The very woman who will be your
Queen? On whose orders? On whose orders!"

Flowers fell into full self-preservation mode. "Pykewood Peake's, Your Grace. I tried to warn
him off it but the man would not listen." Viserys saw that for the lie it was, and it must have
flashed across his Valyrian features for Flowers took a step back. The small part of his mind
not taken with anger and fear rejoiced that he could make a man such as Flowers, a seasoned
and malicious killer, so afraid. "We have confirmed that none of the bodies belonged to
Queen Daenerys, Your Grace, though I admit some were burned badly."

Viserys whirled on the assembled commanders and men in the courtyard. "Where is Peake!?"

Baratheon answered him. "Dead, Your Grace. My man Loras Tyrell has already executed him
for his stupidity."

That mollified Viserys slightly, though he turned back to Flowers with ferocity. "Are you
certain my sister was not harmed?"

The bastard hesitated, and in that hesitation Viserys nearly killed him. But Flowers dropped
to his knees and produced from a pocket of his shirt a scorched necklace of steel and silver,
half melted in places, though the brilliant sapphire in the center of its charm was still clearly
visible. Viserys instantly relaxed at the sight of it, though a great pain and, much as he
loathed it, guilt burned through him at its sight. "Only one body could have belonged to the
future Queen, Your Grace, and this was found alongside it.

Viserys took the scorched chain and charm from Flowers' fingers, remembering all the times
he had seen it around his niece's neck. His voice was soft even to his own ears. "The body did
not belong to my sister, lucky for all of your fates. This belongs to my niece, Rhaella. At
least, it used to."

He possessed no hatred for Rhaella. She had been a kind, sweet child who had tried her
damndest to include her older, more jaded uncle in everything she could. While Viserys had
known Rhaella would be here, he had never considered the possibility that she might die due
to his actions.

The guilt and shame that crashed down on him nearly overwhelmed the King of the Iron
Throne.

Instead he turned to Baratheon, keeping the emotion from his voice. "You say Peake has been
dealt with?"

"Yes, Your Grace."

"You are lucky, Flowers. It seems I will not kill you. At least not today." Mind still reeling
from what he had done, he tried to think of what a King would do next. Only one thing came
to mind. "Since you have allowed nearly every noble you were ordered to bring to me escape,
pray tell who did you capture?"

He was brought to a corner of the courtyard where ten or so figures sat huddled despite their
high birth. He saw among them one of Oberyn Martell's bastards, as well as the daughter of
one of the Riverlords though he couldn't recall her name.

And then he saw his daughter in the arms of Myrcella Langward.

Viserys wasn't much of a father and had never taken an interest in either of his bastards, but
he knew his child when he saw her. Instantly he pointed to Daenella. "Find a nursemaid for
the infant at once, you fools; she is mine." As men rushed to obey, one of the female
sellswords of the company—Kora, Kya?—letting a maternal instinct take over and pulling
Daenella from a resisting Myrcella, he couldn't help but notice the swell to the Langward
girl's belly. "That, however," he commented, gesturing to the blonde's middle "Is most
assuredly not." Myrcella instantly clasped her hands to her belly, face instantly terrified.

It didn't take Viserys very long to puzzle out just who that child likely belonged to.

The smile that lit his face was genuine as he turned to the Lord Paramount of the Stormlands,
Renly having followed his King to where the noble hostages were held. "It seems you have
not entirely failed me after all."
 LV

Colmar the Grey had lived the life of a maester for nearly six decades. His mother, whose
name he had never learned, had been a whore in Maidenpool. Colmar possessed no real
memories of her, only a hazy image of blonde hair and the scent of honeysuckle that always
accompanied it. He had even less of an idea of who his father was, though he supposed he
had been a tall and broad man if Colmar's own stature gave any hint. Perhaps he had been a
fisherman who plied his trade in the Bay of Crabs, or a heavily-muscled blacksmith who had
never been able to show a woman the same care he invested in his work.

Colmar would never know. His mother had died two years after his birth, taken by the same
greyscale that had permanently disfigured his own face. Odds were she had contracted it from
a client, and passed it on to her infant son before she and two other Maidenpool whores
submitted to it quickly. The Mootens had had the brothel burned, its surviving girls and
regular customers quarantined until it was determined they weren't plagued with the wretched
disease. The Grandmaester supposed he had been expected to die as his mother had, but
against the odds he had pulled through. Maester Lan, a Westerman passing through
Maidenpool on some business of the Citadel, had taken pity on the child, and brought the
infant hundreds of miles south to Oldtown.

There Colmar had been raised among the Maesters, and there he had thrived.

He'd earned the black iron link for ravenry by the age of seven, and the copper of history by
eight. Next had come the silver link of medicine at ten, the pale steel of smithing at thirteen,
the iron of warcraft at fifteen, with others interspersed between. He even held the Valyrian
steel link of magic and the occult, something only one in one hundred maesters possessed. He
had earned his appointment as the Grandmaester at the Iron Throne, having embodied the
principals of the Citadel for all of his life.

But now he shirked their teachings, and gladly.

The Citadel taught its novices and acolytes that a Maester had no political allegiance; he
served the holding at which he was stationed and the people who resided there, regardless of
changes in control of that holding. By that reckoning Colmar the Grey now served 'King'
Viserys Targaryen, as the youngest son of Aerys was firmly in control of the Red Keep and
King's Landing, and on the surface that was the case.

But in truth, Colmar the Grey would rather die, a very real possibility that had lost all of its
sting.

The news of Rhaella's death had shaken all six feet, ten inches of his hulking form, bringing
him to his massive knees. He had delivered his future Queen himself, placing her in the arms
of Alysanne Lefford as he had two children before and four after. Citadel teachings be
damned, he had loved the Princess as if she were his own.

And now she was dead, and the man to blame for it had ordered an armed guard on Colmar at
all times.
Viserys had never taken a shine to Colmar, despite the years of lessons and the dozens of
childhood injuries Colmar had patched up. It hadn't bothered the Grandmaester, as the
eccentric young Prince never took a shine to anyone other than Daenerys. Still, despite
knowing his love for Aelor and his children, the self-styled King of the Iron Throne hadn't
had anyone to replace Colmar as messenger and scribe, and none in the Golden Company
were near his talent as a healer, so Viserys had kept the hulking man in place. Viserys—or
one of his advisors, anyway—had been smart enough to assign a man to not only escort
Colmar but also another to double-check what Colmar wrote in the letters and to ensure they
were sent, but they had no way of knowing if they were sent to the correct places.

They weren't. Messages meant for Houses with potential blood debts against Aelor were
instead sent to Houses thoroughly tied into Aegon's reign. The letter demanding Aelor trade
himself for Myrcella and her unborn babe had been sent to Riverrun, to alert the loyalist
armies massing there of the situation. Colmar knew he wouldn't be able to keep it up for long
—another man to replace him was likely coming—but he did what he could while he could.

Which is why he was steadily making his way towards the chambers where Myrcella was
held.

The guard assigned to him had been selected to do so completely on physical size. The
copper-skinned Dothraki was nearly as tall as Colmar and just as broad, his ham-sized hands
constantly hanging near the long curved arakh on his hip. The Grandmaester was certain if it
came to a fair fight, be it weapons or bare knuckles, that the horsewarrior would handily
break him in two. Colmar for all his size was a teacher, not a warrior, and he was an old man
to boot.

But what the Dothraki possessed in strength he lacked in intelligence, and Colmar had no
intention of fighting fair.

"Wrong way," the Dothraki grunted. His grasp of Westerosi was limited Colmar had gathered,
and though the Grandmaester spoke fluent Dothraki he had no intention of letting the
horselord know that.

"The King asked me to ascertain the pleasure and luxury of his most esteemed guest Lady
Langward, my respectable imbecile. She is late into the stages of pregnancy you know, and
the appalling lack of midwives and competent healers to attend her through this problematic
time is disgraceful. Our current direction is the rapidest way to her horrendously bare
arrangements." The Grandmaester turned with an affable grin, and was inwardly delighted at
the look of utter confusion on the sellarakh's face. In the two days since Viserys had taken the
capital and the brute had been his guard, the disfigured loyalist had taken a deep pleasure in
using the most outrageous and confounded vocabulary his extensive years of study had
brought him.

The scowling Dothraki captor was still trying to ponder out what Colmar had said when the
Grandmaester arrived at and promptly opened the door to Myrcella's chambers. While
Viserys had seen her as the bargaining chip she was, he had still awarded her chambers
befitting that of both a noble and a pregnant woman. The bed was large and soft, the
chambers clean and open, and there was no sign of the meal she had eaten just that morning,
evidence that whatever maids Viserys had assigned to Myrcella were quick and efficient.
But a luxurious cage was still a cage, and that showed clearly in Myrcella's face. The
daughter of one of Aelor's closest friends had been a common presence in King's Landing,
accompanying her father in his frequent travels from Brindlewood to the capital and
befriending both Daenerys and Rhaella—and Renlor—in those trips. Outside of his wife and
Barristan Selmy, Aelor trusted no one alive more than he did Alaric Langward, and quite
often he called his former squire to King's Landing to serve as an advisor. Due to these close
proximities, Colmar had grown accustomed to Myrcella and her personality, and it took him
just one look now to know her situation was wearing on her. The effects of stress was clear
on her high-cheekboned face, her long golden hair having lost some of its luster. Her arms
seemed to constantly be wrapped protectively around her belly, which grew more swollen
with each passing day. Colmar knew the constant fear she was living in couldn't be healthy
for either the infant or its mother, and a stab of concern went through him.

Despite her clearly and constant worry Myrcella gave him a small smile. "Grandmaester
Colmar. It is good to see a familiar face."

He conducted a short bow, striding a few more steps into the chamber after doing so. "Lady
Targaryen, it does me good to see you well." As he came to a stop a few feet in front of her,
his hulking escort standing apprehensively in the threshold, he lowered his voice to a low
rumble. "How is the child?"

Myrcella instinctively matched his tone, looking down at her protruding belly and running a
hand protectively over the Lannister crimson dress covering it. "I feel him move more and
more often these days."

"And how are you?"

Myrcella hesitated a moment before fixing her stare pointedly at the floor. "I am better than
Rhaella."

The statement nearly buckled the big maester even as it fortified his resolve. "And you will
remain that way, my lady. I assure it." He raised his voice back to its normal booming
volume, though he doubted the Dothraki had much knowledge of what was being said. "Shall
I have a listen then my lady?" With a grunt he settled down on a stiff knee. He still had bend
at the waist, as he was as tall on his knee as Myrcella was on her feet. Turning his ear to press
against Myrcella's swell, he whispered as quietly as he could. "Whatever you do, follow my
lead."

Giving her no chance to respond, Colmar gave a disgruntled—and loud—scoff before. "You
said you have been having pain, my lady?"

For a long moment she stared at him confusedly, and Colmar poured every bit of pleading he
could into his eyes. It took several moments, but Myrcella's face went carefully blank as
realization rushed through her. That a girl. Her voice was shaky when she spoke, but the
language barrier between them and the muscled Dothraki continued to work in their benefit.
"Yes, Grandmaester. I…I worry that something is wrong."

Colmar kept his ear to her belly a moment longer before rising back to his full height with a
grunt. "I do not mean to alarm you, my lady, but I fear there may be as well." He turned to the
Dothraki. "You! Rush and grab me the listening tool. Ask one of the maids, they'll help you
find it. At once, man." Colmar gestured with his hands to emphasize his words.

The Dothraki couldn't understand the command, which was all well and good—it was
gibberish anyway. There was no 'listening tool'. Still, the Dothraki clearly understood he was
being told to find something, and his dark face sank into a scowl. The Dothraki took a few
steps into the chamber, one hand resting on the handle of his arakh, setting his feet pointedly.

Well, it's not like I truly expected that to work. "Myrcella," he breathed quietly, "grab your
belly and sink to the bed." Myrcella looked at him confusedly for a moment before
understanding dawned and she obeyed. Her actions weren't very convincing even to an
amateur's eyes, but Colmar prayed to the Seven that they would be enough.

Colmar instantly took a hold of her arms. "My lady, are you okay? Is something wrong with
the child?" He whirled to the big horselord, whose face had gone from a scowl of anger to a
scowl of apprehension. "You! Come help me, now." He pointed to the floor. "Come on,
man!" Even as the giant maester said the words he was eyeing the vase just out of arms reach.
Come on, sellsword. Just get close to Myrcella, turn your head for just a moment…

A language barrier only went so far, though. The Dothraki clearly understood that Colmar
wanted him to come closer, and also understood that it was to do with the pregnant woman
sitting on the bed with her hands on her belly. Weather he believed that something was truly
wrong with Myrcella or not Colmar didn't know, but the Dothraki turned to walk towards the
door for something. Maybe it was to shout for help for Myrcella or himself, maybe it was to
latch the door in case this was a ploy meant to disarm him—which it was. In any case, the
Dothraki turned his back from the old man and pregnant girl to stomp towards the door.

Well, at least he turned his back. While he didn't like the Dothraki being that close to the door
and having so much ground to cover, Colmar the Grey knew he wouldn't have a better chance
than this. Moving quicker than his old bones had in years, Colmar had the vase in his hand
and took three long steps towards the bodyguard.

The Dothraki heard him at once, and had spun half way around before Colmar swung the
vase with all the strength his form had. The blow took the horselord on the temple, sending
the sellarakh reeling to the side as the vase—blue and white, much too pretty for such a
primitive use as a club—shattered, sending chunks of pottery tumbling to the floor.

Colmar expected the Dothraki to follow them. He didn't.

The heavily muscled Essossi staggered sideways, big shoulder crashing into the wall of the
chamber as he let out a grunt of pain. Even as he caught onto the stone to steady himself with
one hand he drew his arakh with the other, eyes, though slightly unfocused from the blow,
promising to rip Colmar in two.

Well horseshit. This wasn't part of the plan.

Colmar only stared dumbly for a moment as the Dothraki—who should by all means be
unconscious on the floor at this moment—rallied himself from the wall, shoving off as he
raised his arakh and took a stumbling step towards the Grandmaester. Myrcella screamed, an
understandable reaction though quite unfortunate since this needed to be a quite escape, and
Colmar stumbled back in reaction. It saved him, in that the arakh didn't cleave him in two but
instead bit into his left arm, slicing clean down through his upper arm as if the Grandmaester
was made of parchment instead of muscle and skin. Colmar added his own roar to Myrcella's
scream as the blade cut deep, crashing backwards into the small table he had snatched the
vase from.

The Dothraki, blood trickling down his temple, took another step towards Colmar, this one
much more steady than the last. He was already shaking off the effects of the blow. The
Grandmaester stared up at the approaching man, blood pouring in rivulets from his arm and
staining his grey robe crimson, unable to do a thing to stop the much younger and stronger
warrior.

Colmar couldn't do a thing, but Myrcella could.

The mirror spun end over end to collide with the Dotrhaki's shoulder. It bounced off
harmlessly, but it distracted the marching killer from the helpless old man to the pregnant
young girl, who was already rearing back to throw a brush, her face terrified as tears ran
down her cheeks. The Dothraki turned to march towards her, expression furious as he
narrowly dodged the brush.

It bought Colmar all the time he needed. The tears on Myrcella's cheeks drove him to his feet,
gripping the table itself, arm screeching in a pain that he completely ignored in his own
anger. Is this the battlerage Aelor speaks of? Potent stuff. He heaved the table over his head,
his own blood splattering on his face, and with a raspy shout he swung it down hard.

The Dothraki tried again to turn, recognizing his mistake in turning his back on the giant
Maester not once but twice, but Colmar hit him this time with the same strength he had
wielded as a young man. This time the Dothraki dropped to a knee as the edge of the table
smashed into the top of his head. He still didn't go to the ground, pulling his arakh back in an
attempt to slice the maester again, but Colmar brought the small table down again even
harder. Colmar repeated the motion even after the horselord was prone on the ground and
unmoving, bringing the table up and down again and again until the bronzed Dothraki's head
was a mass of blood and brain.

With one more roar—all attempts at silence were lost to them now—Colmar bashed the
Dothraki's head a final time, allowing the large club to crash to the ground, standing panting
over his dead foe. As the adrenaline and battlelust faded, the severe pain in his arm and the
dizziness the bloodloss was bringing came back to his attention, as did the presence of
Myrcella in the chamber.

The Grandmaester rose back to his full height and faced her, still panting. She recoiled at the
sight of him, her face very pale. Colmar didn't blame her, but he knew he didn't have very
long to achieve his goal. "Follow me, my lady." He said between pants. "Do not slow down."

She looked form his blood-spattered face to his blood-soaked sleeve. "You…you're…"

Colmar made his voice firm and final. "There isn't time, Myrcella. Come now."
He turned and staggered out the door of the chamber into the hall, where he could already
hear the sound of rushing feet. Colmar didn't wait to see if Myrcella was behind him; she had
to be.

She has to be.

Colmar ran a staggering run, arm still bleeding heavily, navigating the corridors with a
precision none of the enemy occupants—aside from Viserys—possessed. He prayed his co-
conspirators had done their part.

They had.

Guards had been posted on all the tunnels under the Red Keep, likely to avoid this exact
situation. The two at the entrance in the White Sword Tower—the only unoccupied building
in the Red Keep, as Viserys hadn't chosen a Kingsguard—lay dead in puddles of their own
dried blood. A shorter, smaller man with a salt and pepper beard stood at the narrow entrance
in the bottom, two others who looked much like him at his sides, bloodstained daggers in
their hands.

Davos had assisted in the flight of Princess Elia Martell seventeen years earlier, and had been
awarded by Aelor with a modest house near the docks, where he plied his trade as an honest
fisherman instead of a slightly-less-than-honest smuggler. He had received payments of gold
every month from the Crown, ostensibly for his services then.

In truth, they were for his continued services to this very day. Davos was the Crown's man on
the docks.

On the wooden moorings of the Narrow Sea he fished and he listened, keeping track of what
boats came into and out of the city with as much accuracy as Varys. He discovered their
cargos—both legal and illegal—either through drinking with the sailors and earning their
tales or by dropping hints on suspicious ships to Varys, who set his own network upon them.

A network Colmar could still access by simply sending a raven meant for the Reach to
Davos's small home. The message obviously said nothing of the situation—Viserys' men
were triple checking what he wrote—but the smuggler had known the plan if it were to ever
happen. Beach his boat in the dead of the night at the same small cove he had saved Princess
Elia from years earlier and follow the trail to the first chamber he came to. The men guarding
it could have been the only hitch, but Davos was as shrewd as he was discreet. He had come
prepared, as Colmar had prayed he would.

Thousands of dragon's worth of illegal goods had been seized thanks to Davos, but he and his
sons were about to ply their second biggest service to the crown.

"We need to be quick. My boat has been there all night and these lads have been dead for
hours; eventually someone will notice."

The sound of their pursuers—which had grown in cacophony in the last few minutes of flight
as more of the castle became aware of the breakout attempt—was close behind. Colmar,
panting and dizzy, unceremoniously shoved Myrcella toward them.
"Take her."

Myrcella whirled back around, grabbing his good arm. "Colmar—"

"Go," the Grandmaester roared. "I'll hold that door was long as I can, but you get her out.
Their navy will hunt you to no end; don't let her fall into their hands."

Davos only nodded, gingerly taking Myrcella's arm. "She won't. This way, my lady."

Colmar ran to the small chamber door, nearly falling into it as he slammed it with his
shoulder. Myrcella protested behind him, but he could barely hear her over the increasingly
loud pounding of his own heart. He braced his tired body against the door as she faded and
the pursuers neared.

You'll have to get through a seven foot giant to touch her, lads.

As the first few shoves started on the other side, Colmar rallying the last of his strength to the
task, he had only one thought.

I couldn't save you, Rhaella, but I've done my best to save your niece or nephew.

I hope you'll forgive me. I suppose I'm about to find out.

The idea didn't bother him in the slightest.

 LVI
Chapter Notes

Merry Christmas!

It was odd, thinking how close he had come to marrying Catelyn Tully.

He still thought of her as a Tully, though she had been Lady Stark for nearly twenty years
now. They had almost been friends, he and Cat, all those years ago. The eldest of Hoster
Tully's daughters had been a kind, smart girl when Aelor was a carefree, laughing boy. She
and her father had spent half a moon at King's Landing when she was one and ten, and the
eldest of the Tully girls and the middle of the Targaryen brothers had gotten along splendidly.
They were still on good terms at the Tourney of Harrenhal just before the world had gone to
hell, though there had never been a romantic interest in one another. Still, Aelor had offered
to take her hand in marriage if her father would support the Crown in Robert's Rebellion, and
part of Aelor wondered if their match wouldn't have been a good one.

He was glad the late Lord Hoster had rebuffed him, of course, and he was certain Catelyn felt
the same. Rumor had it that she and Lord Eddard had a love straight from a story, and Aelor
shuddered to think where he would be without his Alysanne. He loved his wife, though he
had never been good at showing it. She had kept him sane when he needed her—both at
Lannisport and the years since—and she had given him seven healthy, perfect children. With
a pang of pain Aelor thought of his daughter, his beautiful, sweet Rhaella, and he ruffled
Renlor's hair after they both dismounted, just to assure himself his eldest was still there.
Aelor had lived through loss before—his retinue, his best friend, his brother, his mother and
his first love—but none of it compared to what he had felt when he'd learned he'd never hold
his little girl again.

But it wouldn't do to be an emotional, volatile idiot in this moment and Aelor drove the pain
from his mind, though the Seven knew he'd never be rid of it no matter how many years they
blessed or cursed him with. As it was, a party awaited them in the courtyard of Winterfell,
and the girl who had been his childhood friend was among them. Putting the pain from his
face, Aelor strode forward to meet them.

He hadn't seen Catelyn Tully since Harrenhal. She remained in the North, not venturing south
of the Neck as Northerners were wont to do, and Aelor had remained in the south, much too
busy to travel hundreds of miles from King's Landing to see old friends. Besides, Eddard
Stark wasn't a supporter of Aelor. While the Lord Paramount respected Aelor's treatment of
Jaehaerys and of Robb when the heir to the North fostered in King's Landing, he was a
stubbornly honorable man, and Aelor was a stubbornly ruthless one. Since Lannisport the
two had had little to do with one another, and if Lord Stark had been outside Lannisport those
years ago Aelor supposed there would have been even more hell to pay than that which he
had already suffered.

As it was, Catelyn hadn't changed as much as Aelor knew he himself had. Her high
cheekbones, long red hair and bright blue Tully eyes were the same as they had been a
lifetime ago, though the face around them was that of a woman instead of a girl. Gone were
the dresses of Tully blue, replaced with the greys and the furs of the North. That red hair
wasn't in an ornate hairstyle as he remembered it, but instead a simple, practical braid. It was
clear to Aelor upon seeing her that Catelyn was a Tully no longer, but the Lady Stark instead.

Aelor was immensely glad to see no sign of Lyanna Stark; he didn't want that headache on
top of the others. The other Starks, though, had turned out in force. Cat's two daughters,
whom Aelor had met briefly at Duskendale, stood to one side, the older having grown in the
months since into a near image of the Catelyn he remembered. To Lady Stark's other side was
her sons, the older of which bowed, prompting the other Starks and those surrounding them
to do the same. Aelor couldn't help but notice the four direwolves watching the commotion
with disturbingly intelligent eyes.

The youngster—Bran, Aelor recalled his name to be—was the acting Lord of Winterfell, his
father and older brother commanding the Northerners at the Wall, and Aelor knew to come to
a halt in front of him. "Prince Aelor," the young boy said, voice remarkably calm considering
the nervous quiver in his hands. "Welcome to Winterfell. The North is at your service."

Aelor nodded his head with a small smile towards the second Stark son. "Well said, young
Bran. You have grown." The father in Aelor was amused to see the flash of joy that crossed
the young wolf's face at both being remembered and being complemented. Aelor turned to
the Ladies Sansa and Arya, inclining his head to the both of them. "As have you, my Ladies."
Aelor cocked his head at the youngest, who had not traveled south with the others. "You must
be Rickon." The child only stared at him, prompting Aelor to chuckle as he looked up to the
mother of them all.

He smiled a genuine smile. "Cat. Or should I call you Lady Stark?"

Catelyn Tully returned it. "Aelor. Or shall I call you Prince?"

The Dragon of Duskendale laughed aloud for the first time in days. "It has been years, my
lady. I must compliment you on your children. They all seem to be fine Northerners, and
Robb is a boy to be proud of." He gestured to both of his sides, his sons having fallen into
step beside him. "These are two of my own, my eldest Renlor and my fourth Baelon."

Catelyn nodded in greeting to them both. "They are fine looking boys. The King informed us
of your recent loss. I am so very sorry."

Aelor nodded, though he said nothing more about it. "I see my nephew the King is not among
your number, yet he was not among his men camped outside your walls either."

"King Aegon is currently with Lord Dustin a few miles farther south. Lord William is in
charge of the remaining Northern men, and my husband has given them orders to travel south
with the King and bolster his numbers." She gestured to the fresh snow around them. "A rider
was sent out to alert him to your arrival, though I wonder if he'll believe you traveled through
the blizzards of the last few days."

Aelor couldn't quite blame him. The snows had increased steadily since they'd departed the
Wall, growing more and more savage as the days seemed to grow colder and colder. "They
were quite the experience, Lady Stark. But where are my manners; I suppose we should
continue conversation inside Winterfell's walls instead of leaving you and your family—and
my men—standing out in the cold."

Catelyn's response, which Aelor hoped was an agreement because he was freezing his sword
off, was cut short by the sound of hooves. Aelor turned to see his nephew, bundled in furs and
his black Targaryen cloak, riding into the courtyard, flanked by Ser Barristan and Ser Balon
Swann, a northerner close behind. The white of the Kingsguard armor nearly matched the
new fallen snow, while Aegon's brilliant black and crimson stood out stubbornly, though
mired by the dabs of grey fur.

Aelor fought down the surge of anger at the sight of the nephew who had kept the death of
his daughter from him, sinking down to a knee with the others. Aegon dismounted swiftly
and bid them rise, and when Aelor did he saw just how much his nephew was dreading the
confrontation in his violet eyes.

As it was the King of the Iron Throne kept his composure, smiling and reaching forward to
clasp Aelor's forearm. "Uncle, it is good to see you." He did the same to Renlor and Baelon.
"I shall have my squire show your men where to bivouac." Aegon waved his hand and young
Dickon Tarly, second born son of Randyll Tarly, rushed forward to the mercenaries and
killers waiting patiently around the meeting of nobility. "I trust Lord Bran has greeted you
properly; House Stark has been the essence of courtesy."

Aelor gave a forced smile, playing along with Aegon's forced cheer for the benefit of those in
the courtyard. Colmar and my wife have taught him disturbingly well. "Aye, Your Grace, they
have, though I was just suggesting to Lady Stark and Lord Bran if they mind our moving this
meeting out of the cold. My old bones disagree with the cold, and you and I have much to
discuss concerning the army."

Aegon nodded. He didn't have much choice. "Of course, with Lord Bran's permission?"

Once received, the party as a whole began to move towards the warmth radiating from
Winterfell's keep. Aegon kept the smile upon his face, though Aelor saw the way his hands
were clenched in either apprehension or anger; likely both.

For just one disconcerting moment, Aelor recognized the mannerism as one of his own.

"With Lord Bran's Permission. A nice touch; you've become quite the diplomat."

The King sat in the spacious chambers he had been granted, glaring over the recently-used
dishes on the table at Aelor. The two men had said nothing to one another over the very
simple, very Northern meal of venison and bread. Barristan stood at the doorway, present but
out of the way. How many of these same arguments has Barristan the Bold seen between
Targaryens? The Seven know why he still serves us. Aegon grunted. "Say your piece, uncle. It
is much too cold and I am much too weary to play diplomatic games with you."

Aelor grunted. "I see Alysanne hasn't entirely eradicated your bluntness. I suppose there's too
much of me in you for it to ever fully disappear." Aegon wisely said nothing despite the flash
in his eyes, and Aelor granted his earlier request. "You were riding south to war without me."

Aegon leaned back, and his words came out clipped and rehearsed. "There will be a war in
the North. You were the most capable commander—"

"You forget Randyll Tarly."

Aegon's jaw clenched at the interruption but he kept his tone civil enough through gritted
teeth. "He is not a Targaryen."

"And his daughter wasn't burned to death by his brother, yet apparently he deserves to wage
war with Viserys instead of me."

The King didn't respond to that statement, instead trying to turn the tables of their argument
quickly. "I ordered you to take command at the Wall."

Aelor stared into his nephew's eyes, weary of the jealous hostility he had dealt with for years.
"I did take command at the Wall. I then passed that command on to Jaehaerys—who is a
Targaryen, before you complain—and chased you south."

"There is going to be a war in the North soon, one that might hold the entire world as we
know it in its balance."

Aelor cocked a brow. "Then why aren't you there, Your Grace? If the war in the north might
decide the fate of the world and the war in the south only seven of its kingdoms, it seems to
me that you are marching the wrong direction." Aelor waved off his nephew's response
before it truly began. "No, no, I already know the answer. You think there is more glory to be
won in the south. You'd prefer to march to war against your uncle Viserys rather than wait for
some unwashed barbarians to mount a futile attack on a Wall. When will you heed my words
of wisdom on war, boy; it is all blood and mud and shit and terror. It is not a tourney. There is
no glory, no matter what the stories and songs of the unexperienced tell you."

Aegon was as crimson as the three-headed dragon on his doublet. "I am the King. What I
decide—"

"Any King who must say 'I am the King' is no true King. You know this; you have been
taught so since you were old enough to walk. You were taught many things, though recently I
wonder if you truly learned any of it."

Aegon bit his tongue and closed his eyes, clearly angry at being scolded like a child. Aelor
normally avoided these sorts of confrontations with his nephew for the sake of the Seven
Kingdoms, but the murder of his daughter had wiped nearly all such inhibitions away.
After a long moment of silence, Aegon let out a deep sigh and once again looked at his uncle.
"Months ago you told me my decisions were right because I was the one to make them, and
now you tell me I am in the wrong. What do you want me to say, uncle? What is it you want
to hear from me?"

"Decisions made with your mind are correct. Decisions made with jealousy or other lesser
motives are foolish." Aelor's violet eyes bored into Aegon's. "I want to hear why you didn't
tell me my daughter was dead." Aelor's voice was cold and sharp, and the King of the Iron
Throne flinched as if he had been stabbed.

Aegon looked down and to the side. "I loved her too, you know. In my own way. Not as a
woman, but as…Rhaella." The Lord of Duskendale felt a touch of his anger disappear and
opened his mouth to answer, but Aegon wasn't done. "I took for granted that we'd be married
one day; she would have been one hell of a Queen to the Seven Kingdoms. But instead I
made a weak decision, and now she is dead because of it." Aegon returned his gaze to
Aelor's, and in them he saw a pain nearing that in Aelor's heart. "How do I live with that,
uncle?"

Aelor leaned back, his rage from a moment ago now gone. The two Targaryen's stared at each
other for a long while, neither saying a word, before the elder finally broke the silence.
"Renfred Rykker. Morgan and Balman Byrch. Elwood Harte. Willis. Alester." He swallowed.
"Rhaella." Aegon furled his brow in confusion, and Aelor let out a deep sigh. "Those are just
a few of the many people who are dead because of me. I'm not talking of those I've
personally killed of course, but those who have died because of my actions or my inactions."

"I…I don't see your point."

Aelor leaned forward, and hesitantly placed a hand on the arm of one who was his son in all
but blood. "You and I were both laden with the responsibility of thousands of lives on our
shoulders from a young age. We make decisions, some good, some bad, and others pay for
our mistakes. That is what it is to be a Targaryen, Aegon. That is what it is to wield power. It
isn't glory in battle, it isn't debauchery and sin, it isn't purity and the Seven or riches and
wealth. It is to be in charge of thousands of innocent people who can die because of one small
mistake we make. We try to prevent it, but we can't. We do our best for the situation we see,
but oftentimes we are wrong. I charged across a ford with three thousand men. Over twenty-
nine hundred of them died. I didn't. I've pondered that ever since."

Aegon was watching intently, all hints of hostility gone. "Is this supposed to be making me
feel better?"

"No, this is to prepare you for what is about to come. The war in the north was rather straight
forward; man the Wall and don't let the wildlings or anything else more sinister pass. This
war in the south, however, will be nothing like that. You will have decisions, and most of the
time you will have no idea which choice to make. That's what your advisors are for. That is
what I am for. Men are going to die under your command, Aegon. Maybe Aelor Rykker,
maybe Dickon Tarly, maybe even me. You have been trained from birth to be strong enough
to handle that. I have faith in you, son, that you will do so."
Aelor removed a hand from the King's arm, taking a long swig from his wine glass partially
because he was thirsty from all the talking and partially to give him time to fight back the
tears he felt coming at the thought of his young daughter. "Rhaella wasn't your fault, Aegon,
it was Viserys' and mine; Viserys' for turning on his family, and mine for bungling your
regency enough to drive men to betray you. But I made the decisions I did and I suffered the
results, good and bad, and while I would burn a thousand Lannisports to get my daughter
back, I wouldn't change any of the things I have done. I cannot second guess myself, and
neither can you."

Aegon took a drink from his own glass, the two most powerful men in Westeros letting
another silence descend upon them. The scraps of food on their plates from dinner were cold
by the time Aegon spoke again. "I am…sorry, uncle. I should never have marched south
without at least giving you the entirety of the story. You had a right to know, and I do not
know if I can win this war—either of them—without you."

Aelor smiled a shadow of a smile. "You are my King, Aegon. I hope you will lean on my
experience as well as that of Barristan and Randyll Tarly and the others, but in the end I will
do as you say."

The Dragon of Duskendale hesitated a moment before going on. "I almost killed your father
once. I thought he was insane. I still do. But Rhaegar Targaryen knew more than I could have
ever fathomed, and one thing he was always certain of was that you, Aegon the Sixth, would
be the greatest king Westeros has ever seen. While I didn't always agree with my brother's
ideas—I rarely agreed with my brother's ideas—we always agreed on that."

Aelor killed the rest of his wineglass. "We have wars to win, you and I. We'd best do it
together."
 LVII
Chapter Notes

This chapter checks in with much of the going-ons around Westeros. Quick note, not all
of these POVs are happening at the same time per se. Cheers!

No amount of physical labor could make a man as weary as fighting a war did, but this came
absurdly close.

"You have a whole army of men to do this, yet here you and I stand. I'm going to have to start
charging you double."

The Hand of the King grunted, even as he heaved a shovelful of snow onto the cart behind
him. "I don't even know what I'm paying you now."

"Which means you can afford it." Bronn added another shovelful of the infuriating stuff to
the side before pushing the head of the shovel into the snow and bending backwards. Aelor
did the same, giving the screaming muscles in the small of his back a painfully pleasant
stretch. I'm growing old. He let out an annoyed sigh when more snowflakes began to trickle
down from the grey, forbidding skies above. What I wouldn't give for just one moment of
sunshine.

To either side of them worked dozens of men, shovels and mattocks almost playing a
rhythmic tune as they bit into the several feet of fresh snow that had covered their work of the
previous day. Men along the frontline where he and Bronn stood would shovel mounds of the
freshly fallen snow onto carts, which were then pulled to the side and dumped. Muscled men
with mattocks slightly behind them hacked away at the harder, packed snow towards the
bottom of what once had been the Kingsroad, swinging until the slick ice and uneven snow
gave way to solid enough ground that the wagons of provisions could move forward another
few inches.

The ride from the Wall to King's Landing would take several months with an army in perfect
conditions. These conditions, however, were anything but perfect, and it had taken King
Aegon's forces five moons just to reach Moat Cailin. The Seven knew how long it would take
them to safely traverse the treacherous swamps of the Neck, even with the slightly built
Crannogmen as their guides.

The snows that had chased Aelor and his retinue to Winterfell had only increased in both
ferocity and frequency. Some nights a foot or more of snow would be dumped on the camp,
forcing the men to once again clear that which they had the day before. The wagons of
provisions and supplies couldn't travel until the road had been cleared; more than one had
begun to go over freshly fallen snow only to sink in or, worse yet, tilt to the side on weaker
patches and snap a wheel or axle.

King Aegon had been forced to slow to a grinding, infuriating crawl forward. Teams of men
worked at all hours, clearing the road and moving the supply train up before another team of
men replaced them. The tents where men huddled together for warmth against the bitter cold
had lost all sense of organization, no longer set up each night in orderly rows. Instead they
were spread out ragtag along the road behind them, many of them touching those beside
them. The only latrines were those men dug out into the snow mounting on either side of
their road, and those were quickly filled, making the camp a stinking, treacherous shithole of
a place.

And a cold one. I can work with a shovel until I'm ready to die of exhaustion, and I'm still
freezing my balls off.

Although none of that truly mattered all that much if they weren't able to resupply before too
much longer. Hunting parties made up mostly of the husky Northerners who were used to the
snow—though all agreed they'd never seen anything quite like this—returned with deer,
rabbit, nearly anything edible to supplement the rations in the wagons. While Aelor knew it
would be demoralizing and hard towards the end when rations were cut, he didn't believe the
men would starve before they made it to the southern lands, where harvests were more
plentiful and more could be drawn from the nobles and villages around. Water was of no
concern either, as all a man had to do was strike a flame and melt some of the plentiful snow.

It was fodder for the hundreds of horses and oxen, both animals of labor and animals of war,
that was proving worrying. Oats were unattainable here in the middle of a snow covered
north, and most had already been eaten through. What remained was being fed only to the
destriers and coursers, warhorses that needed to keep their strength up. The palfreys, drafts
and oxen were being regulated to tree bark that foraging parties stripped off of any trees they
came across. While the thick, adaptable oxen were handling the conversion decently enough,
many of the drafts and palfreys were rapidly losing weight. More than one had perished from
the cold as well, their hides being used as warmth and their meat roasted and served to the
men. If they were held up for too much longer in the forbiddingly cold North, King Aegon
would be attacking King's Landing on foot.

And if things truly turned sour and more than a few horses started dying, he may be doing it
with his belly full of dead man.

"Come now, Bronn," the Dragon of Duskendale said as he returned to the laborious work
ahead of him. "What else would we be doing if not this? A war camp is a boring place when
there isn't much war going on."

Bronn snorted, unamused. "I can think of half a dozen things I could be doing, each warmer
than the last."

"You're talking about the girls from Mole's and Winter Town."

"Yes I'm talking about the girls from Mole's and Winter Town. You can't tell me you'd rather
be shoveling fucking snow than fucking one of them."
Aelor grinned slightly. "I can tell you that, Bronn, but I suppose the idea of a wife is a
dangerous one to you."

The black haired sellsword grunted as he dumped another shovelful. "If that wife is hundreds
of miles and thousands of feet of snow away it sure as shit is. Doesn't do much to keep me
warm in the here and now does it?" Bronn stood up from shoveling for a moment to look the
Hand of the King over. "Man looks like you could have any one of them for free most like,
even that expensive redheaded one considering the way she looks at you. The way all women
look at you is frankly irritating."

Aelor let his grin grow into a full smile at that. He liked Bronn; the man was almost as
uncouth as Ser Manfred had been, and he gave zero shits about Your Gracing or My Lording.
He simply gave his opinion and did what he was paid to do, no matter what that was.

And he had a high aptitude for killing, which was all the better.

"You mean the way she looks at all men. She's a whore, Bronn; they're supposed to look at
men like that."

Bronn went back to digging. "Don't ruin it for me; I rather like to think she looks at me for
my pretty face."

"Bronn the Beauty; now that is a name worthy of a song."

The two killers bent back to their task. Hours later, as Aelor fell into his cot under a mountain
of furs, he prayed to all the Seven Gods that Alysanne was somewhere warm.

The cry cut through the hot air of the birthing chamber.

Alysanne Targaryen stuck her head out of the door, bellowing down the corridor in a tone
similar to her husband's command voice. "Aemma, hurry with that water!"

The Queen of the Seven Kingdoms—or as close to one as they had anyway—darted back to
her good-daughter's side, muscling by one of the birthing women in the process. Alysanne
knew the midwife was probably more important than she herself was, but she had given birth
to seven healthy, squalling children, and the child on the way was her first grandchild.

A grandmother at thirty and seven, with a child of my own less than a nameday old. Renlor
and Myrcella are trying to make me old before my time.

None of the women here besides Alysanne, Dany and Myrcella herself knew for a certainty
that the child being born was in fact a bastard, and none would know if she could help it.
Alysanne would gladly throw any who try and claim such down the Moon Door Sweetrobin
was always chittering on about.

Margaery, the fiercely intelligent Tyrell girl currently crouched on the other side of the
birthing bed and gripping one of Myrcella's hands, probably suspected as much; Margaery
was much too sharp and Myrcella too unpolished at lying for her not to catch the slips and
hesitations in the soon-to-be-mothers speech. But the Rose of Highgarden had proven loyal to
Alysanne and her family, and in her the Lady of Duskendale felt a small measure of trust.
Margaery could have traveled with Lord Tyrion to the western coast and there secured an
escort back to the Reach and her kin, but she had insisted on remaining with the Royal
Family. Maybe it was a plot to imbed herself deeper into Targaryen good graces and make
herself queen, maybe it was a sense of duty as one of Daenerys' ladies-in-waiting to remain
with her Lady, or maybe it was genuine affection for the Targaryen children; Alysanne didn't
know. But whatever the Tyrell beauty's motives, Alysanne was thankful she was here.

Myrcella had escaped the Red Keep by the sacrifice of Grandmaester Colmar, the giant,
disfigured man dying to ensure Viserys lost his most valuable bargaining chip. Alysanne had
heard of Davos, the former smuggler who had whisked Elia Martell and others to safety
during the sack of King's Landing, but she had never met the man until he, his wife and four
of his sons arrived with Myrcella at the Eyrie. He had risked everything to fulfill his duty to
the crown, and Aemma had managed to talk the prickly Lysa Tully into giving his family
refuge as well.

He had earned it in Alysanne's mind; his three eldest sons had died defending the rest of them
from Viserys' tracking parties.

It was a miracle in and of itself that Myrcella had not lost the child during the stressful flight
for the Eyrie, and another miracle that Arthur Dayne and his party of riders had come across
the ragtag band of escapees near the Twins, Davos trying to bring Myrcella and his family to
the safety of the armies in the North. The Sword of the Morning had been drawn in by the
sounds of pursuit and the sight of Viserys' banner, annihilating one of the searcher bands
though not before the third of Davos' sons had bleed out. They had arrived in the Eyrie,
bloody and freezing, Myrcella close to collapsing.

Though the Langward girl had seemed to recover in the weeks afterwards, the child was still
coming several weeks early, and Alysanne wondered if her harrowing experiences were a
part of the cause.

Aemma returned bearing two buckets of fresh snowmelt, and Alysanne felt a brief brush of
motherly love towards the girl. The red-haired, blue-eyed Arryn of the Vale had done much
for the Targaryen name in the last moons, securing them access to the impenetrable Eyrie and
going toe to toe with her isolated, rather unpleasant mother. Lysa Tully wasn't a bad woman,
but she cared for little beyond her children and how much power she could wield, power that
she understandably felt was threatened by the arrival of a Targaryen Princess and the wife to
the Hand of the King. Aemma had been the mediator of several disagreements between
Alysanne and Lysa, and was in her own way fighting as fiercely for Aegon's cause here as her
twin brother Artys was in the Riverlands.

And now she was a willing midwife at the birth of yet another.

Myrcella's pained cry drug Alysanne out of her reverie, and she returned her attention to the
birthing bed and the future Lord or Lady of Duskendale that was about to be born.

Dragons were creatures of fire in a world of ice, but they didn't seem to even notice.
Daenerys Stormborn Targaryen ran a hand over the short silvery-blonde hair on her head, the
regrowth itching something fierce. On her lap sat Rhaegal, named for both the slain brother
she had never known and the slain niece who had died when the dragons came to life, his
green and bronze scales radiating heat through the layers of furs she had donned. His growing
body was wrapped around her middle, golden eyes closed as he dozed soundly.

She had worried when the snows began to fall as heavy and earnestly as they had that her
children—for that was what they were to her—may be negatively affected or even, Seven
forbid, die; they were cold-blooded, after all, and lizards and other reptiles didn't fare well in
weather as severely cold as this. But dragons were fire made flesh, and while they preferred
to sleep nearly in contact with the flames in the hearth in Dany's rooms they showed no sign
of aversion to the cold itself.

And they were growing. Gods were they growing.

White-scaled Aelon, named after another brother who had saved the Targaryen dynasty, was
at her feet, gnawing like a dog on the bones of the sheep the three dragons had eaten for
dinner. Feeding them was a worrying task, as the more they grew the hungrier they became,
and she couldn't risk too much of the Eyrie's winter reserves to feed them. While she had kept
them for the most part under control, the bigger they became the more of a threat she worried
they would be to not only the Arryns but perhaps even Alysanne and the others.

That fear was multiplied when she looked to Balerion.

The black dragon was the biggest and fastest growing of them all, and had in the past few
days taken to the skies for short stints, something his brothers had yet to do. He was there
now, body steaming as he cut through the falling snow above the Eyrie. Fiercely intelligent
and utterly ferocious, Balerion seemed to be the incarnate of his namesake, Balerion the
Black Dread, the same dragon who had turned the great towers of Harrenhal into melted
ruins. He flew farther and farther every day, and her control over him was limited. While he
always returned to feed and flew to Daenerys' balcony at night to curl around his brothers at
the hearth, he was clearly the most willful of the three.

Willful enough to start hunting on his own, if the blackened bones of cats and goats found
around the Eyrie were any indicator.

Dany watched him far above her, pride and fear and power coursing through her veins at the
thought of what he could become. While she knew dragons would only solidify and ensure
Targaryen rule for generations—and she would slaughter anyone who dared try to harm them
—she also wasn't blind to the dangers they represented. What would her father Aerys have
been capable of if he had had dragons under his control? What would Aelor have done?

How many more Houses besides the Darklyns, Hollards and Rogers would those two men
had eliminated?

"Brilliant, isn't he?"

Dany was shaken from her thoughts by the voice behind her, turning even as she answered,
Rhaegal raising his long neck as he awoke. "He becomes more so every—"
Alysanne was smiling at her, holding a bundle in her arms. It was thickly covered in swaddles
against the chill of the courtyard and Alysanne held him close to her chest, but resting in
those swaddles and furs was a tiny, silver-haired child.

"Daenerys, I would like you to meet your great-nephew and future Lord of Duskendale,
Lucaerys Targaryen."

Dany started forward, smile enigmatic, when a shadow darted down. Balerion was suddenly
hovering between them, wings flapping, muzzle close to the bundle in Alysanne's arms.

Daenerys and Alysanne both froze, Balerion seeming to have descended quicker than light.
Fear almost paralyzed Dany at the thought that the black dragon may see the minutes-old
child as prey. Alysanne seemed to have the same idea, slowly starting to shift her grandson
away from the sniffing snout of Balerion.

And then little Lucaerys' eyes opened, staring out of his swaddles at the dragon hovering
inches from him.

With two hard flaps of his growing wings Balerion took back to the skies, flame liquefying
the falling snow as the dragon roared in seeming adulation.

Dany could have sworn little Lucaerys Targaryen smiled.

The King in King's Landing was bored. So far his rule had consisted of the execution of five
guardsmen for incompetency and mounting an old man's head on a spike. That was it, no
battles aside from the one to take the city that he hadn't participated in, no sieges, no nothing,
just an endless cycle of sitting and waiting.

The Red Keep and King's Landing were well prepared for the falling snow, their winter
reserves having been built up over the years of peace during Aegon's rule. Her walls and
defenses were unmarred after the coup that had taken the city, and any damage caused by the
limited fighting had long been undone. The city was strong, and Viserys had been counseled
that waiting for an attack by his enemies was wisest. While several houses had declared for
Viserys and the Ironborn were doing an exemplary job of tying down the armies of Edmure
Tully and Mace Tyrell, he was still outnumbered, and the strong defenses of King's Landing
were his best bet of repulsing any attacks.

That was all well and good in the strategy room, but it was driving Viserys positively insane
with impatience.

His nephew and brother were lost somewhere in the snows of the North, scouts unable to
fight through the ice north of the Neck to give any solid information. Myrcella had seemed to
escape him, that bloody cunt Colmar the Grey having managed to facilitate her escape, but
the presence of Elia Sand as a hostage and the threat of the Ironborn was keeping the Dornish
and their armies a respectable distance South. Viserys wished to go forward and attack one or
the other, pinning one of the armies between his own and the Ironborn, but his council was
severely opposed, and he could see the sense of it even if he didn't want to.
The snows were deep and frequent, and he held the advantage if he stayed in the capitol. If he
left it, nothing was to stop the Dornish from assaulting or the armies in the west to forget the
Ironborn for the chance to destroy him.

So Viserys waited. And waited. And waited.

Gods was he tired of waiting.

House Payne of the Gold Road in the Westerlands had declared for him, Lord Lorimer never
having taken to Tyrion Lannister as his Lord. He brought with him two thousand knights and
levies. The Thornes of Blackwater Rush had done the same, Lord Alester and his lands too
close to the capital and too far from friendly forces to do otherwise. While his loyalty was
certainly circumspect, he was an accomplished warrior and an excellent commander, and he
could prove quite useful. The Stokeworths had sworn for him, as had the representatives of
young Lady Ermesande Hayford of Hayford, though both had only done so once Golden
Company men were at their doorsteps. While none of that was to be overly trusted, it did
secure the surrounding lands to his cause, at least in name. Lord Gyles Rosby had remained
loyal, but his men were north with the King and his keep had capitulated easily. The old,
dying man was currently another hostage of Viserys, though he wondered if he should kill
him and be done with it.

His Kingsguard was four strong for now, and he was reserving the other spots for future
appointments. He had knighted and named Alester Strong to the order, the lad loyal and
deadly. He had also named Ser Gerold Hasty, the brother of one of Lord Andrus Buckler's
bannermen, to the white cloaks, a reputed excellent swordsman. It also helped to
acknowledge the help the Bucklers and others of Renly's forces had given in securing the
capitol, playing as much political importance as relevant move for the safety of his person.

Will Cole of the Golden Company had been appointed, as had the Jogos Nhai man Nhogo. A
head shorter than the average Westerosi men and bowlegged, Nhogo had the pointed cranium
of most Jogos Nhai, the result of his people's custom of binding the head of their infants for
the first two years of life. His appointment was all prudence, as the odd little man was death
with the odder blade he carried. The Westeros nobility would scoff at the appointment of such
a foreigner to such a position, but this was to be a new world under Viserys, and he saw no
need to explain his actions.

He had most of his guard, he had his army, and he had his capitol. All he needed was his
Queen.

But that seemed to keep getting farther and farther away.

So Viserys sat in his chambers in the Red Keep, glaring out at the snow falling in droves
around him, and brooded. He was a King now, but for a moment he felt like nothing had
changed from his days in Summerhall.

Jaehaerys Targaryen was roused by a cold snout pressed to his face and a knock on the door.
"Jae," came the muffled call through the door, and Ghost brought him to a higher level of
alert by licking his face. The Prince of the Iron Throne gently pushed the albino wolf away,
rising to a sitting position and squinting in the darkness. The windows of his chambers
showed it to still be dark outside, and doubtlessly pouring the snow. The door to his chamber
was outlined with a small ray of light, evidence whoever was knocking had a torch or candle.

"Come in," the Prince called, voice thick with sleep, averting his eyes as the door opened and
light streamed in.

His cousin Aemon stood in the doorway, wearing several layers of furs and holding a torch.
His always-serious face held an even more somber tone than usual. "You're going to want to
see this."

He descended the steps of the King's Tower sometime later, adjusting his sword belt with his
direwolf ahead of him and nephew behind, Ser Borran of the Bramsfort waiting at the
bottom. Aemon didn't need to direct him, for a gathering of men were huddled in the
courtyard beside the gate through the Wall, shrouded in thick furs and breathing heavy bursts
of steam into the night air. Jaehaerys quickly made his way towards them, sliding between
two men in the black cloaks of the Night's Watch to the center of the circle.

Laying there, blood frozen where it had spread around the mess that had been made of his
stomach, lay a man in Targaryen livery.

Lord Commander Jeor Mormont, gruff and blunt, filled the Prince of the Iron Throne in. "He
was drug in behind his horse, tied to the pommel of the saddle. None of the rest of his patrol
has come back."

Aemon, voice quite, spoke from beside him. "It's Lucas Flowers, Your Grace."

Jaehaerys knew that, of course. Lucas Flowers was a bastard brother of Lord Horas Appleton
of the Reach. He was a member of Aelor's retinue, though his uncle had instructed him to
remain behind with Jaehaerys at the Wall. Flowers was an excellent scout, and had
volunteered to help keeps eyes on the slowly advancing wildling force. Mance Rayder had
numbers to be certain, but those numbers took much longer to move than the normal force,
especially in the snows that had begun falling. Still, Rayder had had weeks, and the scouts
had been reporting he was growing ever closer.

Now he was very close indeed.

Lord Eddard Stark held command of the Nightfort, having replaced Aelor in the capacity
when the Hand of the King went south, but Robb had remained at Castle Black with
Jaehaerys. The heir to the North looked to have been roused from his sleep the same as
Jaehaerys, but he gestured towards Flowers' chest, eyes focused. "He has something pinned
to his chest, Prince Jaehaerys."

Jaremy Rykker, brother to the dead Lord who had been Aelor's finest friend, knelt by the
corpse of Flowers, pulling a small blade loose from his chest with a gut-wrenching slunk.
Unaffected, Rykker brought the note dutifully to Jaehaerys, who unfolded the bloody piece of
tanned animal skin. The words were blunt and to the point, as was the name signed at the
bottom.

Jaehaerys found his voice, informing the gathering of black brothers, lords and knights
around him. "It's from Mance Rayder."

Lord Commander Mormont peered close. "What's the bastard say?"

Jaehaerys reread the short missive twice for folding it up. "He simply says there are things
out there that will do worse than this to us all." Hard to imagine, considering the mess of
intestines Flower's had become. It was clear he hadn't died quickly. "He wants us to send an
envoy to set up a parlay."

Lord Cleyton Byrch, he who had rode to glory beside Jaehaerys' uncle during Robert's
Rebellion, snorted disdainfully. "The man is mad. We have the advantage."

Jaremy Rykker shook his head. "We brothers of the Watch know what he refers to, Lord
Byrch. I don't condone siding with wildlings in any way, but it may be worth seeing what he
has to say."

Ser Borran was appalled at that. "And risk the Prince in a parlay with savages who do this to
men? Come off it, man."

Jaehaerys was lost in his own thought as the men around him erupted into argument.
Jaehaerys had taken a few sorties North of the Wall, but he hadn't gone beyond a day or two
rides from Castle Black. The only threats he had seen in the north was that posed by the
wildlings, having seen them in battle at the Nightfort. His brain told him this was a bad idea.

But.

Jaehaerys had seen his uncle Eddard execute one of the Night's Watch deserters. The man had
been a ranger, reputed as one of the best, but he had been terrified the day he had died, and it
wasn't at the prospect of death then and there. No, he seemed to have almost welcomed the
swing of Ned Stark's sword.

It was clear he was running from something. Jaehaerys had seen battle with wildlings, and
while he had been scared out of his wits it hadn't turned him into a man seeking death.

As the men raged at one another around him, Jaehaerys stood motionless, considering his
options. His brain told him to ignore Mance Rayder's offer of parlay. His gut, however, told
him it might be worth seeing what the man had to say. His lords and most members of the
Watch wouldn't like the idea, especially considering the grisly manner in which the message
had been delivered. They would rage at him, they would call him foolish.

But he was in command here, not them.

"My lords," he said quietly over the din of arguing men, more and more knights and black
brothers joining the commotion. Jaehaerys tried again, yelling at the top of his voice. "My
lords!" Silence slowly descended as Jaehaerys stepped into the circle beside the body of
Lucas Flowers. "I will accept his offer of parlay."

Jaehaerys shouted again to stop the explosion of voices. "We will make it a neutral spot, and
we will be weary of ambush, but in the grand scheme of things I am nothing. It's the Wall he
needs destroy, not the man in command of it. My death or the death of Lord Commander
Mormont wouldn't solve his problem and he knows it, yet he offers parlay as it is. I will go
north and see what this King-Beyond-The-Wall has to say. That is my command, and it will
be obeyed."

Aemon spoke quietly, through the angry silence at his cousin's words. "You'll have a hard
time finding a man to act as envoy after…that." The future Lord of the Golden Tooth
gestured towards the corpse at Jaehaerys' feet.

The Prince of the Iron Throne shook his head. "I won't be asking any of my soldiers or the
men of the Night's Watch." His mind wandered as it often did to a pair of grey-green eyes set
too far apart. He had kept himself away from them and their owner in the months since her
capture, but he now looked towards the Grey Keep, where she had been held all this time. "I
have just the envoy in mind, and she is no man."
 LVIII

Jaehaerys had been told months ago that there were hardly ever prisoners at the Wall. It was
simpler for the few men of the Watch to kill their enemies then and there rather than have to
house and clothe and feed them. Besides, any prisoners they did take usually ended up in the
ice cells, and those more often than not finished whatever job the black brothers had started.

But exceptions had been made for the wildling girl who Jaehaerys' still couldn't name. His
uncle Aelor had rode in issuing orders that a proper room be found somewhere to hold the
girl, and Ser Jaremy Rykker—who once had been the squire of the Targaryen prince of war—
had been intelligent enough to insist it be far away from where any men were camped,
particularly men of the Night's Watch. The Grey Keep was an old building, and in the heyday
of the Night's Watch had housed over a thousand brothers at a time. Now, though, it was
nearly in ruins, no longer utilized as a barracks but instead a store room. It was there that an
old officer chamber had been appropriated for the wildling, and there she had remained for
months.

Until today, when grey-green eyes were staring at him defiantly from a chair across from his
small work desk.

Ser Borran stood directly behind the wildling girl, his hand on his dagger, ready to unsheathe
it and slit the girl's neck if she made a move for Jaehaerys. The Wolf Prince thought that was
rather unlikely, firstly because she was chained to the chair and secondly because Ghost sat
directly beside him, staring at the wildling with his red eyes. Her eyes kept flickering to the
albino, as if she expected Jaehaerys to order him to leap the table and rip her throat out.
Jaehaerys let her think it.

He had needed time to catch his breath. Her clothing was worn thin, and though she had been
appropriated a tub for a bath rather frequently her hair was slightly matted, her already pale
skin gone paler. Yet still, she was beautiful.

He finally found his voice after the silence had gone on for well over a minute. "What is your
name?"

The redheaded wildling glared across the table at him, and for a moment the Prince thought
she wouldn't say anything. But suddenly she began speaking, her tone a sweet dulcet even
when dripping with anger and contempt. "I recognize you, y'know, even without that hunk of
steel you southerners wear over you're fuckin heads. You're the one I was going to gut before
the demon jumped in."

Whatever he had been expecting her to say, it wasn't that. "I….how?"

"The way you hold yourself, like the whole fucking world is yours to control. I bet you're one
of those dragon cunts, aren't ya, the ones who lord it over millions of people. I thought you
were s'posed to have silver hair and be able to shit fire, not look like some green boy."
Ser Borran spoke sharply. Jaehaerys imagined the man held a grudge; he was still limping
from the arrow the redhead had shot into his knee. "You'll speak with more respect, girl."

The wildling tried to turn around, though the chains pinning her wrists to the chair stopped
her form getting too far. "Or what, you'll throw me back in the shithole you dumped me in
after the demon did this?" She twitched her right hand, and Jaehaerys winced at the mostly
healed nubs where her index finger was missing and her middle finger was removed from
just below the second knuckle. "Please, do me the favor and finish what you started!"

"Peace, Ser Borran," Jaehaerys said, stopping the Kingsguard from raising a hand to the girl,
who whirled back around to him.

"Why, afraid he'll damage your whore more than the silver-haired fuck already did?"

It took Jaehaerys a long moment to realize what the wildling girl seemed to believe she was
here for. He was instantly both horrified and embarrassed, blood running to his cheeks. The
girl saw it, and leaped upon it relentlessly, tone mockingly sweet and sensual. "What's the
matter, never done it before? None of those kneelers down south would have you so you
figure to use a captive at your mercy?"

Jaehaerys unsuccessfully fought the deepening blush. "That is not what you are here for, my
lady."

That seemed to throw her for a slight loop, as her face lost its vicious smile. "It's not?"

Being the one with the upper hand—slight as it was—helped Jaehaerys regain a bit of his
equilibrium. "No, it is not. Now if you'll kindly let me speak more than one sentence at a
time, I'll explain it to you." He quickly threw the note he had received the night before on the
table between them, still stained crimson with Lucas Flowers' blood. He somehow doubted
this wildling would be able to keep her mouth shut too long, and he knew she'd speak if it
meant spiting him. "I received this from Mance Rayder. It was delivered pinned to one of my
scout's chest while his entrails bloodied the snow beneath him."

The girl made no move to look at the note on the table, and Jaehaerys suddenly wondered if
she had ever been taught to read. The Prince quickly spoke again in case she hadn't, the
differences in their life stations no more clear than in that moment. "He wants to talk,
claiming there is something North of the Wall that will do far worse to us all than he did to
my scout."

The wildlings eyes got wide, and for the first time her voice held no scorn or anger. "He's
right."

Jaehaerys nodded. "Aye, the men of the Watch reported as much. I don't know if I believe it
or not, but they've told me enough to know I may want to hear what your King has to say."

The intelligence in her grey-green eyes was clearly an accurate representation of her mind.
"You want me to set this meeting up with Mance."

Jaehaerys nodded. "Yes, I do."

She eyed him curiously. "I climbed this bloody thing to get away from what I was running
from. What makes you think I'll go back?"

"Because if you do, it might well save your people."

"We're the Free Folk."

Jaehaerys cut off whatever bullshit excuse she was about to give, because they both knew she
would accept. "And you're free to go back and try to save them." They locked eyes for a
moment, and Jaehaerys took her silence for the yes it was. "Ser Jaremy Rykker and Lord
Commander Mormont have selected the site we agree to, and it is the only site we agree to.
Your King may bring ten men. I'll bring the same number. If more than that arrives we'll turn
and ride without hearing a single word. He is to send a rider back under a white flag to
inform us whether he agrees to our terms or not. That is the only offer he will receive; if he
refuses, he can bash his armies against the Wall for as long as he wants, but our men will hold
against all he throws at me. I imagine he knows that."

He laid a rolled piece of parchment on the table; if Mance Rayder could write he imagined
the man could read. "All of it is listed there. Deliver it to your King. If he is truly concerned
for the threat you claim is behind him, he is unlikely to refuse."

Jaehaerys waved his hand, and Ser Borran dutifully released the girl's hands from her bonds.
She rubbed her wrists, her movements with her right hand ginger and careful, before taking
the parchment. "When."

"Now. A horse and several fur cloaks and provisions are awaiting you. Ser Borran will escort
you."

Jaehaerys watcher her hips move as she rose to her feet and began to follow the white-
cloaked knight. His eyes snapped back to hers when she abruptly turned around. "Who do I
say this message is from?"

"Jaehaerys Targaryen."

She nodded knowingly. "I knew you were one of those dragon cunts." She hesitated just a
moment. "I'm Ygritte."

He ran the name through his mind long after she had followed Ser Borran out the door.

Jaehaerys decided he'd never heard a prettier one.

The King-Beyond-the-Wall had accepted, as they knew he would.

He wasn't much to look at, at least not physically. In truth he looked rather unremarkable
middle-aged man, brown eyes peering out of a sharp face framed by long hair that was
mostly gray. He was of middling height, a touch broad through the shoulders but lean of
stomach. He bore no banner, and dressed in simple ringmail and breeches, covered in a cloak
of black wool and red silk. He wore no helm or crown, and the men and women walking
around him walked in no particular order that Jaehaerys could see.

Yet still, any man could look upon Mance Rayder and see he was in charge in the way he
carried his head held high and his shoulders back. Jaehaerys wondered if that was what
Ygritte had seen in him that allowed her to guess he was a Prince.

The meeting was taking place half a day north of the Wall, in a natural clearing. The ride had
been hard through deep, deep snow, but the horses had managed well enough. Men carried
only that which was on them, avoiding the need to pull wagons along through the treacherous
white. Three hundred hardened soldiers awaited Jaehaerys and his party only the blow of a
horn away, and the Wolf Prince supposed Mance had additional forces waiting as well. The
men around Jaehaerys were on high alert, ready for any kind of treachery the wildlings might
throw at them. The Prince doubted Rayder would have arrived if he intended to dishonor
their parlay, and as he had told the men the night Lucas Flowers' was returned Jaehaerys was
only one man. His death would ultimately men little to the defense of the Wall, whereas his
willingness to listen to what Rayder had to say might mean a whole hell of a lot.

But in any case, Ghost and Grey Wind flanked the line of ten horsemen, ears perked.
Jaehaerys had no doubt the disturbingly smart direwolves would detect any type of treachery.

Lord Commander Mormont grunted as the wildlings grew close. The Old Bear had a hatred
for wildlings that outdated his service to the Night's Watch—the Mormonts of Bear Island
had been fighting their incursions for years—but he had insisted he come along with Prince
Jaehaerys for the parlay. While Jaehaerys worried the prejudice he clearly bore Rayder and
his men might alter his judgement, the Lord Commander had willingly followed Jaehaerys'
commands thus far, no matter his likely distrust of the Prince's youth. Ser Jaremy Rykker was
the only other member of the Night's Watch present, and his face was scrunched in the same
distaste as Mormont's.

Ser Borran had obviously come along, and of course Robb Stark, Jaehaerys wanting both the
additional senses of Robb's direwolf and the presence of the heir to the North, in case the
unforeseeable agreement was to happen. Five other of the strongest fighters at Castle Black
accompanied them, and his retinue was rounded out by his cousin Aemon. He wouldn't be
much help if it came to a fight, but quiet Aemon had beaten against Jaehaerys' will, wishing
to be there to see what could well be a legendary meeting.

Or a horribly doomed one. Either way, Jaehaerys was certain Aemon would write every facet
of it down.

Rayder's retinue was a conglomeration of men and women unlike anything Jaehaerys had
seen, growing in differences as they neared. Ygritte was among the number, grey-green eyes
on Jaehaerys from the beginning. A big wildling with a mane and beard of red walked closest
to Mance, and another man in armor made entirely of human bone was on the opposite side.
An ugly, squat woman with the head of a dog on a spear was present, as well as a disturbingly
beautiful blonde-haired woman in all white fur. A tall, bald man with an axe the size of
Jaehaerys was also there, and the Prince recognized his characteristics as that of a Thenn, the
cannibalistic wildlings of the far north. The others were variations of massive beards and fur,
most wearing trophies on their bodies.
But one thing stood out to Jaehaerys more than the rest.

There were only eight of them.

The two sides eyed each other coldly as the wildling party came to a stop fifteen feet in front
of Jaehaerys, the southerner's peering down from their horses and the true northerners glaring
up from the ground.

Rayder spoke first, eyes on Jaehaerys. "Ygritte here told me you didn't look much like a
Targaryen. Seems to me she was right. You must be the half-Stark one."

Lord Commander Mormont had told Jaehaerys months ago that Rayder had once been a
brother of the Night's Watch, serving at the Shadow Tower under Ser Denys Mallister. He had
abandoned the Watch less than a decade earlier, so it was of no surprise to Jaehaerys that
Rayder had an idea of southern politics. Still, he couldn't afford to show any weakness to
Rayder, neither in resolve or character. "My name is Jaehaerys Targaryen, Prince of the Iron
Throne. You're Mance Rayder, King Beyond the Wall."

Rayder nodded. "Aye, that's what they call me."

Jaehaerys gestured towards the eight men and women surrounding him. "I believe the terms
were ten men apiece."

Rayder smiled a tiny smile. "Aye, and I've brought them. I only figured I'd give you a fair
warning before the last two arrive."

Jaehaerys felt the urge to grasp the hilt of his sword, eyeing Rayder untrustingly. "Fair
warning of what?"

The-King-Beyond-the-WallThe-King-Beyond-the-Wall's smile grew. "Hold on tightly to your

horses." He gestured to the squat woman, who raised her spear with the impaled dog head
and waved it too and fro.

Ghost and Grey Wind both bristled, growling low, as a giant snowbear emerged from the
trees on the wildling side of the clearing, trotting towards the line with a man atop its back.
The horses instantly tried to balk, his cousin's ignoring his rider's attempts to control him and
slinging from side to side. Two of the fighters rushed to assist him, keeping his animal from
throwing Aemon to the ground, but the heir to the Golden Tooth looked green in the face
already. That slowly turned to white as another figure, almost human except for its immense
size.

A giant. That is a giant. Gods be good, they truly exist.

The figure stomped towards them at a slower pace than the unnerving bear, which would
stand nearly as tall as the giant if it stood on its hind paws. The immensity of the creature was
nearly unbelievable even when it was staring him in the face, and as Jaehaerys noted with no
small amount of discomfort the giant was staring straight at him as he approached. Robb
barked a command at Grey Wind when the direwolf snarled as the bear came to a stop, the
small man atop it eyeing both the grey and white wolf with an odd interest, considering he
already sat atop the massive bear.

Jaehaerys snapped a similar staying command to Ghost, his own albino wolf lowering down
and baring its teeth at the bear, who watched the whole ordeal as if nothing was out of the
ordinary. The giant soon came to a stop, towering over everything present, looking as if one
swing of his mighty arm could take out the entire line of Jaehaerys and his men.

The Prince realized it very well could.

"You see," Mance Rayder said, that same smile still in position, "All my men are here to see
what it is you have to say."

Jaehaerys fought to regain his composure, tearing his eyes away from the awesome giant who
could crush him like an insect and back to the unspectacular King. He wanted to show his
power. Jaehaerys put a cool calmness in his voice that he certainly didn't feel. "The body of
my scout sent your message clear enough. There is no need for these…exhibitions."

"Oh, but there you're wrong. I have to prove to you that I'm a threat to your Wall, because if
I'm not why would you take me seriously? Sure, I have you outnumbered by thousands, but
I'm on the wrong side of that Wall for them to be much good. I've sent hundreds of men to
climb it, yet none of them have returned or drawn your men away."

Jaehaerys knew over twenty bands of wildlings, most of them small but several of them
numbering over one hundred, had been caught trying to climb the Wall or slip around the Bay
of Ice. All had been soundly defeated by the new garrisons manning all the old castles of the
Watch, though he had no idea how Rayder would have any idea whether they had succeeded
or not.

He couldn't ask, though, for Rayder wasn't finished. "Except for Ygritte, that is, and I figured
her as lost for dead months ago. Yet she tells me you've held her all this time without harming
a hair on her head, except for the fingers a man took from her when she was about to gut you.
From what she said I take it it was one of your kinfolk who did it."

Jaehaerys didn't know what to say, so he simply nodded. "My uncle."

"Ah, the Dragon of Duskendale himself was at the Wall, eh? I wager he was one of the
groups you lot had ride away, though, or I'd be dealing with him instead of you."

Jaehaerys narrowed his eyes. How does he know so much of what's happening south of the
Wall? Ygritte had been imprisoned, first at the Nightfort and then Castle Black, and there was
no way anyone had told her about the occurrences. The possibility of a turncoat among his
men concerned him greatly, though he would have expected Rayder to utilize that better,
something along the line of throwing open the gates or some such.

Still, Jaehaerys wouldn't give Mance the pleasure of knowing that Jaehaerys had no bloody
clue how the King-Beyond-the-Wall knew so much. "Aye, my uncle is gone, though there is
plenty enough men left to stop you if you attack the Wall." Jaehaerys leaned forward in his
saddle. "But that isn't what you want to do, is it."
Mance stood to his full height, and there was no shame in his voice. "No, I don't want to
attack your Wall. I want to take my people and hide behind it." He gestured towards Lord
Commander Mormont, who had held his silence throughout the exchange. "Ask your Lord
Commander here, and he'll tell you the same thing I will. There are…things this side of the
Wall. Things you kneelers only hear about in stories and wives tales, and things my own
people had nearly forgotten were real."

Mance Rayder took a step closer to Jaehaerys, staring up at the Prince with intent eyes. "But
these wives tales are back. Entire villages have been wiped out, our own dead coming back to
kill more of us. We have to burn our brothers, our fathers, our children, because if we don't
they come back and slit our throats."

One of the guardsmen snorted, and Rayder turned to stare right at him. "Aye, that would have
been my reaction a few years ago. But I've learned in the times since." He looked back at
Jaehaerys. "I didn't want to be a King, odd as that might sound to you. I have a wife, and a
child on the way. I could be as content as any many ever was with them. But my family is
threatened by something I couldn't fight myself, so I began to gather the Free Folk. We've
fought one another for thousands of years, but all of us here knew we had to stand together
against the true enemy.

"Some of them look as normal as you, save for their pale skin and blue, blue eyes. Nothing
stops them for good except fire, and they're growing in numbers. The more these storms grow
the more of them come, and they don't care if who they're killing is a member of the Free
Folk or a Crow or a Dragon Prince." Mance shrugged. "Now my people aren't cowards, and
we'll fight anything that threatens us. But there is only so much the living can do against the
dead, especially when I have women and children to feed. I want to hide them behind your
Wall, for all of our sakes." His eyes tightened slightly. "But I'll bring it down if I have to."

This time several of the men scoffed. Jaehaerys did not, though he found the idea ridiculous.
"And just how would you do that? You haven't been able to cross the Wall without your
people dying, and I've got too many men on the other side for you to take it by force." The
Prince glanced up into the unwavering stare of the giant. "Even with bears and big men on
your side."

Whatever characteristics Mance Rayder might have, he took men laughing in his face very
well. "There's more to the Wall than ice and stone, boy. Magic, old and powerful spells, were
cast at her raising. I don't rightly care if you believe in it or not; scoff at me if you will, but
you won't do any laughing when I bring that Wall down on your head. Ask your Lord
Commander here about the Horn of Winter."

Jaehaerys looked to Mormont, who shook his head. "It's an old legend, talk of a horn that
would bring the wall down if it were blown. Horseshit, if you ask me."

"No, Mormont. There you are wrong. I found it."

Contempt was clear in the Lord Commander's voice. "Oh really? And where was that?"

Mance reached into a pouch on his belt. "At the Fist of the First Men, near the Milkwater,
buried in a sack full of this." He pulled a small, black stone from the pouch, tossing it lightly
to Jaehaerys, who snatched it out of the air. Jaehaerys recognized it instantly as obsidian,
nicknamed dragonglass. The stuff could be mined in bulk at Dragonstone, though Jaehaerys
knew of no true use for the material aside from decoration. "I don't know much about
whatever that stone is, but I'm willing to bet it has some significance your library might
contain."

Mormont was unconvinced. "And you expect us to believe this horn of yours can actually
bring the Wall down? Seven hundred feet of ice, brought down with a single toot."

"I don't care if you believe it or not, Mormont." He gestured to Jaehaerys. "I care if he does. I
need that Wall as much as you do, but I won't let my people bleed because you mistrust us."

Aemon had silently sidled his horse to Jaehaerys' side, the black-hided stallion with his ears
still pinned back from the constant presence of the bear. His cousin leaned close, observing
the dragonglass, before speaking in his quiet down so softly that Jaehaerys doubted anyone
other than the two of them could hear it. Jaehaerys was having enough trouble as it was.
"Sam and I have read about obsidian, Jae. It's in several of the volumes in the Night's Watch
library. Nothing says for a certainty exactly what it does, but it seems awfully important.
We've been searching all the volumes for more but we haven't found anything yet. The Horn
of Winter is mentioned as well, and the stories claim it will do just what Rayder is saying. It's
obviously never been tested, but…"

Jaehaerys hunched over closer to him and whispered back. "What do you make of all this,
Aemon."

His cousin shrugged. "I don't know if any of it is true. But I do know everything Mance has
mentioned has been mentioned in the library. I don't know if there is truly another threat he's
running from, but I don't know that there isn't, either."

Jaehaerys nodded, raising to sit straight up in the saddle again. "What is it you want,
Rayder?"

Mance quirked an eyebrow. "I thought I made that clear. "I want to pass through your Wall."

"And do what once you're there? Raid and pillage without a Wall to stop you?"

"All I want to do is hide."

"Even if I believed you, I doubt all your men think the same. What's to stop them from
pillaging once they're over there? Are you preparing to kneel and swear fealty to King
Aegon?"

Mance's face became stony. "We don't kneel."

Jaehaerys nodded. "Aye, not when you're above the Wall, but all those south of it do. If I
were to let you through, I'd expect you to do the same."

The-King-Beyond-the-WallThe-King-Beyond-the-Wall's face didn't flinch. "We don't kneel."

Jaehaerys shrugged. "Then you don't pass. You're the one claiming you need my Wall more
than you need to destroy it."

Mance was quite a long moment. "Say we return back North, once the dead stay that way.
What about then?"

"We both know most of your men won't have any intent of going back once they are south. It
seems to me like your options are die North of the Wall, or kneel. Or, if you truly can, bring
the Wall down." Jaehaerys leaned forward in the saddle. "And then die south of it." Jaehaerys
straightened back up. "It seems to me that you need my Wall intact, because if it isn't we'll all
just die anyhow. My offer is clear. Go, think on it. I'm not guaranteeing you passage, but I do
guarantee you another parlay."

Jaehaerys reined his stallion back slightly. "I don't know if you mean anything you have told
me, but I certainly know I meant what I said. If you and your chiefs truly care for you people,
maybe you'll give me a better offer. Mine remains the same. If you wish to talk again, send
another envoy under a flag of truce. I will parlay again."

Jaehaerys stole a quick glance at Ygritte, her grey-green eyes staring at him. "If what you say
is true, we need each other. But you need me more than I need you. Try and convince your
men of that. You know where I'll be."

As Jaehaerys turned and kicked his stallion into a gallop the other way, he wondered if he
was about to get more war than even Aegon could have ever wanted.
 LIX

Blackcrown had fallen. Again.

He'd never been his father's favorite son, despite his efforts to be the best reaver this side of
Dagmer Cleftjaw. Long days spent as an oarsman aboard a longship followed by evenings
training with his sword and axe had left him lean and scarred, yet still his father paid little
attention. His raids in the Summer Isles, deemed extraordinary daring and dangerous by all of
his men and others besides, had been met with a simple raised eyebrow and hand wave of
dismissal.

He was the expendable son.

That was why he was given command of thirty longships at the beginning of this war, to go
and smash them against Oldtown's trebuchets or the Arbor's galleys, to at least die as an
Ironborn even if Iron King Balon never considered him one.

Prince Theon Greyjoy hadn't died. Instead, he had become the Bloodkraken.

He'd taken Old Oak in the dead of the night, his reavers sailing into the docks with muffled
oars and swarming the small port city and castle nearly before the Oakheart Lords had any
notion they were there. He'd sacked the ancient castle and then rowed to Oakenshield,
finishing off what his uncle Victarion had started, battling over the walls and into the heart of
the castle. He'd taken Lord Hewett's buxom bastard daughter, Falia, as a salt wife, and on her
pleas had also claimed two of her trueborn sisters. Theon had at first thought she meant it as
an act of mercy, saving her sisters from the Ironborn underlings, but Falia had quickly proven
that notion a foolish one.

She was the first woman he'd ever met with a deviant side as broad as his own. Theon half-
fancied himself in love.

The third son of Balon Greyjoy had learned of the firsts' death shortly after the fall of
Oakenshield, his eldest brother Rodrik having met his fate—a well-deserved one, in Theon's
mind—at the end of a Mallister's blade. His other brother Maron was engaged with the
Prester's of Feastfires, both Ironborn and greenlander refusing to give up a vicious siege that
had gone on for months. The Lord of Feastfires, Garrison Prester, had been killed leading a
sortie against the Ironborn, and his second-in-command, a cousin named Forley, had died
with him. Instead of weakening the Westerlanders, it seemed to have instead strengthened
them. A raven haired daughter of Lord Garrison, six-and-ten Elinor Prester, had taken over
command of the defenses, and by all reports was wreaking more havoc than either her father
or male cousin had been able to.

Ironborn numbers had dwindled so severely that Maron had called for aide, something Theon
knew his older brother wouldn't have done if at all avoidable. It was unseemly for an
Ironborn to call for any type of help, much less when facing a woman.
Theon loved it. One of his brother's had gotten himself killed while the other and an uncle
had been shamed, while Theon was covering himself in riches, women and glory. Minor
captains had steadily been flocking to his command, inflating his numbers to near four times
the size they had been at the beginning of the war. At this rate he would have to be more wary
of Asha during a kingsmoot than Maron or Victarion.

That was probably the case in any instance, but that was neither here nor there. His sister was
trying to hunt down the Redwyne fleet, which had been playing cat and mouse for ages,
while their father had been raiding Dorne's scorched coasts while he waited for the Royal
Fleet to arrive. No word had been had from any of the easternmost fleets in several weeks,
but Asha had always been secretive and the Iron King normally deemed it below him to keep
his followers up to date on his activities. If Sunspear, the only target of true worth before the
Stormlands, had fallen to anyone word would have spread by now, as would news of the
galleys of the Iron Throne appearing. Theon imagined the Royal Fleet had likely already been
smashed by his father, and that Balon Greyjoy was sailing towards the riches of the Eastern
coasts.

Victarion, still seething at having his nephew sail up and take his glory from him, had sailed
off to answer Maron's call, likely in hopes of reclaiming some of his own renown and further
damaging Maron's. Theon had sailed the opposite direction alongside a fleet under Dagmer
Cleftjaw, to re-take Blackcrown from the Reach forces that had driven the original Ironborn
out. While everything of value had been removed during the first taking, it would serve as a
warning to the Reachmen that none of the greenlands was safe, and that it would take more
than a token force to hold any keep this side of Dorne. Theon also hoped it drew forces away
from his ultimate goal, which to this point had been too well defended to even contemplate
attack.

He was going to take Oldtown, right out from beneath the pompous Hightowers.

He fell asleep every night, Falia on one side and one of her bound sisters the other, with
dreams of the glory to come.

It was from that sleep he awoke to word that a fleet had stolen up on them in the night,
engaging Dagmer just off the coast of Blackcrown.

The sound of the battle was fierce even from shore as Theon and his reavers rushed to man
their ships. As he sprinted towards the docks, kraken-helm in one hand and bow across his
back, he could see the blue sails with clusters of red grapes. Redwyne seems to have given
Asha the slip long enough to hit me. Theon's heart soared. It appears my sister shall be put to
shame during this war as well.

"To oars!" He shouted as soon as he stepped aboard his longship, aptly named Glory Seeker,
rather needlessly as his men were already pulling out of the docks. "We crush the Redwynes
today!"

Dagmer had already been holding his own against the Redwyne fleets by the time Theon's
came barreling in. Arrows and grappling hooks flew between ships. Theon ordered the Seeker
up beside one of the largest galleys with the Redwyne sail billowing, the Reachman galley
sitting a full two decks higher than his own longship. Regardless his men tossed grappling
hooks, and Theon picked off two enemy archers with his bow before he reslung it and hauled
himself up and over the side of Redwyne vessel, axe and sword soon covered in blood. Two
other ships of lesser captains had likewise assaulted the Redwyne vessel, and before long the
scores of Ironborn had painted it was red as the grapes on her sails.

Theon removed his axe from the brain of a Reach sailor, barely noticing the carnage as his
men and those of the other captains mopped up what was left of the Redwyne men. He strode
towards the forecastle, dispatching a wounded man in blue and yellow along the way, using
the height of the massive vessel to look over the battle at the sea.

What he saw froze his blood.

Approaching from the direction of Dorne was a fleet, their sails turning the blue of the sea
into an ocean of colored cloth. But those sails belonged to neither his father nor his sister, the
ships too wide in the water and tall in the mast to be reavers. Those were galleys, not
longships, too many of them to be prizes captured, all sailing towards Theon and the
remnants of the Redwynes.

At their front the largest of the galleys sailed, its deck adorned with scorpions and her rigging
with marksmen. Her mainsail flew the crimson dragon of Aegon Targaryen, her topsail the
black stag of Baratheon.

The Royal Fleet had arrived.

For a moment Theon could only stare, mind unable to process the implications of the Royal
Fleet's sudden arrival off the western coast of the Reach alongside the Redwyne's. His father
was supposed to have met them south of Dorne; he and Asha combined would have had too
many ships for a greenlander to defeat, and even if by a miracle one had their would have
been survivors to bring the tale to the rest of the Ironborn. His father and his captains were
too experienced at sea to fall, and they were expecting the Royal Fleet; they weren't likely to
have been taken unawares.

Yet here his enemy was, and the Iron King was nowhere to be found.

Shouts of alarm began on the deck around him as more and more Ironborn became aware of
the approaching fleet. Several captains were turning towards the new threat, while others
were shamelessly beginning to edge their crews away from the battle.

Theon understood why. This piece of the Redwyne Fleet had clearly been a distraction,
drawing the Ironborn into a disorganized mass of ship-to-ship combat. The Royal Fleet then
bolted in, organized and fresh, to smash them.

To smash Theon.

Greyjoy knew then he was going to die.

His mind was a blur of images as he raced back to Glory Seeker, refusing some of his crew's
pleas to flee. His Ironborn made a fight of it, sinking and burning three more ships before the
massive black hulk and black sails of the royal flagship loomed over him.
He saw Dagmer had also been drawn towards the flagship, and both Ironborn made to board
her simultaneously. No communication had both boarded the royal flagship, both reavers
making a last-ditch effort to remove the head of the snake so that the body would die.
Scorpion bolts tore through his longship and arrows through his men as they boarded, and as
soon as they gained the deck they were set upon. It wasn't sailors who met them but instead
knights and experienced men at arms, some dressed in full armor despite the fact that it
would drown them should they be cast overboard. His uncle Victarion, who also dressed in
full armor, would call them brave, but Theon considered them stupid.

But either way, brave or stupid, they were deadly.

Theon saw the Cleftjaw die, a greenlander mace turning the ugly scar of his face into an
uglier mass of blood and bone, knocking the infamous captain to the ground where the mace-
wielder proceeded to smash his white-haired head in. It was a different man, in black and
gold armor with stag antlers on his helm, who killed Theon. They battled for what seemed
liked hours, Theon quick and elusive with his axe in one hand and his sword in the other
while the muscular greenlander—clearly a Baratheon—was savagely strong with his sword
and shield.

It was Dagmer who ultimately caused his doom, the Prince of the Iron Islands slipping on the
old Ironborn's blood and going to a knee. The Baratheon's sword had knocked aside his axe
and then removed his head before Theon Greyjoy could even think to scream.

The Bloodkraken's head bounced once, twice, thrice across the bloody deck before it dropped
into the murky sea.

They arrived a fortnight after he'd left them standing in a field.

There was no pomp and circumstance for this meeting, no show of strength. Jaehaerys
Targaryen, accompanied only by Lord Commander Mormont, Ser Borran of the Kingsguard,
Robb Stark and their two direwolves rode to the edge of the clearing in front of the Wall.
There they were met by Mance Rayder, the big red-bearded wildling known as Tormund
Giantsbane, the giant himself called Mag the Mighty and the disturbingly beautiful blonde-
haired woman called Val. No snowbears came from the woods, no squat women waved
impaled dog heads around, and no line of knights on horses peered down from a position of
superiority.

The two sides simply met, and once again started to business. Snow fell around them, a near
constant thing now, as Mance Rayder once again pleaded his case. "I brought your proposal
before my people."

Jaehaerys nodded. "And?"

Rayder's tone was tight with barely-controlled anger. "I lost nearly a hundred men in the
brawls that broke out. My people refuse to kneel."

"I'll take that as a no, then."

Rayder raised a hand. "You didn't let me finish." His voice lowered with his hand. "I lost near
one thousand more when the dead hit us that night. We burnt our own as soon as they fell, but
then the same evil we've been running from caught up to us. My people are on their way here,
whether that gate is open or no."

Jaehaerys' throat was dry, but he kept his face calm. "You know my terms. They will not
change."

Mance raised his chin a hair. "You seem like a smart lad, even for a southerner, but you're
being foolish. I just told you the dead are near, nearer than any of us would ever want their
like to be, yet you'll let me bring the only thing between you and them down before you let
my people through."

He shook his head. "Quite the contrary. You would bring down the only thing between me
and them before I let your people through."

The red-haired Giantsbane spoke, voice deep and raspy. "The free folk don't kneel,
southerner. We nearly tore one another apart when the idea of it was mentioned."

Mance nodded. "There are those who would rather die than kneel before any man."

Jaehaerys swallowed, then spoke the words he had been preparing to say for weeks. "Then let
them."

The King-Beyond-the-Wall seemed insulted. "Leave my people to die?"

"Not all of them," the Targaryen Prince cut in, before Rayder could work himself into too big
of a lather. "Just the ones who won't swallow their pride enough to save their people's lives.
Any man who wouldn't kneel to save his family is not a man I want anything to do with. If
they would refuse my offer and doom the rest of you, leave them. Those of you who would
kneel and follow the commands of the King are free to come below the Wall, though with the
stipulations mentioned and a few others to boot."

Giantsbane grunted. "And what do we do when those we leave come knocking on your
Wall?"

Jaehaerys met the bigger man's eyes. "Nothing; you do nothing. I do something."

"And just what would you do?"

Jaehaerys tried his damndest to embody Aelor in that moment. "I'll give them what they
want. Death."

Mance spoke, voice still on the edge of control. "Those who refuse to kneel picked me as
their king just as those who were open to the idea did."

"And those who follow a king obey that king, or he is no king at all. They chose you to
follow; if they choose not to do so in this, then your hands will be clean."

"And yours will be those of a murderer."

Jaehaerys didn't let his face flinch, though his insides certainly recoiled. "No. It'll make mine
more kingly than yours ever could be." Jaehaerys gestured behind him, towards the Wall that
towered behind them. "That is the key to your salvation. I hold it. I can give it to any of you
who choose to follow my commands. And I can just as easily withhold it from those who
won't. I have made my position clear, Mance Rayder."

The King-Beyond-The-Wall spat. "And I've tried to make mine clear as well, but you won't
listen. The threat I'm running from is far greater than the one my people represent!"

"And I have a Wall to defend against it."

"I warned you I would bring that Wall to the ground if I have to."

Jaehaerys rose to his full height. "Then do it, and we'll all die together."

For just a moment Jaehaerys thought Rayder would strike him. Ghost and Grey Wind sensed
it, both direwolves stepping closer to the Prince of the Iron Throne and growling low in their
throats, while Borran and Robb stepped forward with their hands on their swords. Rayder
didn't move to attack, though, his eyes locked on Jaehaerys' as his mind clearly raced. The
Prince of the Iron Throne met the gaze, refusing to buckle, even as his breath caught in his
throat.

It was several long minutes before Rayder let out a long sigh.

"What are these other 'stipulations'?"

 LX

And it had all been going so well.

King Viserys Targaryen's war effort had been achieving nearly unprecedented success. He'd
taken King's Landing almost bloodlessly—for his side, anyway—and several houses had
sworn for him. While his cousins and sister had escaped him, his nephew and uncle had both
been beset upon by the same snows that now covered his city. While his scouts couldn't
infiltrate the snows well enough to keep track of numbers or exact positions, it was common
sense that Aegon and Aelor were suffering severe attrition. Their animals were certainly in
danger, and if Viserys could engage them with an overwhelming cavalry superiority he would
have the clear advantage.

Over half the North and a large portion of the strongest southern levies were at the Wall. The
Reach armies and shattered remnants of the Westerlands were busy trying to rid their coasts
of the Ironborn, nearly the entire coastline falling at some point or another to the reavers. The
forces of the Riverlands and Vale were split, a large portion of their strength also trying to
contain the Ironborn while the rest had gone to try and unite with Aegon. Maylo Jayn and
Black Balaq had taken a detachment of several thousand Golden Company mercenaries to
harass them, and the Summer Island archers had succeeded in slowing them considerably.
Dorne had been subjected to enough Ironborn raids that they had been forced to protect their
borders, while the presence of Elia Sand in King's Landing kept Prince Oberyn Martell and
his fifteen thousand Dornishmen in the Boneway.

Yes, despite the slight setbacks, Viserys' war had been going swimmingly.

Until a handful of battered longships had sailed into Blackwater Bay, bringing with them
devastating news.

Asha Greyjoy was longlegged and lean, with black hair she kept chopped short. When she'd
disembarked her right arm had been in a makeshift, bloodstained sling; the bones had been
nearly pulverized by a warhammer, and the physicians seemed intent on removing the arm
before the infection already running rampant through it took her life. The Lady Reaver was
just as adamant that they didn't take it, and it had taken ordered force from Viserys to save
her life.

Ordered force had taken her father's.

Viserys knew Stannis Baratheon was a hard, unyielding man, totally unlike his younger
brother Renly. While Viserys had been granted the reconstructed Summerhall a few years
before the Lord of the Stormlands had come to the capital as Master of Ships, he still knew
the elder Baratheon's reputation; he had eaten boot leather rather than surrender Storm's End
to Mace Tyrell, and had made no excuses to try and save his life when judgement was passed
down by Aelor Targaryen. The only reason he hadn't died at Storm's End was the interference
of Ned Stark and the fact that Renly would have to die with him.
Yet still, Viserys hadn't expected Stannis to be as patient and calculating as he had been.
Storm's End wasn't overly far from King's Landing, particularly by sea, and it was there that
Lord Stannis' children and wife awaited the end of the war. While it was considered nearly
impregnable, it certainly couldn't have been easy for Stannis to resist either rushing back to
protect his castle or rushing forward into battle to try and end the war quickly.

He had done neither.

Iron King Balon Greyjoy had been raiding the south of Dorne while he awaited Stannis'
arrival. Lord Baratheon had proceeded cautiously, hugging the coastlines and keeping in
contact with the Lords of Dorne. Balon Greyjoy had kept his navy mostly intact aside from
the attachment under his daughter, who was chasing the Redwyne's back and forth. After a
few weeks raiding around the curve of the Reach as they waited, he had proceeded to Dorne,
and there had sacked Starfall, home of the ancient House Dayne, though the Dayne's
themselves had simply evacuated ahead of the Ironborn scourge. Intermittently they raided
villages, slaughtering smallfolk, before sailing up the Brimstone to attack Hellholt, home of
House Uller. Thrice he attempted to take the castle and thrice he was repulsed, though he kept
the bulk of his navy scouting for Stannis.

When the Royal Fleet was finally sighted, he abandoned all other raids, consolidated his
fleet, and took off after them. Stannis had retreated from him, outnumbered without the
Redwyne's, into the small Bay of Salt beneath the walls of Scorched Rock, the seat of House
Ladybright. Iron King Balon, believing Stannis trapped, had sailed in after him.

And there he had died.

The Ironborn were better sailors than the men under Lord Baratheon, their entire lives spent
on the decks of ships. In open fleet combat even unyielding Stannis would have fallen, his
ships burned to the watermark and body feed to the sharks. So he hadn't fought Balon in open
ship combat; he had pulled him against the coast, and there he engaged them.

As did the Dornish.

In the weeks it took him to finally involve Balon Greyjoy, Stannis had been working. While
the details in their entirety were unclear to Viserys, it was reasonable to assume he had
disembarked on multiple occasions, likely treating with the various Lords of Dorne. However
he had managed it, the Dornish had trebuchets and catapults in the hundreds waiting on the
cliffs of the Scorched Rock.

Hell had been unleashed on Balon Greyjoy.

The fleets had meet under a backdrop of flaming barrels of pitch and burning bolts. The
Ironborn hadn't withdrawn, be it brave or stupid—Asha Greyjoy questioned if her youngest
brother's successes, a thorn in her father's side, may have played part—and might have won
the day despite the volleys of Dornish fire.

Until the Redwyne's arrived.

Asha doubted that had been part of Stannis' plan, for she had finally caught up to the Fleet of
the Arbor. Lord Paxter had one moment been fleeing a different direction, the SheKraken on
his heels, and then had turned abruptly and followed the sounds of battle. Asha had been
unable to run him down before his men, for months having been on the run, finally were able
to attack.

They had torn into the Battle in the Bay with devastating effect.

By the time Asha's own ships joined the fray her father's fleet had been mostly demolished,
and it didn't take her long to see the day was lost. Her own fleet was mostly demolished in its
efforts to escape, her personal crew having to repulse four separate boarding attempts before
they made open water and fled back around the arm of Dorne and up towards King's
Landing.

Viserys' council had been debating so hotly in the weeks since that Viserys had a constant
headache and the overwhelming desire to drown himself in wine.

"For the last time, he's still outnumbered. Our plans can continue as discussed." Harry
Strickland had been adamant that they make no adjustments to the intent to wait for Aegon to
come to them, and his points were sound; Asha Greyjoy had reported that even though he had
been the one to set the trap, Stannis' fleet was still heavily damaged, as were the Redwyne's.
His lack of even token pursuit of her backed the claim.

"And for the hundredth time, outnumbered is a stretch." Jon Lothston had been ferocious in
his request to sally out and eliminate Aegon on land before Stannis could win more victories
on the water, likely because it was the opposite of what Strickland wanted. "We don't know
how many ships he and the Redwyne Fleet lost when the idiot Greyjoy got himself killed; all
we know for certain is that they are now unified while the remaining Ironborn are scattered."

"Surely word of their King's death would have spread," pointed out Renly Baratheon, who
couldn't have taken word of his brother's impressive victory well. Part of his claim was that
he could make men follow him when his brother couldn't, yet the elder had been the one to
annihilate an enemy force in fair combat.

Lothston whirled. "How can we be certain? Lady Greyjoy says the Redwyne's came from the
West; any stragglers would have been caught in their attack. The Reach and Dorne are nearly
unified under Aegon, and they aren't going to go telling the remaining men raiding their
homes that there's a threat nearing them."

"So what do we do," asked Lord Lorimer Payne, lean and stately. "Help Aegon Targaryen dig
himself out of his snowstorm and attack? Why not just wait for the weather to do our work
for us?"

"It's likely he's nearly dug himself out already. But we cannot wait for him to reach us,
because by then Stannis Baratheon may have defeated the rest of the Ironborn, and then we're
well and truly fucked. With no threat to their borders nothing will stop the armies of the
Reach and Riverlands from coming straight for us, and with them the Vale. We need to
destroy their King now, while we are at least close in number if not superior in that regard
and better equipped. With Aegon and Aelor dead, King Viserys is the logical successor."
"What of Jaehaerys, at the Wall surrounded by ten thousand Northmen under the Starks who
are his kin?"

"The wildlings will take care of him, and if they don't we will handle him in time. Besides, he
is a bastard, regardless of whether Aelor or Aegon Targaryen want to admit it.""

Renly scoffed. "A bastard who has been the heir to the Iron Throne since the day of his birth.
Your plan is filled with more holes than the Iron Fleet."

A voice came from the door of the chamber, Lysono Maar's tone a mixture of annoyed and
concerned. "It is about to gain more credence. Theon Greyjoy is dead, as is another sizable
portion of the Iron Fleet."

A chorus of groans filled the room, and Viserys cursed aloud. "Baratheon again?"

Maar nodded. "Stannis engaged Theon off the coast of Blackcrown and shattered his fleet.
Maron Greyjoy, who I suppose is the King of the Iron Islands now, managed to slip a
messenger through the reaver holdings of Cornfield and our land on the Gold Road. He's
ordered his fleets to muster together; they won't stand a chance piecemeal."

Viserys ran a hand through his silvery-blonde hair. "That means most loyalist forces are about
to be freed up."

It was a terrible blow to Viserys' war effort, but Lothston looked nearly giddy. "Surely you
see my suggestion is the best course of action now, Your Grace. If all of our enemies band
together, even the walls of King's Landing and the presence of hostages will not stop them.
Our entire strategy was to keep them occupied until we remove Aegon and Aelor Targaryen;
now is that chance!"

Strickland clearly wasn't convinced, but Viserys doubted he ever would be. "And leave
King's Landing, our only symbol of power, free to the Dornish?"

Duncan Strong, thus far quiet, chimed in. "We can kill the hostages. If they are to recapture
King's Landing for a time, we can make that victory taste foul to them."

Viserys shook his head. "Absolutely not. Unnecessary cruelty is what brought me half my
army; I will not subject to it myself. If I have to surrender King's Landing for a time to
eliminate my rival, I will do so." Viserys hunched over the table, peering over the map of
Westeros. "While my nephew isn't free of the Neck yet, he is certainly close. There is only
one way out of there, and then there are limited crossings for him to take. The Crossing itself,
or the Ruby Ford."

Renly had joined his chosen King in posture, gesturing towards the two towers symbolizing
House Frey. "Lord Walder hates the Tully's, but he hasn't sworn for us. I doubt he'll bar
Aegon from passing."

"I agree, though he has no need of crossing there. If he does, he'll just have to ford another of
the forks farther down. If he crosses at the Ruby Ford, though, he'll be only a couple of days
from Harrenhal. It's defensible even if it is a ruin, and I'd wager it will be the chosen location
of my brother and nephew for their base of operations until I am dealt with. There is a
certain…poetic brilliance to it all."

Strickland tried once more. "Your Grace, this is our strongest position—"

Viserys glared at the Captain-General of the Golden Company. "And I have sat in it for
months, and received nothing in return but a weakened position. Lothston has the right of it;
now is the time to strike. If I allow the Vale and Reach to consolidate I am finished, even if I
have elephants and professional mercenaries on my side."

"Your Grace—"

"Enough!" Viserys stood to his full height. "I have allowed you all to plan nearly all of my
moves to this point, but I am Viserys Targaryen, not you. We march on my command, and I
command it. You can obey, or you can die. That goes for you all." He slammed his finger
down on the Ruby Ford. "This is where I will meet my nephew and brother in battle."

"And this is where I shall end them."

 LXI
Chapter Notes

Sorry for the recent delay in uploads. Moving on!

A good king led by example, and while Mance Rayder didn't fit any southerner's expectation
of a king he also didn't ask anything of his people he wouldn't do himself.

The King-Beyond-The-Wall strode towards the contingent waiting at the northern base of the
Wall. Snow was falling heavily, the sky so dark despite it being midday that he carried a
torch. Two women came with him, one clutching a heavily-furred bundle to her body, the
other easily recognizable as Val. Jaehaerys awaited them a few feet from the great door in the
Wall, a retinue of twenty knights supplementing his normal advisors. His uncle Eddard Stark
had arrived from the Nightfort only hours earlier, Jaehaerys wishing the presence of the
current Warden of the North for this unprecedented move.

His uncle Ned had given nothing away in Jaehaerys informed him of his intent to allow the
wildlings to pass through the Wall. The Quiet Wolf's face had remained blank, Stark features
as cold as ice. He didn't complain, didn't curse Jaehaerys; he simply accepted it for what it
was.

While happy he hadn't, Jaehaerys almost wished he would have exploded in anger, though he
had never seen Ned Stark show any sort of emotion aside from love for his family. The men
of the Night's Watch certainly had, as had most of the northern lords stationed at the Wall.
Jaehaerys imagined he was the most hated man in the north with Stark blood since the
rebellious House Greystark. Even Lord Commander Mormont, who had been by Jaehaerys'
side through all of the negotiations, had expressed his serious misgivings when it became
clear that it would actually happen. Jaehaerys had had to defend his point over and over, and
if not for his uncle's silent acceptance—which had been all that had stayed the other northern
lords—Jaehaerys was fairly certain he would have had an all-out rebellion on his hands

But Jaehaerys was willing to accept that hatred if it meant saving all of those women and
children from the true enemy, an enemy Jaehaerys was growing more and more certain was
real. He hadn't seen it himself, nor did he wish to, but the stories were too many and the
evidence too much for him to maintain doubt. If the stories of terror were false, he would
look like the most gullible man this side of the Narrow Sea, but if those stories were true as
he believed…Whatever their difference in culture, the people north of the Wall were still
people, and something else was killing and reanimating them. There were innocents, children
and babes, who could be saved.

It was an odd parallel and deviation to his uncle Aelor; Jaehaerys was doing all he could to
save an enemy because of the innocents among them, while Aelor would slaughter them all if
it meant the destruction of his foe. Yet both men, honorable nephew and ruthless uncle,
would accept the hatred of an entire world in order to do what they deemed best for their
family.

He was pulled from his musings by Mance Rayder coming to a stop in front of him, face
clearly unhappy with the ramifications he was to suffer but left with no other choice. The
woman to his left, clutching an infant to her chest, looked much like Val on his other side,
and Jaehaerys knew at once they were sisters. I knew the wildlings considered Val a Princess,
but I always assumed she was Mance's sister. It appears I was wrong.

Mance gave nom pleasantries. "My wife, Dalla, and my son. If a hair on their head is harmed
—"

"I wouldn't invite thousands of wildlings to my side of the Wall if I intended to incite them to
violence," Jaehaerys cut in. He peered at the big, clearly healthy child in Dalla's arms. "What
is your son's name?"

Val spoke in answer, her tone sharp and commanding. "It is considered bad luck in the true
north to name a child before two namedays." She took a few steps closer to Jaehaerys,
prompting Ser Borran to move to intercept. The Prince of the Iron Throne raised a hand to
stop him, raising an eyebrow at the blonde wildling. "I am going with my sister, wherever she
and my nephew go. If you try to do as you threatened, you will find wildling women don't go
as quietly as southern ones."

Jaehaerys felt a touch of shame at the mention of it. While his entire intent in all of this was
to save the innocents on that side of the Wall, he had had to threaten the opposite to ensure
wildling cooperation; Jaehaerys had funneled Aelor. Each of the clans would give fifteen of
their young over to the Targaryen cause before any adults were allowed to cross through the
gates, including at least one of the chieftain's children. Jaehaerys had told Mance in no
uncertain terms that if the wildling force stepped out of line those children would be executed
on the spot.

It was an act reminiscent of his uncle that Jaehaerys couldn't go through with even if it meant
his life and the life of everyone at the Wall, but Mance Rayder didn't know that. Jaehaerys
had cultivated an unforgiving and unyielding personae when dealing with the wildling
leaders, one augmented by the fact that even those north of the wall had heard of Aelor
Targaryen's willingness to commit such an act. For all any of them knew, this Targaryen was
just like that one, and the men who knew Jaehaerys wouldn't go through with it—Ned Stark,
Aemon, Lord Commander Mormont—certainly weren't going to tip the Prince's hand.

As it was, Jaehaerys met Val's devastating green gaze coolly. "If your people follow my
orders, it won't come to that. I pray it doesn't, but even the Seven won't stop me." They won't
have to, because the Seven already know I couldn't do it. Jaehaerys looked to Rayder. "The
horn?"

Mance's eyes were alight with rage, but he knew he was in the position of inferiority. "It will
remain in my camp until the last of my people are through. I won't give you all of the
leverage, Targaryen."
Jaehaerys dipped his head. "Fair enough. How many of your people didn't agree?"

The-King-Beyond-The-Wall's gritted his teeth. "More than I care to tell you, though I expect
you'll be seeing them before all of this is over. I've got my own people—the ones I have left
—keeping a sharp eye out for when they undoubtedly try and attack. More of them would
have rebelled if it wasn't for the dead beginning to hit us every night." He raised a chin.
"None of them take well to being threatened; your threats won't be forgotten."

Jaehaerys rose to his full height. "Excellent. If they aren't, we should get on swimmingly." He
waved a hand, and the tunnel behind creaked as the great ironwood doors were opened. "If
the dead are as close as you say, I see no need to hesitate."

Slowly, sometimes by themselves and sometimes in groups, the hostages came forth. Aemon
—his cousin, not his ancient uncle—and Samwell Tarly kept a brisk record, writing the
names and tribes of each of them as they came forward. Mance stayed beside Jaehaerys
through it all, saying nothing to the Prince who had out-bluffed him. The Prince of the Iron
Throne didn't attempt to break it, letting the King-Beyond-the-Wall stew. Jaehaerys knew he
had made no friends of the wildlings by his actions, but he hoped he had at least saved some
of their lives. He would accept that over friendship.

It took hours in the driving snow before each of the hostages, over four hundred of them, had
been escorted through the wall and into the Grey Keep, which had been provisioned and
refitted for their stay. Already, nearly five hundred of Jaehaerys' men stood guard, both as
protection and potential executors. No brothers of the Night's Watch were permitted near the
holding cells; Jaehaerys was no man's fool, and that many men with grudges against the
wildlings as a whole would be a disaster.

By the time the procession of children had been marched through and the long line of elders
and non-warriors had begun, several of the chieftains had joined Mance and Jaehaerys,
among them Tormund Giantsbane and Harma Dogshead. Still no words were spoken, Mance
clearly intending to be the last of his people to pass through the Wall. Jaehaerys refused to
leave for the warmth of the camps on the other side until Mance did the same, even after his
uncle had gone to help organize the other side of the Wall, so true nightfall found him still
standing on the northern side of the seven-hundred feet of ice.

The commotion didn't reach them for a while. It started as a low rumble, barely noticeable
over the constant stomp of feet as the processions continued through the tunnel. It grew in
cacophony steadily, however, and Jaehaerys felt the first true tendril of concern when Ghost
rose from a lying position, his hackles on edge, growling deeply.

Mance Rayder spoke first, his voice cracking from a lack of use that day. "Something isn't
right."

"The Thenns or Sixskins?" Rumbled Tormund, staring into the flow of wildling people as it
went. "I'm surprised they haven't made their move yet."

Mance shook his head slowly. "No. Something else." His eyes suddenly shot wide open, and
without preamble he started at a full sprint back towards the wildling camps. He shouted over
his shoulder, already drawing his weapons. "Protect my son, Tormund!"
The shouts of alarm reached their ears then, growing in racket until it was overwhelming, the
orderly procession of wildlings suddenly a stampede. Jaehaerys barely registered Ser Borran
and several of his knights forming a ring around him and the scribes before they were
roughly crushed against him, the lot of them swarmed with desperate people trying to
squeeze through a tunnel.

"The dead!" "Walkers!" "The demons are upon us!" "Through the gate, now!" Jaehaerys
fought against the crowd, the white of Ser Borran's cloak crushed against his chest, the silver
of Aemon's hair contrasting against the black of Samwell Tarly's. He heard the screams of
dying as the slow were trampled by the quick, heard the sound of butchery as the more
ruthless drew their weapons and set upon their kin, trying to chop their way through the
logjam of the tunnel. It was sudden and complete chaos, and Jaehaerys could only focus on
keeping his feet under him as he was helplessly jostled by the crowd.

A hand appeared out of the crowd, reaching between Ser Borran and one of the knights to
clutch Jaehaerys by the collar of his cloak, jerking him forward with impressive strength.
Tormund Giantsbane's face was suddenly in the Prince's, eyes as wild as his beard. "The
boy," roared Tormund Giantsbane. "Where on the other side is the boy and Dalla? Where are
my daughters?"

Ser Borran was trying to pry Tormund's hand loose, but the press of the crowd—growing
heavier and heavier as hundreds and thousands rushed towards their only hope of salvation—
prevented him from utilizing any leverage, and the wilding chief's grip remained firm.
Jaehaerys saw no option but to answer. "The Grey Keep, on the left." Tormund released him,
but Jaehaerys wiggled a hand free enough to grab his thick wrist. "I'm the only one who can
get them free."

Tormund glared for a moment, then pulled his hands free, clutched another man's shoulders,
and bulled him out of the way.

He didn't know how long it took or how it was even possible, but Jaehaerys, Aemon and
Samwell tucked themselves in behind the big Free Folk, and inch by inch they fought their
way through. Jaehaerys stepped over more than a dozen corpses, most of them
unrecognizable as anything human, the tunnel stinking of blood and piss and shit. The three
sets of great iron gates on the insides were the roughest, but through strength of will the
wildling chief fought his way through him, Jaehaerys assisting more than once. There was no
honor in it, but Jaehaerys knew he would do no one any good trampled into the snow, and
there was positively no chance of going back the way they had come. Forward was his only
choice, so forward he went.

They all nearly fell out of the logjam of the final gate, Jaehaerys pulling in great lungful's of
air. He staggered forward, out of the tunnel and into the hard snow of the other side. This side
of the Wall was as chaotic as the other, barring the mass of panicked wildlings climbing over
the bodies of their dead. The sound of steel meeting steel was prevalent; southerners and
black brothers fought against the sudden onslaught of wildlings, nearly stampeded with the
number of Free Folk. Only a few of the wildlings even bothered to fight back; many were
sprinting south as fast as their legs could carry them, bringing nothing but their weapons and
the furs on their backs.
Jaehaerys whirled, placing a hand on Aemon's arm to assure himself his gentle cousin was
still there. Samwell Tarly was quivering but alive not far behind, face green. He had no idea
where Lord Commander Mormont, Ser Borran or even Ghost was. It was all going so bloody
well…

The Prince of the Iron Throne began to shout, though part of him knew it would be hopeless.
"Recapture the tunnel! Man the—"

A reverberating bellow filled the sky, loud and clear over the din of battle and screams of
terrified Free Folk running south, despite it clearly originating from the other side of the
Wall. Jaehaerys froze, knowing instantly exactly what was making the sound. So did nearly
everyone present, judging by how the courtyard—moments ago a beehive of activity—
became still as stone, every set of eyes jumping to the Wall.

Jaehaerys held his breath, too afraid to move anything but his eyes. Those roved over the
immense height of the Wall, looking for any sign of a fault. Long seconds passed, Castle
Black as still as the tunnel had been frantic.

Nothing happened.

Jaehaerys let out the held breath in a gust of steam into the dark night, the flakes falling thick
and fast. He spoke into the sudden silence, voice raised loud. "Fighting one another gets us
nothing. Organize a defensive lin—"

A great crack filled the air.

With a growing horror, Jaehaerys watched as an obvious, undeniable fissure spread through
the once-though impassable seven-hundred feet of ice. With an erratic, jerky motion it grew,
the Wall that had stood for thousands of years giving out a great groan.

Jaehaerys' body took over for a stunned mind. He shoved Aemon and Samwell, screaming at
the top of his lungs. "South! South! Away from the Wall! Run!" He sprinted towards the Grey
Keep, voice constantly shouting. "Run, run! Away, away!"

He reached the Grey Keep as the Wall truly began to shatter, small chunks beginning to fall
as the network of fissures spread. As he had ordered, the great doors had been locked from
the outside, Jaehaerys possessing the only key. The men he had ordered to stand guard were
already gone, in a dead sprint south to try and escape the colossal amount of ice that would
soon fall, leaving trails of armor and weapons as they shed anything that might slow them
down.

His fingers found a dexterity they didn't normally possess, the key working the tumblers of
the lock, the Prince throwing it to the side as the sound of the Wall cracking became
unbearably loud. He struggled with the massive board serving as a crossbar. It was meant for
two men, and Jaehaerys struggled for a long moment before a big pair of hands wretched it
out of the way. Tormund Giantsbane and Jaehaerys were thrown back as the doors flung open
from the inside, a scattering of children who had been pressed against it stumbling out into
the heavy snowfall and terror.
"Run! South!" Jaehaerys screamed again, gaining his feet. They flew by him like an
unleashed arrow, a flood of young kids and teenagers sprinting with the vitality of youth.
Some were older than him, some much too young to be in the position he had put them in.
Out of the corner of his eye he saw Tormund step into the crowd, deftly sweeping two red-
haired girls into his arms before he, too, started the sprint away from the Wall. A boom filled
the air, then another accompanied by the shriek of splintering wood, and Jaehaerys knew
chunks were starting to come down. Yet still he waited, looking for one face.

Dalla was towards the back, her son clutched to her breast. Val was beside them, holding the
hands of two very small children, their faces terrified. Without a word Jaehaerys swooped in,
pulling a young boy who couldn't have been more than five namedays old into his arms, Val
taking the other.

"Run!"

The five of them sprinted, Jaehaerys acting completely on instinct as they joined the river of
terrified people. Black brothers ran alongside knights alongside Free Folk, all thought of war
lost. The booms grew louder as the Wall truly began to crumble, some landing so close as to
throw great mists of snow over the running figures. Some portion of the Prince of the Iron
Throne's brain made sure he kept pace with Dalla, the wildling Queen holding her bawling
infant in a death grip, her blonde hair billowing behind them.

He felt when the last of the Wall crumbled, and he instinctually threw an arm around Dalla
and pushed her to the ground. He shielded the woman, her infant and the young boy with his
body, though the Seven knew there was nothing his frame could do if they hadn't gotten far
enough away. He felt Val press in close on the other side, all of them pressing their heads
together as they waited.

The crashes went on forever, more and more snow tossed atop them as Mance Rayder's child
bawled and the two young children sobbed. Jaehaerys thought nothing, said nothing, did
nothing; he only huddled with a passel of Free Folk and waited his death.

His ears rang so loudly that for a long moment he wasn't aware that the world was silent.
Hesitantly the Targaryen heir began to uncurl his body from shielding the others, having to
shrug off a large amount of the snow and debris that had been thrown over them. He rose
fully to his feet in a daze, the wildling boy still clutched to his chest, staggering as he turned
to look back the direction he had just sprinted.

All Jaehaerys saw was a high mountain of rubble, chunks of ice spread for hundreds of yards
in all direction. The other side was likely the same, for Jaehaerys saw no portion of the Wall
standing in any direction. Large chunks of what had once been a defense lay close to them,
some bigger than Balerion the Black Dread had been, several landing mere yards away from
where he had just been crouching. Jaehaerys knew without a doubt that thousands had been
crushed, many of his friends and perhaps family among them. It was a miracle of the Seven
that he and those he had sprinted with weren't among them.

But what had just been unleashed on the south was no miracle, nor could it be of the Seven.
Jaehaerys Targaryen's heart sank into his heels.
The Wall had fallen.
 LXII

He'd left Winterfell months ago as part of a great host of warriors, going north to save the
world. He returned at the head of a ragtag group of starving children, running for his life.

They'd gravitated to him in ones and twos, lost in a snowy land they'd only heard about until
then. Young adults to toddlers, well dressed to half-naked, they somehow found their way to
the failed Prince. Some cried, some stared in shock, and others merely followed. Their
parents were either dead or had been north of the Wall when it fell, which in Jaehaerys' mind
also meant dead. Very few wildlings of fighting shape had made it through the tunnel before
it had all gone to hell; they had sent the rest of their children and their elderly first. They too
found themselves following the Targaryen prince, crunching through the new snowfall of the
Kingsroad, slogging through the mostly-filled trail Aegon and Aelor had left behind.

Only one thing had looked up since, and that was when Ghost simply appeared beside him,
scaring the toddler in his arms nearly to death. Jaehaerys had no clue how the direwolf had
survived the destruction of the Wall or the vicious fighting that accompanied it, but he had
sank down and hugged the wolf as tight as his frozen arms could. Soldiers, some knights and
others men-at-arms, joined as well, though they were few and far between.

There was no food. Jaehaerys' stomach pained him terribly, and he heard the hungry
whimpers of the children following him like daggers to his soul. Water was of no
consequence, snowmelt plentiful, but the lack of food and warmth took its toll, as did the
pace Jaehaerys set. He still hadn't seen with his own eyes what had frightened the wildlings
so much that they had brought their salvation down atop their own people's heads, but he
knew with certainty that he didn't want to see it.

They moved at night, all night, constantly moving forward despite the cries of exhaustion and
grumbling bellies. Jaehaerys didn't know if the ice demons were deterred by daylight or not;
the wildlings stories put the attacks at night, but none of them seemed sure that they couldn't
attack in the day. Still, night just seemed more fitting, be it true or not, so that was when he
moved. The Prince of the Iron Throne only gave them respite during the few hours the sun
made an appearance, his followers collapsing into great piles, huddled together around the
youngest of their number for warmth. He, Val and a few of those in their teen years tried to
scavenge for firewood, but often their searches were fruitless. He would stagger back to his
followers and collapse, he and Val bookending around the two toddlers they had saved, Dalla
pressing Mance's son to his back. Ghost would hunker down over top the two small children,
serving as a living blanket. He would wake just before dusk, rousing those who followed him
out of whatever slumber they had managed to find, forcing them to their feet.

Each time, some of those who had bedded down earlier couldn't be roused, dead from the
cold or the lack of food. The elderly—while they had been there, though almost all of them
had fallen behind by now—had urged him to burn the bodies, even the youngest. Jaehaerys
either never had the materials or refused to spend the time, but he always put an extra
urgency in his pace when they began.
He didn't know how many he lost during the days they moved south, but Jaehaerys knew the
numbers would shatter what was left of his soul.

Jaehaerys himself didn't escape unscathed. Three of his fingers and the thumb of his left hand
were black with frostbite, sparing only the pinky, and the Prince of the Iron Throne was
enough of a realist to know there was no saving them. He had given his gloves and overcoat
to a young child who barely had anything in terms of protection, and while he could keep his
swordhand tucked into his breeches his left hand was either holding the gloved hand of the
small boy whose name Jaehaerys still didn't know or exposed while carrying him. Jaehaerys
supposed he should be grateful it wasn't his nose or ears, as several of the children were
going to lose those.

And of course dozens of them were dead, stretched back across their path, leaving a trail of
bodies from the Wall to the stone of Winterfell.

Winterfell's gates were barred, and Jaehaerys could feel more than see the guards lining her
curtain walls, his skin prickling with the unseen crossbows and longbows aimed at him. One
man, his voice echoing from atop the gatehouse, called out a challenge, voice cutting through
the cold night air. "Who goes there?"

His voice when he found it was rough with neglect and exhaustion. "Prince Jaehaerys
Targaryen."

The cold wind carried the low grumblings back to his ears, followed shortly by a different
man's voice. "All of you?"

He felt a spark of anger. He had finally found a touch of sanctuary after days and days of
leaving dead children behind him; he was in no mood for another delay. "Yes, bloody all of
us. Now open the damn gates."

It took forever in the mind of Jaehaerys, dawn beginning to lighten the sky, before the great
gates of Winterfell were thrown open. His mother, tears streaming down her face, was the
first out of the gates, sprinting through the snow to throw her arms around Jaehaerys and the
boy. Lyanna Stark murmured thanks and questions, and while Jaehaerys was thrilled to see
her he spoke only to Rodrik Cassel, who had led a wary contingent of guards out behind him.
"Find them food and clothing. The Crown will repay the Starks, should any of us survive this
winter."

Cassel hesitated a moment, eyeing the furs.

"They're children." His voice this time was sharp as the biting wind. "There used to be more
of them. You're going to save these." He looked down at his blackened hand. "Send the
maester to me when he's finished with them, and then call a council."

A voice he never thought to hear again sounded from beside Cassel, and Jaehaerys' eyes shot
up to see Eddard Stark striding to the front. "Do as he says." His uncle looked…old, old and
defeated. The Prince of the Iron Throne could see more grey and sadness in him than he
remembered the grim Lord of the North ever showing before. "There is much to be done."
Jaehaerys had expected it to hurt when Maester Luwin removed his frostbit fingers, but he
hadn't felt a thing.

The Prince Who Had Lost the Wall stared down at the bandages wrapped around his left hand
as voices murmured in the great hall of Winterfell. Luwin had informed him even as he
worked that, while his ring finger wasn't as far gone as the others, the bite and rot had already
set in deeper than any of the maester's remedies could fix. He removed it as a precaution, to
ensure the Prince not lose the entire hand.

Jaehaerys felt nothing when he looked at it. Not in the physical sense of course—he could
feel the bandage against the flesh that was still living, could feel the pain starting to build
where the master had cut the definitive line between what stayed and what didn't. But
emotionally, he felt nothing for it. It was a hand; he had another, the sword one to boot. He
may never be able to fire a bow again, but he could still fight with the blade on his side.
What's more, he could still do his everyday task; he could teach himself to cut his own steak,
could still write as well as he could before. He would survive.

Dozens of children hadn't. When one had seen so many tiny faces frozen to the bitter earth,
the loss of a hand seemed trivial.

His cousin Aemon sat to one side of him, wrapped up in furs. The brown-haired, violet eyed
Targaryen and Samwell Tarly had been saved by Lord Stark, who had along with some of his
men managed to mount horses before the Wall fell. He had made a point of freeing as many
of the other mounts as he could, and on them many a knight or man-at-arms—or wildling—
had made their way to Winterfell, all well ahead of Jaehaerys and his staggering army of
children. Robb, however, had not been among those to return. Ned had searched for him,
refusing to abandon his eldest son, until the Wall itself had begun to collapse. It had taken a
concentrated effort of Lords Umber and Glover to convince him to flee then, and they had
barely outraced the falling ice.

Lord Eddard blamed himself, even if no one else would. It was foolish of him; the fault
resided with Jaehaerys alone.

Maester Aemon, the Targaryen who had seen so much before and after he had gone blind,
was almost certainly dead. Robb and Grey Wind. Harrion Karstark. Ser Borran. Lord
Commander Jeor Mormont. Mance Rayder himself. Ygritte. So many hadn't returned.

Greatjon Umber had no love for wildlings; his family had been killing them for years, and his
uncle Mors' daughter had been abducted by raiders when he was a boy. His opposition to
Jaehaerys' plan had been the fiercest, and even now the giant man glared at Val and Tormund.
Jaehaerys had learned the bearded wildling and his daughters had been found by a middle-
aged black brother known only as Alman, who had led a mixed party of survivors—among
them wildlings, those who were so normally at odds banding together in fear of what was
behind them—to Winterfell. Lord Stark had given them all protection, despite the many and
frequent protests of those present.

The Prince had insisted Tormund and Val attend this council as representatives of the Free
Folk; whoever had brought down the Wall and whatever their reasons, they were all in this
together now. It was to this two that Greatjon spat his rhetoric. "Those fuckers brought the
Wall down and let the demons among us, and we give them protection? Their way of life is to
kill and pillage like rabid fucking dogs. We should be killing them, not feeding them!"

A roar of approval met them, and Jaehaerys felt Val shift uneasily on his other side. In
response he stood, and though the crowd quieted he saw more angry glares than he did
supportive glances. "These people were going to change their way of life, Lord Umber. All
they wanted was protection."

Umber growled deep in his throat. "Oh, I saw your ploy to try and control them, lad. Look
where it's gotten us."

Jaehaerys met the big man's eyes cleanly; there was no fear left in him. "Whoever brought the
Wall down isn't among us."

Thoren Smallwood, the most senior surviving ranger of the Night's Watch that had been
found so far, shot to his feet. "No, they're dead with most of our friends and soldiers, just as
we soon will be." He beseeched the lords around him, face furious. "The men at the other
towers and castles are likely dead as well; they wouldn't have had any notion of what was
going on. The Wall is gone, and there is nothing to protect us now."

"My brother has thousands and thousands of men in the South."

Lord Alester Farring snorted. "They're all busy fighting thousands of other men."

"Yet Lord Stark has thousands left in the North, making their way here now."

Smallwood cursed in exasperation. "Don't you understand, boy, it doesn't matter. The Wall
was more than a tall stack of ice. It was interwoven with spells that kept the dead from
passing it. Without those, no number of men will stop them from destroying all the North,
and then they'll be ripe to take the war-torn South."

Jaehaerys grit his teeth. "Watch your tongue."

Smallwood let loose a maniacal, taunting laugh. "Or what, you'll sentence me to take the
black? Hoster Tully did that years ago, and I served it loyally until you destroyed the watch
and killed his grandson."

His uncle Eddard spoke for the first time then, and his voice was as cold as Jaehaerys had
ever heard it, cutting Smallwood even smaller. "Never speak of my son again. You aren't
worthy of uttering his name." Silence descended, the lords of the North hanging their heads,
until Eddard spoke again. "If we can't defend the North than none of it matters anyway. I will
fight until my last breath to protect this land. I'd do it willingly, but in this case there is no
other alternative anyway."

A voice Jaehaerys never thought to hear in this setting piped up from beside him. "Then
leave."

All eyes jumped to Aemon Targaryen, the slightly built dragonlord who looked more like a
shopkeeper than a man of royal blood. Instead of cringing into a small ball as Jaehaerys
expected, Aemon returned the gazes, though a red flush creeped along his skin. His normally
quiet voice had a steel backbone that Jaehaerys had never heard before, and the Prince felt
himself take his seat when Aemon stood. "Leave the north."

A round of scoffs filled the air, Greatjon Umber's disbelieving voice weaving among them.
"You can't be fucking serious. Who are you to speak, boy"

Aemon raised his chin. "I am the son of The Dragon of Duskendale, and I am as serious as
the threat we face. The North is too broad to defend it all; I still haven't seen it with my own
eyes, but the wights are said to come in waves like an ocean tide. They will swallow an army
whole."

A new voice, belonging to some minor lord Jaehaerys didn't actually know, filtered in from
the back. "We still don't know if they truly exist!"

Tormund Giantsbane, who had sat through the insults to his people with a face of stone,
finally spoke. "I do. So does every other Free Folk here, and so do the crows. We've fought
them, been killed by them. Do you think anything less than a living night terror would have
made Mance Rayder and the Free Folk kneel to twats like you southerner's? Do you think
anything less than an evil worse than your cuntish rules would have made us give up our
children, and then bring our only hope down on top of our own heads? Think what you will
about the Free Folk, but we were willing to do everything we ever swore not to to survive this
thing you haven't seen. Trust me, you weak-kneed southron; I've seen enough of it for us
both."

Aemon didn't let any outrage at the big man's words resonate, speaking almost as soon as
Tormund finished. "We had a Wall to stop them, and whatever the reasons why, now we
don't. We can't face them in the open field; how do you fight something that brings winter
itself? All those who died at the Wall are now in their numbers, and Smallwood is correct in
that we don't have enough. So we do the only thing reasonable; we leave. We do as Lord
Umber and some of the far northern lords did; we take our families and we leave."

A northern lord, Ryswell if memory served Jaehaerys correctly, chimed in. "What, leave all
of our homes, our castles and woods?"

Aemon faced him. "Yes. The dead have no need of plunder and loot; all they want is to turn
those living into one of their own. Leave everything but your families and all the food you
can carry and run south."

Lord Cerwyn pointed out the obvious. "Eventually south runs out, Lord Aemon."

Aemon nodded in agreement. "Yes, it does. But it will take us and the Others months to get
south of the Neck, where Westeros naturally shrinks to where it is barely a quarter as wide as
it is here. The bogs of the Neck and mountains cut the strip of passable land even smaller.
Build your defensive line there, where we can't be flanked. I am young, my lords, and I know
nothing with certainty about what we face, but I equate their advance to a tide. Tides follow
the path of least resistance, and mountains and bogs are the embodiment of resistance. They
will go where we want them, where we can be ready for them. Where we can stop them."
Lord Stark was watching Aemon intently, face emotionless. "There is a war in the south."

"Yes, Lord Stark. But as I said, it will take months for anything, dead or living, to make it
south in these snows. My father will have handled the south by then. His combined with our
numbers will be enough, or at the least our best hope of ever having enough."

Smallwood risked speaking again. "Nothing can stop them. As you said, you don't know this
enemy."

Aemon's eyes lit with a fire that reminded Jaehaerys of Aelor. "And you, ser, don't know my
father."

Grumbles of debate followed, and Aemon suddenly retook his seat, face red as the Targaryen
symbol. Jaehaerys reached his good hand over to squeeze his arm in reassurance. I don't
know where any of that came from, cousin, but I am thankful for it.

The head table let the debate roll for a long while, until finally Ned Stark, who had been
conversing quietly with his wife and Maester Luwin, looked to Jaehaerys. The Prince nodded
his agreement to the plan, seeing the question in his eyes, and Eddard Stark rose. "Young
Lord Aemon has the right of it. As Lord Paramount of the North, I order it to be evacuated.
Immediately."

Grumbles of both disagreement and confirmation met him, and he raised a hand. "My son is
dead. Many of your sons are dead as well. I do not intend to lose the rest of my family. Our
homes will still be here when this threat is destroyed. Many of you followed me in the last
war; I ask you to follow me in this much different one. The larders of Winterfell will be
emptied, to feed those who go south." He straightened his shoulders and stood taller. "I, along
with any volunteers, will remain to hold back this coming wave as long as possible." Catelyn
Tully gripped his hand in a panic, and Lord Stark reached the other around to cup her face,
smiling gently, before he turned back to the crowd. "There must always be a Stark in
Winterfell."

Jaehaerys watched the reactions of those around, from the Lords of the North to the brothers
of the Watch to the two wildlings beside him, before he too stood. "I will stand beside Lord
Stark."

He heard his mother's gasp, even as Greatjon Umber pointed out the obvious. "You have half
a hand."

"So I'll tie my shield to my arm instead." He cleared his throat. "I was tasked with holding the
Wall. I did what I thought was best—what I still think was best—but I ultimately failed.
Many died because of that failure. I saw dozens of children freeze or starve to death because
of the panic and terror our enemy brings. I will stay here to fight that enemy." He looked to
his uncle. "Besides, I am half wolf, and wolves run in a pack."

"Begin the preparations at once. Send riders and ravens to the other lords and those South.
We evacuate the North."
 LXIII

Aelor Targaryen stared at the opening line of the letter in disbelief.

"It fell? The bloody thing is seven hundred feet tall and leagues wide! What knocked it down,
an aggressive wind?"

King Aegon Targaryen, the sixth of his name, was seated at the head of the long table in his
tent, head in his hands. Snow was falling outside—snow was always falling outside—and the
lantern beside him was the only source of light. His nephew had aged in the months they'd
spent trapped in the north; he had lost nearly a stone of weight that wasn't there to be lost in
the first place, and his face was harder than it had been on the onset of the campaign. "Keep
reading. Jaehaerys mentions something of a 'magic horn'."

Aelor collapsed into the seat at his right hand, taking the wineglass Dickon Tarly instantly
offered him. The vintage tasted particularly good after the weeks he'd spent trapped in the
north without any, there supply an early casualty of the weeks spent digging. "A magic horn?
A fucking magic horn brought down a structure that has stood for millennia?"

Aegon gestured towards the letter with one hand, forehead still resting in the other, his eyes
closed tightly. Aelor imagined the King already had the headache Aelor himself felt coming
on. "So Jaehaerys says, and I see no reason why he should lie to us. Dickon, rouse the
council. This changes everything." The squire rushed to obey, leaving the two Targaryen
commanders alone for a few minutes, aside from Ser Balon Swann standing guard outside the
tent.

Aelor quickly read the rest of the letter, feeling both immense relief when he read his son
Aemon was among the living and immense grief when he read that his son's namesake
wasn't. That grief was compounded when Robb Stark was listed among the missing.

Jaehaerys' words were short and to the point, and their abrupt delivery as much as their
content caught the Hand of the King unawares. "He allowed them through?"

Aegon finally removed his head form his hands, slouching back into his chair and finishing
his own glass of wine in three long gulps. "My dear brother was convinced that the wildlings
weren't a true threat. I imagine he saw his actions as protecting them, though he never says it
outright. Whatever his reasons, the Wall came down on top of both the Free Folk and our
own men. While no one knows the exact number of casualties, all agree they are tremendous.
What's more, he is—"

Aelor had been reading the letter as well as listening to the King's word, and they arrived on
the same topic at the same time. "He's evacuating the north. All of it."

"And he alongside Lord Stark are remaining in Winterfell to try and 'stem the tide'. He's
going to get himself killed."
Aelor let the letter fall to the table, staring down at it in disbelieving thought. "So we have an
entire region, from the smallfolk to the Lord Paramount's family, descending on our heads,
accompanied by a passel of wildlings and their children and a horde of ice demons behind
them. They'll all need places to sleep and food to eat; the living ones, anyway."

Aegon nodded, reaching across the table to take his uncle's untouched wineglass and
knocking back another hefty gulp from it. "They are stripping the castles and towns of the
north of food as they come, but yes, that is our predicament. All the while Viserys advances
on us."

Another voice came from the mouth of the tent, Alaric Langward the first member of the war
council to enter. "Aye, and he has the advantage in cavalry. I finished the count of living
mounts we have left, including those of Lord Arryn's men."

Aelor looked to his former squire and old friend, grasping onto talk of real numbers and
logistics instead of ice demons and falling walls. While Aelor had believed there truly was
something on the other side of the Wall, he had never expected it to chase the living out of
the north. "And?"

Alaric took a seat beside Aelor, running a hand through his shaggy black hair. He too had lost
weight, though he had even less to begin with than Aegon. "Over half of our mounts went
down before we dug our way out, and most of the rest are still coming back from the brink of
death. Only the fiercest of our beasts still have their strength to them. I make it eight hundred
mounted if we count the half-dead ones, less than three if we don't. Lord Arryn brings an
additional thousand, but reports put Viserys at twice again our number, more if you count the
reputed elephants."

Aelor and Aegon cursed at the same time, both slamming a fist against the table. The King
spoke. "The snows aren't nearly as bad down here as they were in the North, but they
certainly aren't light either, and it is getting colder every day. We're bound to lose a few more
before we engage the enemy."

Aelor grunted. "Even when we do, none of us have any experience fighting elephants. Most
of us have never seen elephants. If Viserys is smart he'll charge them at the levy lines. They'll
throw down their spears and run as if the Stranger himself was pursuing them."

Jon Arryn, aging but still capable, entered the tent. He and ten thousand men split from the
defense of the Riverlands had been waiting at the Twins, uniting with Aelor and Aegon not
quite a week past. Behind him walked his son Artys, heir to the Vale, rubbing the sleep from
his Tully blue eyes. The boy and his twin sister were not identical but still looked much alike,
Aelor remembered, save for her hair being red and Artys' the color of cornsilk. His father
spoke as the two Arryns took their seats. "I take it things have changed, Your Grace. By your
faces, I wager it was for the worst."

They waited until the entire council had assembled. Randyll Tarly was present as chief
general, Lord William Dustin and Ser Wylis Manderly as representatives of the five thousand
northerners camped around them. Renlor and Baelon, the first half-awake and the second
looking as if it were the middle of the day instead of the darkest hours of night, were present
due to their Targaryen blood, though both were expected to keep their silence. Ser Karyl
Vance, whose daughter and heir Liane was being held captive my Viserys, had been the only
riverlord to accompany Jon Arryn, the others focused on defending their homeland, and was
representing his region. Three of the Kingsguard—Barristan the Bold, Oswell Whent and
Balon Swann—rounded out the council.

Arthur Dayne and Rolland Storm, the only other surviving members of the Kingsguard now
that Borran of the Bramsfort was considered dead, were with Alysanne, Daenerys and the
others in the Vale, though a raven had been sent to recall them both to their King's side.
While neither Aelor nor Aegon wanted to leave the Royal Family without one of the sworn
swords, it was agreed that they would both be needed in the coming battles more than they
would be in the near impregnable Eyrie or Gates of the Moon. The detachment of twenty
knights that accompanied Ser Arthur south months ago would remain to supplement the
Arryn men as protection.

Aegon repeated the news in Jaehaerys' letter bluntly and nearly verbatim, and Aelor watched
the shock and disbelief as it dawned on each of their faces. Karyl Vance gave voice to the
thought the rest of them almost certainly were thinking. "You can't be serious."

Aegon met his eyes and held them to prove his sincerity, though neither Targaryen kingpin
could blame the disbelief. They had, of course, warred with it themselves. "I wish I wasn't,
Ser Karyl, but my brother's leader was accompanied by confirmation from Lord Eddard
Stark. Whatever the why or the how, the Wall has fallen, and a much greater enemy than my
uncle Viserys is marching towards us. I don't ask your acceptance of this as truth, my lords; I
fully understand your disbelief, but I do ask what you would council me to do if you did."

Aelor had stood and walked to the northern half of the map, taking the pieces symbolizing
their armies there and sliding them all into a line on the Kingsroad, south of Winterfell. "The
armies we left in the north, including the northerners who had been on watch for the
Ironborn, are now all coming this way. That being said, these pieces are a gross
misinterpretation of our true strength in fighting men; we don't know just how many of our
forces were killed when the Wall fell, but it is safest to assume a catastrophic number."

He motioned towards the Riverlands and the pieces, black for friendly and red for foe,
scattered across its coast. "Lord Stannis has defeated two large Ironborn Fleets, and that has
put the rest of them on the defensive. From all reports the raiders have ceased their raiding
for the time being, massing their strength to try and counter our own fleets. While that in
theory frees up enough men to astronomically outnumber Viserys, it in reality does little for
us. The forces under Lord Tully, Tyrion Lannister and Jason Mallister have gone on the
offensive, trying to drive the Ironborn out of the many holdings they have secured in the
Riverlands and Westerlands. The armies of the Reach are doing the same, and even if they
weren't they are much too far away to assist us with Viserys."

Finally, Aelor gestured to the cluster of black pieces around Wycombe, where they currently
sat, and the cluster of red around Maidenpool, where Viserys had last been seen. The latter
information was shaky however; the outriders of the Golden Company were good, and had
managed to eliminate any scouts sent to keep further tabs for the last week and a half. It had
prompted Aelor to send Bronn and his best retainers out. I could use Lucas Flowers, but odds
are he's dead now. "We cannot leave Viserys free to roam south of us. Prince Jaehaerys' plan
is to set up defensive lines at the Neck; it is sound, and our best chance should the worst of
the rumors be true. But Viserys doesn't have the knowledge of the goings on in the North, and
even if he did his focus is entirely on eliminating us. We draw him into battle or he draws us;
either way, he must be dealt with. A unified Westeros will be needed for the wars to come,
and a unified Westeros can never be attained if two Targaryens are calling themselves king."

Aegon gestured towards the city of his birth. "King's Landing, which has been the Golden
Company's only true victory thus far, is of no further consequence. Viserys willingly
conceded it to Prince Oberyn when he set out after us. The Dornish reported they are already
moving out of the Boneway to retake it from the token force left behind. Viserys must mean
to engage us soon; his only hope of achieving victory now would be the death of me and
Aelor, and all of Aelor's sons to boot."

Randyll Tarly nodded, eyes absorbing the map and its pieces. "Aye, Your Grace. The archers
and cavalry that slowed Lord Arryn's march to join us have disappeared, likely to regroup
with his main force. Whether Viserys learned enough strategy to see it or not, the Golden
Company commanders certainly understand they can't let the other armies merge with our
own. They need to remove the heads of the true Targaryen rulers before their substitute can
reign."

Aegon sighed loudly. "And now I have to worry about an army of undead demons coming
from the other direction. Trenches must be built, firepits…I can't well focus on that enemy
while Viserys roams the south. As my uncle said, he must be brought to heel before I can
focus on the Others, yet I cannot ignore the preparations that must be made in the North."

Jon Arryn was focusing on the figures representing the other loyalist forces on the shores of
the Riverlands, focused mainly around Kanet and Eagle's Cape. "I understand the desire of
the riverlords to recapture their homeland, and how Lord Tyrion must wish to push down into
the embattled Westerlands, but now that the eminent threat of more reavers furthering their
conquests is over they must realize the Ironborn hold is temporary. We are outnumbered—
slightly, but still outnumbered—by Viserys. Their men will be of more use fighting alongside
us, both in destroying Viserys and countering whatever it is coming towards us from the
north, before we can all focus on destroying the rest of the Ironborn. When we split up
originally it was because the reavers were still terrorizing new targets; now their threat is
occupied."

Ser Karyl shook his head. "I understand your point, Lord Arryn, and it is accurate. But our
people are suffering atrocities under the Ironborn, and few men—myself included—would be
able to see past that. I am here because my daughter is held captive in King's Landing…or
she was, in any case. My stake is in the instant defeat of Viserys and the safe return of Liane.
The other riverlords have their stakes in the defeat of the Ironborn, and relieving their
families and people who have been fighting or suffering for months. They will not care for
rumors of demons in the north, even if they should."

King Aegon nodded slowly, though his face was a grimace. "I was trapped in the north whole
my people were slaughtered. I can understand why they may see me as unable to defend them
now."
Lord Commander Barristan the Bold cut the Kings self-censure short. "You are the King,
Your Grace. If you order Lords Edmure and Tyrion to your side, they are duty-bound to
come. I don't foresee them shirking that duty."

Aegon stared at the table for a long while before speaking again. "Viserys has me
outnumbered, slightly but outnumbered all the same. His men are in better condition than
mine, as are his horses. His army consists of a corps of hardened mercenaries, and a plethora
of young lords with vendettas against me."

Against me, you mean. I'm the reason the Bucklers and Paynes and Hasty's have risen up.
Aelor thought it but didn't say it, as every man at the table already knew anyway. The King
spoke on, oblivious to his uncle's thoughts. "Even if Viserys is the one to assault me,
wherever it is we meet in battle, he holds an advantage. I need Lord Edmure here if I am to
be victorious."

Alaric gestured towards the wide expanse of land between their current location and the rest
of Lord Edmure's forces. "If I may point out, Your Grace, it would take many days for their
infantry to reach us. Viserys has tipped his hand; he means to try and eliminate you soon, and
while we can't confirm it we all know his army is near. And that still does not resolve the
main question of this council; what do we do in the north?"

The Dragon of Duskendale grunted as it suddenly dawned on him. It should be clear to us

all; we faced it for several cold months. "We ignore it."

Aegon cocked a brow. "Ignore Jaehaerys' letter? Ignore those coming south for safety?"

Aelor nodded, violet eyes locked on his nephew's. "Yes. What is the entire reason we are so
depleted, both in spirit and horseflesh? Because it took us months to make it south in those
snows. It will take those fleeing now weeks as well, as the snows are only growing. They'll
have something of our trail to follow, but the progress will still be slow as the storms have
only increased in ferocity. I don't know what a wight truly is or what powers it, but I imagine
it still has to move something like a man does. It will take them time as well to walk or claw
or burrow to us. We're looking at this as if the Others are on our doorstep, when in reality
they are months away."

Aegon had pursed his lips in thought. "There are still trenches to be dug, traps to be set…"

"Lord Tarly and I built dozens of catapults and dug scores of siege lines in a matter of a few
days at Casterly Rock and Lannisport. We had thousands of men to do it; when the time
comes, so will you. Viserys is the threat, Your Grace. He is the one we need to eliminate first;
not the White Walkers, not the Ironborn. Viserys."

Murmurs of agreement filled the tent, and Aegon slowly nodded. "You are right uncle.
Baelon, order both ravens and riders sent to Lords Edmure and Tyrion. They are march with
all haste to join us at Harrenhal if we can get there; we will keep on our toes and Viserys at an
arm's length as long as we can, but they are to move as quickly as possible. We can only
forego combat so long. Send another to the Dornish; once Prince Oberyn recaptures King's
Landing, he is only to leave just enough men to manage it in my stead before he marches
towards us as well. The Reach will take over the cleansing of the Ironborn; they will work
from their own lands north, and join us at the Neck if they can make it in time. Quickly now."

Jon Arryn looked to the King. "Do you think Lord Edmure will make it before Viserys draws
us in?"

Lord Wyllis, nearly as round as his father had been but fierce of spirit, spoke up for the first
time, fiddling with the silver and sapphire trident holding his sizable cloak together. "Order
his cavalry to leave the infantry behind, Your Grace. A fully mounted force will reach us
much quicker, and even the odds against us by quite a bit."

Randyll Tarly and Aelor both grunted their approval, though the former spoke first. "Yes,
Your Grace. Your uncle led cavalry the long way into the Westerlands while I led the infantry
the short all those years ago. He still nearly beat me there."

Aegon gestured towards Renlor, who had woken up considerably over the talk of strategy.
"Go catch Baelon and make the adjustments, Ren." Aegon leaned back towards the map as
his cousin strode from the tent. "Now all we need to do is find out just where Viserys is
waiting."

An accented voice answered from the front of the tent, snow-covered cloak glistening as he
stepped into the light of the tent. "I believe I can help with that." Bronn dropped a leather
saddlebag onto the table. "I pulled some letters off of a few dead ravens and a few living
men, though they joined the ravens soon after. After reading them I went to take a looksee
myself. Turns out they were right."

Bronn had a knack for the dramatic, but Aelor was too tired to sate the man's need for a
scene. "Just tell us, Bronn."

The sellsword shrugged. "You're no fun. Our King wannabe is only a few days south of us,
near Lord Harraday's Town or Barrowvay's Town…some name such as that."

Aegon filled in the gap, face already starting to grimace at the proximity of Viserys. "Lord
Harroway's Town."

"Aye, that one. Lots of tents, lots of horses, lots of fires; he's got a bloody big force.
According to these," he said, thumping the dripping sack, "he's heading our way. Turns out he
has a destination already in mind."

Bronn looked directly at Aelor. "A ford, filled with rubies."

 LXIV
Chapter Notes

The next three chapters, including this one, are probably my personal favorites of the
entire story. I hope you enjoy reading them as much as I did writing them!

This was to be his day of glory.

King Viserys Targaryen was losing the war. He had taken and held King's Landing for over
half a year, and he held a numerical advantage over his foe, but any man with half a mind
could see that the odds were stacking heavier and heavier against him. This sense of defeat
was doubly frustrating considering he himself had yet to so much as draw his blade in any
true battle. The Ironborn had failed him, nearly half of the Greyjoy family dead. Maron
Greyjoy, who Viserys supposed was their new king though his understanding of Ironborn
succession laws had always been hazy, was trying a last-ditch effort to defeat Stannis
Baratheon, but the King of the Iron Throne was no fool. If two fleets of Ironborn hadn't been
able to defeat the Iron Stag, he highly doubted a third would fare any better.

His brother and nephew had managed to merge with friendly forces, despite Maylo Jayn's
attempts. Fewer lords had sworn for him than he had anticipated. The cold had increased in
the last several weeks until it was nearly unbearable. Myrcella had escaped those months ago,
as had Alysanne and her spawn. King's Landing was destined to fall to the Dornish moving
up from the south, and likely already had.

He still didn't have Daenerys.

Yes, Viserys was losing the war. But today, with one decisive battle, he was going to turn that
tide. Today he was going to become the uncontested King of the Iron Throne in the most
complete of methods.

He was going to kill all other claimants ahead of him.

He peered across the ice-skimmed shallows of the Trident to the army forming on the
opposite bank. He had been here, waiting for them, for over a week, his scouts reporting they
had remained encamped a few days north for nearly as long. Viserys had been concerned that
his brother and nephew wouldn't take Viserys up on the poetic justice of a second Battle of
the Trident; Aegon's reign had begun here, why not see if it would end here as well? Still, the
army of his kinsmen had remained where they were long after they had surely learned of
Viserys' location.

But in the end, Viserys' knowledge of his brother had won out. Aelor, though he would never
admit it, had a weakness for interweaving sentimental and physical points into the same blow.
He had, after all, played the Rains of Castamere minutes before destroying Lannisport, and
every day of the Siege of Casterly Rock. The temptation of returning here to solve the fate of
the Iron Throne, here where his greatest victory had been achieved, would have been too
much to pass up.

And so Aegon was here, at the center of the armies marching towards him. Aelor was here as
well; Viserys had seen the warring white dragons and the ragtag band of heavily armed killers
that formed his retinue. His two most important sons were likely here as well, leaving only
the boy Daemon and the bookish, weak Aemon. His daughters made no difference, as none in
Westeros would choose a female over a healthy, living male as ruler, and the two other
nephews could easily be dealt with at a later date, once the lords swore for him upon the
death of their two true leaders. Viserys supposed there was a chance the child Myrcella had
been carrying had been a boy and could conceivably be considered higher in the succession,
but Viserys felt no fear of an infant.

He wasn't nearly as good an uncle as Aelor had been. He'd already killed a niece; what
difference would adding a nephew to the list be? Besides, Gods willing, it would be the
fourth nephew he dispatched, following the three here today.

That left only Jaehaerys, and from what Viserys was hearing from the North that nephew was
either already dead or soon would be.

His Kingsguard sat their horses around him, silent and waiting. He still only had four
members, leaving the rest open for men who were currently opposing him. It was a unifying
technique, one used by Aelor when he had appointed Rolland Storm at the end of the
Rebellion. He supposed there would have been wisdom to have a full complement before this
penultimate battle, but Viserys had opted against it.

As he looked across the banks and water, he wondered if it was his worst mistake yet.

The army facing him didn't look like the ragtag band of half-starved men the scouts had told
him to expect, even if he accounted for the fresh men of the Arryns. The months it had taken
them to dig their way out of the north should have left them in a state of disarray, animals
starved and men suffering. Instead they looked like an army of grizzled professionals, as
intimidating as the Golden Company that surrounded Viserys. There were also different
banners than the ones he had been expecting, belonging to more houses than the ones that
had reportedly went north with Aegon.

The trout of Tully could be seen, as well as the standards of lesser riverlords. Most of them
flew above what appeared to be cavalry, though there was still enough distance between the
two forces that it was difficult to pick out exactly where one of Aegon's formations ended and
another began. His nephew wasn't as weak as Viserys would have wanted, but the Golden
Dragon wouldn't be deterred; this was where he would win his crown, just as Aelor had won
Aegon's nearly twenty years ago.

He spoke to the officers around him. "You all know the plan." Renly Baratheon and his band
of dissenting lords would form the right, Viserys in command of the center with the
assistance of Duncan Strong and Maylo Jayn the left. Black Balaq and his archers were the
reserve, ready to counter any attack with a barrage of arrows from their greatbows. Harry
Strickland was in command of the elephants, the secret weapon that Viserys supposed wasn't
so secret.

He was answered with a round of affirmatives and Your Graces. "Excellent. Ser Loras, you
are in command of the charge. Do not disappoint me."

"I won't, Your Grace." The Knight of Flowers was dressed in his boisterously expensive
armor, adorned with jeweled flowers from helm to plated boots. He had foregone his
signature cape of woven roses—he'd have been hard pressed to find a single flower in these
snows, much less enough to weave out an entire cape. Still, Viserys wondered if he realized
this was a war, not one of the tourneys the young Tyrell was so used to dominating. That
wonder had nearly made Viserys appoint another, more experienced commander, but the
Knight of Flowers was an excellent fighter and rider even if his mindset was wrong. He
would look splendid heading the charge atop his white destrier, and his skill for swordplay
would be needed.

"Good. All of you, to your places." His commanders reined their animals around, kicking
them into gallops that threw droves of snow into the air. "Ser Duncan." The father of Viserys'
very young Lord Commander of the Kingsguard instantly trotted to his side. The Golden
Company serjeant was in direct command of the lines in the center, while Viserys would
remain a stone's throw back to oversee the entire operation. Until it is time, and then I will
personally claim my crown. "Take command of the center, and wait until my order."

"Yes, Your Grace." The serjeant paused only a moment to clasp wrists with his white-cloaked
son before he rode towards the lines of men, levy and mercenary, silently awaiting the
bloodshed to come

Viserys watched as Aegon's army marched the rest of the way towards their bank, spears
ready to drop into position. The wind picked up slightly, the flakes blowing in at an angle.
Viserys let his eyes rove the lines of enemy forces, searching until his eyes found him.

A man in scarred black armor sat a massive destrier towards the back of the enemy lines, his
helm adorned with white flames.

And he was staring right at Viserys.

He'd stared across this same ford a lifetime ago, though then it had been from the opposite
bank. It was here nearly every friend the Dragon of Duskendale had had died. It was here his
elder brother, the Silver Prince, the Poet, had fallen lifeless into the water. It was here where
the man who slew him had in turn been slain, two Kings dead within the span of a few
minutes as the blood of thousands turned the water red.

It was here Aelor Targaryen once again gazed across a ford at an opposing army, his King
and blood by his side. This time the water was icy and the world was white with snow, with
more pouring out of the sky, but Aelor Targaryen could still see the corpses stacked high in
his mind's eye. He could point out exactly where Rhaegar had fallen with his rubies glittering
in the bloody water, could see the spot where Robert Baratheon had followed him into death,
could still see Renfred Rykker half-submerged with a sword under his ribs and a lance in his
shoulder.

This ford held many memories for him, each more terrible than the last. It was fitting he
would come here to die.

"Nearly twenty years have passed, yet I can still see it as vividly as if it had happened only
this morning."

A voice answered form his left, Alaric reigning a stallion—one of the few truly healthy ones
—to a halt beside him. "Aye, Your Grace." The Lord of the Brindlewood pointed to a spot on
their side of the bank where a line of men-at-arms were adding to the shieldwall. "There is
where you fell off your horse."

The Dragon of Duskendale couldn't help but smirk. "Aye, and where you didn't let me die."
The smirk died as he in turn gestured towards the middle of the ford, where in minutes bodies
would once again clog the waters. "And that is where Rhaegar did."

"I never visited this ford. You'd think I would have, since here is where my father died and
my reign began." King Aegon Targaryen, the Sixth of his name, sat a destrier as regally as
Rhaegar ever had. He was dressed in the expensive, quality armor he had so wanted to test;
thick black plate rippled with streaks of crimson, his helm adorned with seven red-gold
points to signify the similar crown the King wore in times of peace. Behind him Dickon Tarly
held the Targaryen banner, crimson dragon flapping in the wind.

Across the ford, a golden one did the same. It seems the entire world is poetic these days. The
first Targaryen civil war had the greens and the blacks; this one has the reds and the golds.
The bards will love it.

His eyes found Viserys, despite the forest of spears and helms in the way. He was sitting his
saddle in the very same position Aelor and Rhaegar once had, watching across the ford.
Golden wings sprouted from a helm of black steel, gaudy and expensive. White cloaks
surrounded him, mounted on fresh horses, their great lungs billowing clouds of steam into the
snow-filled air.

Hello brother. I've come to kill you.

"Renlor, Baelon." His two sons, who had been sitting their stallions to the right and back of
the King and his Hand, responded, Ren with a "father" and Baelon with a grunt. "You will
fight alongside the king today."

Aegon turned to cast a questioning eye on his uncle, and Aelor knew both his sons were
doing the same. Ren spoke for all three. "But, father, our place is with you."

The Dragon of Duskendale's voice didn't possess the harsh tone his words could have held,
his voice instead low and calm. "Your place is where I deem it. Today I deem it alongside the
king."

The king in question spoke, voice unchallenging. "Baelon is your squire."

"He is also my son. I can live without the former, but not the latter. If they ride beside me into
the hell I'll be charging into I'm likely to get your entire army killed. I want them with you."

"Fighting will be rough here as well."

Aelor nodded, eyes never having left the spot where he had locked gazes with Viserys,
though a banner with the three buckles of Buckler had since blocked his gaze. "Aye, that it
will, but my charges have a tendency to be suicidal." He finally looked to Aegon. "Your
mother would never forgive me if I let any of you join me."

His king gave no further argument, merely tilting his head in deference. The lines had
finished forming, Randyll Tarly in command of the left and Jon Arryn the right. An eerie
silence had descended as the men on both sides held their breath, two armies waiting for one
or the other to land the first blow in a vicious brawl.

A call to knock from across the river broke through it, instantly followed by a cry for shields
on their own. Their mercenary bows outrange our own by dozens of yards, but we were ready
for that. Father, Mother, any of you who will listen, please protect my sons. Out loud Aelor
spoke simple words, not feverish prayers. "It seems we are about to begin." He clasped
Aegon's wrist, then shifted his horse to do the same with Renlor and Baelon. For just a
moment he gave into the emotion welling in his chest at the sight of them. "Never has a man
been blessed with such wonderful sons." He glanced at Aegon then, to make sure the king
knew he was including him in the statement. "I love you all more than you'll ever know."

With a half-roar from his stallion, the Dragon of Duskendale turned and cantered towards his
command.

"Loose!"

Hundreds of bowstrings twanged, sending hundreds of arrows into the falling snow. Cries of
"shields, shields" and "duck" sounded from the other bank, and there was an odd few seconds
before those shouts of warning became screams of dying men. The shrill cry of a struck horse
filled the sky, and Viserys shudder at its bloodcurdling sound. He'd heard it before at the
tourney at Bitterbridge, when a hedgeknight had struck a dishonorable blow on a Reachman
lordling's horse. It had been terrible then, and it was still terrible now.

He knew he would hear it time and time again in the coming hours.

Before the screams elicited from the first volley had even fully started the Golden Company
archers had drawn and fired again. Black Balaq and his men were quick and accurate, torrents
of arrows falling on the heads of the loyalist forces. Viserys let them fire five, ten, fifteen
volleys, half-expecting some kind of response from Aegon. He got none, his nephew's lines
remaining in position, shields over their heads as they grimly waited out the storm of
sharpened steel and snowflakes.

Ah well. We figured that may be the case. He spoke to banner-bearer slightly behind him.
"Now."
The banner dipped twice to signal Ser Loras, who had clearly been chomping at the bit. The
Knight of Flowers instantly kicked his men into action, thousands of mounted knights and
freeriders thundering away from Viserys own lines towards the enemy, their guttural war
cries filling the air. The Golden Dragon watched their progress, watched as Aegon's own
archers opened fire. Dozens of his knights and lancers spilled from their saddles, and dozens
more horses added their dying screams into the cacophony of battle. They had charged
towards the frozen shallows of a river, the water covered in a thin coat of ice and thicker coat
of snow.

It had been clean and pure when Tyrell began his charge; he left an ugly mess of broken ice
and broken bodies in his wake. Viserys didn't know how many of his men died crossing the
icy water, but it made no difference. They smashed into Aegon's forces like an armored fist,
as Aelor had smashed into Robert Baratheon years earlier.

Just as they had then the sides of the defending lines swooped in on the intruding horsemen.
Viserys saw his nephew's royal banner in the middle of it all, the former King of the Iron
Throne amidst the carnage that bank was certain to be. His brother's banner of white warring
dragons was near it, and while Viserys hadn't seen his uncle in the beehive of bodies across
the water he was certain he was there, killing alongside his king.

"Our left, Your Grace. They are weakest on the left."

Viserys allowed his eyes to follow Ormund Cole's pointing finger, focusing on the left of the
Crimson Dragon's lines. While it was hard to distinguish where one force began and another
ended, the opposite bank looking like a northern melee of steel and snow, the far left of
Aegon's force was visibly weaker than the right or center. There were banners of knights and
houses on that side, same as everywhere, but they were fewer, denoting a larger force of
levies.

It was sensible of Aegon; the terrain on that flank was naturally steeper than the center or
right, and his scouts had certainly reported it. It was not much of a difference, but enough of
one to ensure men and horses would have a more difficult time climbing it. Aegon and his
advisers had placed their strongest troops where they would most be needed. It was sensible.

It was also a mistake, the type of mistake Golden Company had been hoping for. Viserys took
it. "Signal Lord Strickland. Focus on the left now, before they can reinforce it!"

His signalman waved the banner again, and Viserys felt the rumble as the elephants burst
from their cover in the trees. They made an even more glorious sight than Loras Tyrell had,
their great grey hides covered in armor, saddles on their backs home to several archers and
crossbowmen. Their ivory tusks were sharpened at the end, ready to impale and knock aside
their foe.

They would fold Aegon's left in on itself, and Viserys chose that moment to take command.

He kicked his destrier into action. "I will lead the infantry."

Alester Strong hesitated, though the other Kingsguard began to follow. "This is close enough,
Your Grace."
Viserys spared only a moment to glare at him. "It isn't close enough for Aelor." He galloped
on, ignoring his Lord Commander, his infantry parting to let him pass as he came through
their lines. He drew his sword, his Kingsguard doing the same, and thrust it above his head,
kicking his stallion into a sprint at the heels of the elephants.

His infantry, following the stiff commands of their officers, followed, shouting their own war
cries.

And Viserys Targaryen rode forth to claim his crown.

The Dragon of Duskendale had never in his life been so close to a real battle without
participating in it, and it was driving him insane.

Warrior roared and pawed, clearly as unhappy as his master at being so far from the action.
Behind him lines of mounted knights and freeriders silently sat their mounts, the best animals
Aegon's forces had left. Their numbers were bolstered by half of Edmure Tully's mounted
men, but Aelor hadn't dared take all of them. Aegon had to have some mounted force to make
Viserys play his hand first; those men and been in the center around Aegon, and the Dragon
of Duskendale had watched as they had countered the Golden Company's first charge, every
nerve in his body screaming for him to be there alongside them. His sons were wrapped up in
that bloody melee, and Aelor had no way of knowing if they were alive or dead.

"I should have kept Ren and Baelon with me," he muttered under his breath. "Gods what was
I thinking."

Alaric answered from beside him, hand lightly tracing the grains of wood in the shaft of the
boar spear he held. "You were thinking our job is going to be much more dangerous than
theirs. You were right."

Aelor craned his neck to stare at his old friend, the Lord of Brindlewood in a set of dark
armor with the stars of his house etched all over the breastplate. "Worse than that?"

Alaric looked at him, visor still up to show his calm face. "You know it will be."

He did, but it was hard to imagine it now.

Each of his knights was armed not with lances but instead boar spears, one in both their right
and left hands, their shields strapped to their forearms. The thick shafts and reinforced
spearheads were meant for piercing the thick hide of wild boars, not elephants, but they
would do better than normal spears or lances. They were heavy and cumbersome, but behind
the weight of charging destriers they stood an excellent chance of doing real damage.

If it turns out they didn't the battle would be lost anyway. The elephants were the key factor
for both sides; it would be difficult for Aegon to defeat Viserys' army in conventional
Westerosi battle, but it would be impossible if the elephants were not dealt with quickly. No
one on the continent aside from a few former sellswords in Aelor's retinue had any
experiences fighting the beasts, and most hadn't even seen one. The archers had been ordered
to forego all other targets and focus solely on the creatures when they entered the battlefield,
aiming for their eyes and throats if possible, but Aelor and Aegon had agreed that that likely
wouldn't be enough.

Instead the Dragon of Duskendale sat still as men fought and died hundreds of yards away,
concealed by the same trees Oberyn Martell had once flanked Robert Baratheon from. The
Seven I could use Oberyn now. He and his knights waited for the Golden Company to unleash
their trump card, unmoving as more and more men died.

When they came barreling out of cover on the far bank, Aelor was too relieved they had
finally appeared to be scared.

"Ready!" He called to his men, lowering his helm with white crests over his head. The White
Dragon felt the ripple of excitement and heard the clank of steel as they prepared behind him,
felt the loved rush of battle fill his veins.

"They're focusing on the left as you hoped." Bronn wore minimal armor, striking an odd
figure beside the steel-encased men beside him, but Aelor hadn't sent him away. The
sellsword looked in his element, gripping the boar spear almost lovingly. "I've never fought
elephants before. It should be one hell of a fucking experience."

Aelor made no response to the sellsword, instead bellowing at the top of his lungs to the men
behind him. "Forward!" With a roar of impatience Warrior exploded out of the trees, the old
stallion nearly outrunning the younger beasts beside him in his mad dash to reach the battle.
Aelor heard the war cry of his men behind, added his own voice to it even as he saw Viserys'
infantry following close behind the elephants. This is where I belong. This is what I was born
for.

Lord Arryn had been ordered to pull his men out if the Golden Company took the bait,
reforming them behind Aelor's desperate charge and plugging the gaps the deaths he incurred
would leave. The Lord Paramount of the Vale was a capable man, but his job had been nearly
impossible; of the men fleeing from the elephant's very few looked ready to rejoin the battle,
most of them peasant levies who had thrown their weapons aside and were fleeing as if the
Stranger himself was behind them. It doesn't matter. Bring the beasts down.

The world grew silent, the screams of the dying and war cries of the living fading away as
Aelor stared through his visor at his target, the lead elephant rumbling towards the sudden
hole in loyalist lines.

Rhaegar crossed his mind, as did Renfred Rykker and Elwood Harte. All of those who had
died fighting for him, some on this very bank and others on the far, crossed his mind. The
face of Robert Baratheon, the terrified eyes of the Rogers', the squire whose throat he had cut
a lifetime ago in the Stormlands.

All of it. Everything.

And then Warrior was leaping off the rise of the bank towards the icy waters of the Trident,
the lead elephant encompassing Aelor's vision as it tried to step up the bank.
He had mistimed his charge. The plan had been for most of the war beasts to clamber up the
bank before Aelor and his men hit them. All of the sudden his broad charge had been
shrunken to a not so broad window, but Aelor didn't let it concern him. He had no idea what
would happen behind him, but it didn't matter. All that mattered was the armored elephant to
his front, an archer on its back drawing back an arrow aimed at Aelor, its eye vulnerable,
obviously uncovered by the armor protecting its forehead and flanks.

The Dragon of Duskendale roared as he struck with the boar spear in his right hand with the
strength and accuracy of a born warrior, his mount and body airborne as he drove the steel
head deep into the elephant's eye socket. The arrow fired by the archer atop it's back
deflected off the white flames of his helmet, the world in slow motion as he released the thick
shaft of the spear.

He nearly lost his seat atop Warrior as the old destrier crashed into the shallow icy water,
Aelor having only been held to the horse by his stirrups during the leap. His rear collided
with the saddle again viciously hard but Aelor paid it no mind, already gripping the second
spear as the first elephants agonized trumpet filled the air.

It was as if he had leapt into a forest where the tree trunks were grey, rough and moving. The
grey of elephant hide and white of ivory tusks were everywhere, their armored sides broad.
Instinct and his years of training took over, that same instinct and years of training that had
allowed him to strike the lead elephant a fatal blow. His second spear was not as lucky,
embedding in the armor a few inches below another elephant's throat. Aelor drew his blade,
hacking away at the back of elephant knees and the straps of saddles. Another arrow from
one of their riders deflected off of his right shoulder plate, a third off the thick mail of
Warrior's neck.

His destrier bellowed and roared his disdain for the great grey beasts surrounding him, more
than once attempting to take a bite out of their thickly hided legs. Aelor swung and swung,
was covered in a freezing splash of water as somebody brought another of the animals down.
It was unlike anything he had ever done yet still all the same, the Dragon of Duskendale
desperately striking not at enemy swords and unprotected throats but instead saddles and
legs. He didn't know how the battle fared, if his charge had done any good at all, but it didn't
matter. He struck and struck and struck again, lost in the forest of grey.

He and Warrior both felt the presence too late. Aelor shot his head around to the left, his
destrier trying to turn his body away, but the elephant was already too close. Aelor didn't
know which of them, him or the elephant, were pointing the wrong direction, but it
unceremoniously sank it's sharpened, curved ivory tusks into Warrior's flanks, the force of the
charging animal driving the tusks through the chainmail blanket. His trusted mount roared,
this time in pain, as Aelor wrapped a hand around his neck in half-a-hug to keep himself atop
the stallion as the elephant picked them up into the air as if they were nothing, tossing them
aside like a child done with a toy.

The Dragon of Duskendale came out of the saddle and lost his grip on Warrior during the
flight, his body lost in a world without definition before he crashed down into the icy water.
Both the impact and the cold water would have knocked the breath from Aelor's lungs, so the
two of them combined certainly accomplished the feat. His mind spun, breath coming in long
gasps as he tried to right the world that had so suddenly become upside down. Splashes
crashed all around him, an elephant's foot landing mere inches from his head and tossing a
wave of the shallow water into his helm. Aelor swallowed a lungful of the stuff, still trying to
gasp for the air his body so desperately needed, and was greeted with the terrifying need to
cough compounded with the need to breath.

If you had told the Dragon of Duskendale he was dying in that moment he would have
believed you, mindlessly crawling through the water trying to both breath and hack up the
water in his lungs, all thoughts of battle lost. He didn't know if it was water dripping from his
nose or blood. His ears were ringing, his head throbbing.

Aelor didn't know how he ended up at Warrior's side, but the stallion that had been one of his
oldest friends was suddenly in front of him, the White Dragon finding his wits again as he
pulled his body up against his stallion. His chainmail blanket had come up to drape over the
saddle, revealing the two deep wounds that were hemorrhaging blood. Even if those could be
staunched and were survivable, his front legs had been snapped in the fall, the right with the
bone jutting out through his black skin.

The old warhorse was game even in his death, and Aelor had to lean back out of the way as
the great beast tried to stand up despite his wounds. But of course his legs couldn't hold any
weight, and thrice the great beast fell back into the shallow waters before he stopped trying.

Aelor started to lay his right hand on Warrior's neck, only then realizing he still gripped his
sword. Instead he laid his left hand in its place, shield askew but still strapped to his arm.
Warrior threw his head towards Aelor, flat teeth bared as if he intended to bite the White
Dragon's head off. He stopped, though, as his pained eyes registered who it was that touched
him. The destrier didn't scream in pain, didn't try to rise again; instead, he bent his muscled
neck to nuzzle Aelor's helm twice, air escaping his lungs in a heavy sigh and washing over
his master's face, before the great stallion lowered his head back down flat.

A rider leapt the body of broken-hearted man and broken-bodied horse, throwing water over
them both. Warrior remained still but breathing as Aelor released his sword, drawing instead
the emerald dagger on his belt. Warrior knew what Aelor was doing—the destrier had asked
for it. The warhorse lay still, breath still coming, as his rider slipped the dagger under his
chainmail blanket to his chest.

"You were a great warrior, old friend. The Seven will fight over which one gets to ride you."

Aelor sank the long-bladed knife deep into the dying stallion's heart. His old friend pulled in
a quick breath before his body went still, his last breath leaving his lungs in one last roar.

The mercenary didn't have time to react when a dark figure rose from beside a dead horse
with a great cry, water flying from it in droves as its blade decapitating the member of the
Golden Company. Aelor roared as his stallion once had, tearing into the Golden Company
infantry as they slogged across the corpse-strewn water, cutting one down, disemboweling
another, turning one's face into a mess of rearranged skin and bone with his shield, roaring all
the while.
Aelor drove his blade into a sellswords guts, feeling more than seeing the battle enveloping
all around him. He didn't know if any or all of the elephants were alive, didn't know if Aegon
had already broken. All Aelor could think of was one thing, and he yelled it over the din of
battle, voice booming like thunder.

"Viserys!"
 LXV

He finally understood what his brother had meant when he claimed war was hell.

There was no sense to this, no defined lines. Enemies came from all different directions,
some trying to kill him and others looking like they were desperately trying to find a way out
of the bloody mess. Viserys tripped over corpses, nearly lost his life to a peasant with his guts
hanging from his belly. He'd lost his horse mere seconds into the conflict, a knight in the
colors of House Whent chopping its legs out from beneath it. Viserys had only been saved by
his Kingsguard, who had killed the knight and dismounted their own horses to slog it out
beside their king.

He didn't know where he was, only that he wasn't in the river. More than once he caught sight
of a downed elephant, yet he could still occasionally hear their trumpet call of pain, telling
him there was still at least one on its feet. His brother and nephew had pulled a nasty little
trick, the Golden Dragon catching a brief glimpse of the White as he leapt into the water,
driving a boar spear into the lead elephant's eye. His enemies right hadn't begun to roll as
Viserys had planned, a torrent of knights meeting the Golden Company's charge, pouring
around the elephant's feet like a river around rock.

But he saw all of that before he, at the center, entered the fray in the center of the lines. After
that, he'd lost all picture of the battle as a whole; it'd become a bloody, filthy fight for life.

He heard the voice again, distant and nearly incomprehensible over the din of battle, so faint
the Golden Dragon told himself it was all in his head. "…viserys…"

He drove Blackfyre through the heart of a knight in gold and black livery, the smoky Valyrian
blade piercing the steel of his breastplate with ease. The man's blood began to flow out of the
wound as Viserys withdrew the blade, only to freeze before it even reached his waist. To his
right Alester Strong brought his mace down savagely hard on a levy's head, the peasants'
skull imploding from the massive blow. He had lost one of his Kingsguard, Nhogo, a few feet
or a few miles back. The Golden Dragon didn't know if the former sellsword was dead or
alive or somewhere in between; there was no organization to this bloody mess. It was a brawl
of blood and frost and snow, corpses starting to freeze as soon as they hit the ground.

The voice came again, seemingly closer but still faint. "…Viserys…" He sliced the legs out
from underneath a screaming peasant levy, bashing another full in the face with his shield.

His surviving three Kingsguard had formed something of a wedge around him, Ser Gerold
Hasty at his front, Ormund Cole his left and Alester Strong his right, and the four of them
were making their way over the countless bodies dead and dying. Viserys had no clue where
they were in relation to their starting positions, had no clue if they were marching towards
where Aegon had been or back towards where his own lines supposedly lay, but wherever
they went they found more men to kill.

Parry, parry, strike. He killed, he yelled, he fought, all while the voice grew closer and louder.
"...Viserys…"
"Viserys."

"Viserys!"

He was in the middle of disemboweling a man-at-arms when he heard it the last time,
suddenly as crystal clear over the din of battle as if it had been screamed directly in his ear.

"VISERYS!"

The King of the Iron Throne had barely managed to turn, his Kingsguard turning with him,
before his brother was upon them.

The white flames of his crest were crimson in blood, his black armor covered in gore and
mud and ice. Hasty stood no chance, having just started to turn when Aelor's sword drove
through the damnable weak spot between breastplate and helm, stabbing in and out quick as a
viper strike. He staggered forward before falling to his knees and slamming face first into a
corpse. Aelor had withdrawn the sword before Hasty even realized he was dead, and the man
who had saved a young Viserys' life was raining down blows on Ormund Cole with a ferocity
Viserys had never seen.

Alester stepped forward and brought a mighty blow of the mace down, but Aelor sidestepped
and slammed his shield into Strong's helm, sending the massive bodyguard staggering a few
steps. It was all the time Aelor needed to finish Cole, who fell to the snow desperately trying
to stench the flow of blood from his slit throat. Alester came at Aelor like a charging bull, but
Aelor gracefully spun around the youth and his swinging mace, bringing his sword in a
backhand blow that missed Strong's back by mere centimeters. Alester had stopped, turned
and barreled back, roaring and swinging, quicker than light.

But not quicker than Aelor.

The third and final of his Kingsguard was impaled by his own momentum, Aelor having
stepped forward when Alester was turning. The young warrior's aggression had been his
undoing, finding the older and more experienced killer was inside his guard only after the
blade burst out his back. His massive legs didn't stop turning for a moment, Aelor's armored
boots digging troughs in the snow as Alester pushed him along despite the Hand of the King
being braced against his broad chest. But the strength slowly left them, and soon enough
Alester Strong sank to the ground.

Brother met brother's eyes then, as the demon who had so easily dispatched a King's
Kingsguard withdrew his blade from the last of their corpses.

And, like a nightmare come to life, Viserys was alone with Aelor.

His brother started towards him in measured, calm steps. His shield was at the ready, the
ruby-pommeled sword that had ended so many lives aiming to add a fellow Targaryen's blood
for the first time. Viserys, having only been able to watch in shock and terror as the man who
had raised him eliminated his Kingsguard, managed to raise his own shield and Blackfyre,
though every nerve in his body told him to run. He was no match for the Dragon of
Duskendale and they both knew it, but no one would follow a king who fled in fear.
The again, no one would follow a dead king either.

But no matter their differences and transgressions against the other, the same blood coursed
through Viserys' veins that coursed through Aelor's, and the third son of Aerys held his
ground against the second.

Viserys brought the attack to Aelor, as he had so many dozens of times in the tiltyard. And,
the same now as it had been then, his older brother knocked aside Viserys' blade with
seeming ease. Viserys caught his counterattack on his shield, the impact jarring his arm. The
King stayed light on his feet, darting another strike that the Hand deflected before Viserys
stepped back swiftly. He nearly tripped on the body of Gerold Hasty, barely managing to
deflect Aelor's strike as he stumbled. The older of the brothers instantly took advantage,
swinging his shield with what seemed like the force of a battering ram into Viserys' face.

The Golden Dragon saw stars and tasted blood as he was sent stumbling by the blow,
crashing into the churned snow on his shoulder plate. He clawed his way forward as quickly
as he could, almost careening back to the ground several times before he regained his
balance. He turned just in time to see the White Dragon's sword flying in from above, barely
jumping out of the way of the blood-coated blade. Almost as soon as he avoided that strike it
was coming back with another, accompanied with a roar from the demon made man wielding
it. Blackfyre caught that one, then the next, as the White Dragon drove the Gold steadily
back.

Viserys was panting, nearly all of his strength focused on keeping his elder brother's sword at
bay. He was constantly on his back foot, nearly tripping on several more corpses, his retreat a
jerky, unkingly thing. In contrast Aelor strode relentlessly forward, strikes precise and
seeming to only strengthen, using both sword and shield as a weapon as he resorted to sheer
aggression. Viserys soon was bleeding from half a dozen cuts to the joints of his armor, quick
enough to deflect the blows or move out of the way before real damage could be inflicted but
not skilled enough to avoid his brothers blade entirely.

He could only last so long. A particularly vicious blow knocked his blade up and out a
centimeter too far away from his body, and Aelor had driven his blade into the opening
before Viserys could get his shield all the way around. The King of the Iron Throne cried out
in pain as his brother's blade bit into his upper arm, driving through the chainmail under the
plate and cleaving the bone and tendon. The Golden Dragon's arm went limp, Blackfyre
falling from his nerveless fingers as the White withdrew the blade and slashed it across the
side of his leg, bringing Viserys crashing to a knee.

The King of the Iron Throne brought his shield up with his one good arm as his own blood
froze to his armor, but three horribly strong strikes from a devastating angle soon sent it
crashing away like all his hopes of survival.

Violet eyes bore into violet eyes as Viserys looked up to the man who had both saved and
killed him.

He wasn't angry, and that in and of itself was significant.

Moments earlier the focus of his rage had been to kill the man who had indirectly murdered
his daughter. That anger had allowed Aelor to carve through Viserys' Kingsguard like a cake,
none of the men a match for him in that moment. That anger had powered his swordarm to
swing again and again and again, driving his enemy farther and farther back, wearing the
false king down as he landed small strike after small strike, bleeding him slowly. That anger
had allowed him to strike hard and true, piercing chainmail and cleaving bone in his enemy's
shoulder and then carving into his calf, bringing that murderer to his knees.

And in that moment, when the goal of his rage was about to be reached, that anger was gone.

It suddenly wasn't a false king on one knee staring up at him, but a silvery haired child with
eyes much like Aelor's own. It was a small bundle clutched to the breast of Aelor's long dead
mother, a small boy pretending to be a horse for the amusement of his smaller sister. While
Aelor knew it was a man in front of him, a man who had killed others both with sword and
command, all he could see was a child.

Viserys didn't shirk back, didn't look away. Fear was in his eyes to be certain, but so was a
resignation, a serene look of acceptance. He knew he was dead, knelt bleeding in the snow
with neither sword nor shield at the mercy of a man who he had betrayed so thoroughly, but
he didn't plead for mercy or cry for help from whatever remained of his men around them. He
simply stared back into Aelor's eyes, and the Dragon of Duskendale realized it was the first
time in his life that Viserys had ever been able to hold his gaze.

Whatever his brothers faults, whatever his eccentrics and quirks, he was meeting his death
head on.

And despite all that had transpired, despite the death of his eldest daughter, Aelor realized he
couldn't be the one to deliver it.

Twice Aelor Targaryen had had the opportunity to kill a brother for the good of the Seven
Kingdoms, and twice—with Rhaegar at Harrenhal and now Viserys mere feet from where
Rhaegar had fallen—he had failed.

He was just lowering his shield when Viserys' eyes darted to the side, looking behind Aelor's
back. He had been so focused on his baby brother that he hadn't sensed the man closing in
behind him, years of battle-tested instincts failing him. The Dragon of Duskendale tried to
twist around, tried to bring his shield far enough back to knock aside a thrust or catch a slash,
but he knew even before he got halfway that it was too late.

And then a third presence materialized out of nowhere, catching the oddly shaped blade being
thrust straight at Aelor's spine and knocking the blade up. A man with black and crimson
armor, seven red-gold spikes adorning his helmet like a crown, placed himself between the
Dragon of Duskendale and the short foreigner wearing the white of a Kingsguard, his pointed
skull bared to the falling snow and freezing wind. Before the former mercenary could
overcome his shock the true King of the Iron Throne had parried the blade, knocking it from
the Jhogos Nhai's hands. One vicious swipe of the King's sword sent the would-be
dragonslayer's head bouncing across the bloody ground, the odd shape of his cranium making
it roll jaggedly at different angles until it came to rest against the body of a downed horse.
King Aegon the Sixth turned to face his uncle as the torso of the foreigner collapsed to the
snow. Aelor could only nod, knowing the boy he had saved as a child had now saved him.
Aegon returned it, and Aelor knew his nephew was smiling under his visor.

The two facets of Targaryen power turned to regard the fallen king in front of them, Viserys
too weak to have moved in the small amount of time the foreigner's death had bought him.
Aelor realized Aegon's Kingsguard was surrounding them, holding off any attempts by
surviving men from Viserys' army to rescue their wounded monarch. The three Targaryen's
were in their own little bubble, time frozen as two of them decided which would kill the
third.

Aegon leaned in close to Aelor's ear, voice rough. "He must die."

The Dragon of Duskendale nodded. "I know. But I cannot do it myself."

The King nodded, peering once more at Viserys, whose eyes were beginning to droop from
the loss of blood from the half dozen minor and two serious cuts. The King took several steps
towards the Prince who had tried to usurp him, scooping down to reverently wrap his fingers
around the grip of Blackfyre, the smoky blade returning to its rightful place in the hand of a
true Targaryen monarch. Aegon seemed to inflate as he lifted the sword, rising up to his full
height to stare down at his enemy before him.

Then he abruptly turned and strode away.

Aelor turned and stared after him confusedly until his eyes settled on what stood waiting just
behind them. Ser Rolland Storm, brother to the man whose murder at Viserys' hand had
helped lay the foundation for the conflict they now fought, was covered in blood, white
armor turned crimson. He and Arthur Dayne had returned to the army only half a day before
they had marched out to face Viserys. Aegon walked past him with only the smallest of nods,
the King raising his own defenses as he readied to rejoin the carnage around them, but it was
all the big man in white armor needed. He began forward, sword and mace at the ready.

Aelor didn't watch. He followed his nephew, throwing himself back into the battle that was
growing more and more vicious, despite the loss of the Golden Company's claimant.

But even over the shouts and screams of the dying and the clash of steel, he heard Rolland
Storm's strike land.
 LXVI

To Alaric, the second Battle of the Trident had seemed every bit as bloody as the first.

The river was once again filled with corpses, from the hulking carcasses of elephants to the
broken bodies of men. The banks and lands around them were no better, blankets of pure
white snow reduced to slops mud and blood. Arrows peppered the ground, stuck in bodies or
shields or the dirt, their colorful fletching a stark contrast to the dull brown of mud and white
of still-falling snow.

To the Lord of the Brindlewood's mind, the two battles fought nearly two decades apart had
many parallels. A suicide charge had been made from the south bank towards the north, the
attackers decimated after they had struck. The bodies were thick enough in the ford to walk
between banks without ever touching the water. Once the two sides had engaged there had
been no organization, the battle turning into a bloody brawl.

A Targaryen king had died.

But history hadn't fully repeated itself, not in every detail. The first battle had seen the rebels
flee completely unorganized, only the exhaustion of the royalist keeping it from becoming a
route. The second battle had seen the rebels execute a mostly ordered withdrawal, their
survivors covered as they pulled back by withering archer fire that cut down scores of royalist
who tried to pursue. There had been no elephants years earlier, whereas now Alaric could see
dozens of them scattered dead across the field. It had been summer then, and now it was cold
enough to freeze the sweat to your body.

No, not everything was the same. But one detail, devastating and heartbreaking, was shared
by both battles.

Aelor Targaryen wept.

Alaric had been by the Prince's side through his highest peaks and his lowest valleys. He'd
been there when Aelor had won his first victories at Bronzegate and Drakesgrave, been
beside him when they'd ridden at a canter through the streets of King's Landing. He'd been
there at the first Trident, the Lighting of the Lions and the Siege of Casterly Rock; at the
devastation of House Rogers and the birth of Dragon of Duskendale's eldest child.

And Alaric was here now, as Aelor cradled that child's limp body and sobbed.

Renlor Targaryen had fought valiantly, all would agree. He had slain an officer of the Golden
Company and tens of lesser members, had thrown himself into the fray with a vicious
abandon reminiscent of his father. But unlike his father, Renlor didn't possess the knack for
survival.

He had been separated from King Aegon and the Kingsguard, but such was the way during
the chaos of battle. No one knew how he had ended up on the royalist left, just as no one
knew how it was that had felled him. One peasant claimed it was Loras Tyrell, though the
Knight of Flowers had been fighting in the center and was therefore unlikely to be the culprit.
A man-at-arms claimed Renly Baratheon, and a third man Viserys himself.

Alaric supposed they'd never know just who it had been, be it a knight of renown or some
faceless levy. But it didn't truly matter; dead was dead, and Renlor's armor was caved in on
the right side of his breastplate and his throat was slit.

Myrcella would be devastated; his beloved daughter fancied herself in love with the boy
whose violet eyes now stared upwards. Alaric was pained as well, for despite his concerns
over Ren's intent towards Myrcella Alaric almost saw him as a son. He'd seen the boy grow
alongside his own children, helped teach him to swing a sword. Barristan, Alaric's youngest
son at five, had asked if he could someday squire for the gregarious Targaryen. Yes, Ren's
death would affect him and his daughter terribly. But neither of them, he nor 'Cella, could
imagine the pain in Aelor Targaryen's heart.

The White Dragon sat in the mud and gore, leaning against the back of a dead horse. His
helm with its signature white flames lay discarded on the ground, thrown off when Aelor had
found his son under a light covering of the ever-falling snow. He held his child's upper body
in his lap, clutching Ren's head to his chest. The Dragon of Duskendale, considered by many
to be a ruthless monster, openly cried, his tears falling onto his son's lifeless face.

A ring of men stood around him, simultaneously being there for him in his grief and
shielding him from the eyes of the common men of the army. King Aegon Targaryen, the
sixth of his name, stood with his helm under his right arm, the three-headed dragon banner of
the true Targaryens billowing behind him. The King had taken an arrow in his left shoulder
when he attempted to lead the pursuit of the withdrawing Golden Company, the broken shaft
still protruding out form the armor. Aegon had refused any maester tend to him before the
more severely wounded were cared for. His eyes were grim, peering at the face of his dead
cousin and friend.

Two of his Kingsguard stood with him, Sers Barristan Selmy and Arthur Dayne. Rolland
Storm, he who had removed Viserys' head from his shoulders, had been severely wounded in
the fighting that followed, ribs shattered by a hammer-wielding Volantene. Oswell Whent
was dead, slain by the Knight of Flowers before Tyrell had in turn been slain by the Sword of
the Morning in a vicious duel that had lasted half the battle. Balon Swann was leading a party
of scouts sent to keep track of the retreating Golden Company.

Aging Donnel Buckwell had died, slain in one of the hails of arrows. His grandson Aelor
Rykker, the Lord of Hollard Hall, stood to Alaric's right, tears slipping down his broad face.
Bronn's customary smirk was nowhere to be found, the sellsword standing on the other side
of the dead stallion from the Prince. Beside him were two others members of Aelor's retinue,
men Alaric recognized the face of but couldn't name. Dickon Tarly, holding the banner, was
looking anywhere but at the crying Prince he had long idolized. His father Lord Randyll was
organizing the wounded, doing as he had done two decades earlier by taking command of the
situation while Aelor grieved. The Lord of the Westmarch was keeping the looting to a
minimum, organizing alongside Jon Arryn a defensive perimeter on the off chance the
Golden Company decided they weren't finished with war for the day.

And then there was Baelon.

Aelor's third son said nothing, face reminiscent of a stone. He was red, from his cheeks were
blood had splashed through the ventilation holes in his helm all the way down to his armored
boots. Alaric had been on the right among the elephants, but even in the short time since the
battle had ended stories were abounding about the young Targaryen. He had been the Warrior
himself, carving a path into Loras Tyrell's charge far ahead of King Aegon and his
Kingsguard. He'd also gone completely unhinged, the always-silent dragonlord screaming at
the top of his lungs as he killed, snarling like a mad dog. Aelor had long ago confided in
Alaric his concerns for Baelon's sanity, and they had never been more warranted than they
were now. Men from his own side eyed him warily, as if afraid he would snap all over again.
Alaric occasionally glanced at him as well, for Baelon's left hand was clenched, right still
gripping the hilt of his sheathed sword while the rest of his body was as stock-still as a statue.

Lord William Dustin, commander of the northerner's, stepped in close to Aegon's ear from
behind. Alaric heard him anyway, even over Aelor's sobs. "What of the Golden Company's
wounded, Your Grace?"

Aegon said nothing for a long while, his eyes still locked on another's lifeless ones. Lord
Dustin waited, focusing intently on the King's helm, eyes not straying towards the father
holding his dead son. When Aegon finally spoke his voice was rough and grim, and as hard
as Valyrian steel. "Traitors and usurper's. Find a team of hard-hearted men and kill them all.
We take no prisoners today." Baelon had come to life at the word 'kill', whirling and drawing
his sword as he started to wade back into the ocean of corpses.

All of them watched him go, no one moving to stop him. Barristan, eyes showing his pain for
Aelor, shook his head. "He's going to have a few difficulties, Your Grace. It is going to be
very hard for one such as him to come down from the mindset of battle."

Alaric started to move, the old wound in his leg aching from both the cold and his exertion
during the battle, following Aelor's surviving son. "I will keep an eye on him." Alaric
hesitated just a moment by his king's side. "Stay with him, Your Grace. And if I may make a
suggestion…" He cast one last glance towards the broken man that had been his mentor. "I
advise you write for Alysanne."

They brought with them the smell of rot and droves of snow.

Two hundred men and women had remained at Winterfell, a mixture of Black Brothers,
wildlings, southerners and northerners. Each had taken only enough provisions out of
Winterfell's stocks for a sprint south, the rest sent on with those fleeing weeks earlier. Less
than one hundred horses—shaggy, northern garrons—were saddled with those supplies, the
message clear; Winterfell was only to be abandoned when all else was lost, and that would
only be when most of them were dead.

After they'd taken as many down with them as they could.

Three trenches had been dug north of the castle, filled with wood that teams drug in from the
Wolfswood, the snow buildup cleaned out of them daily. Barrels of lantern oil stood at the
end of each, ready to be poured into the trenches and set alight. The men and spearwives had
spent the weeks beforehand crafting arrows, wrapping oil-soaked cloth just above their heads.
Braziers lined the walls, their flames continuously stoked, ready for archers to dip the arrows
into the flames, lit the cloth, and then fire on whatever descended from the north. There were
only two craftsmen among them, one a northerner and the other from Harrenhal, so many of
the arrows were crudely made, but they would fly well enough. Each man and woman had
been equipped with the best steel in Winterfell, many of the wildlings having been in genuine
awe of the finely crafted weapons they were given. Longbows and crossbows alike lined the
walls, ready to be taken up at a moment's notice. Rangers of the Watch warned that the
wights couldn't be stopped by blows that would normally kill a human; they needed to be
beheaded or crushed, dismembered and burnt. Everyone present had driven the mantra into
their minds. Yes, they were as ready for what was coming as they ever could be.

The giants helped too.

They had come south three days after the refugees had fled, five of them in total, led by Mag
the Mighty. They were hulking and brutish, only able to stay in Winterfell's courtyard, but
they had each remained behind to help hold back the coming waves.

Other men and women had straggled in, some remaining to help fight while others followed
the others south. Jaime Lannister was among them, leading a band of twenty black brothers
through Winterfell's gates as Catelyn Stark led the refugees out of them. Queensgate had been
crushed by the debris, Lannister and his men alive only because they had been scouting to
assure no Wildlings had climbed over in the immediate vicinity.

Robb Stark wasn't among them, a fact that weighed on them all.

The wait had seemed endless, but soon enough they arrived.

Ghost had woken him, hackles raised and teeth bared. Jaehaerys had untangled himself from
Val, the wildling princess waking in his efforts, dressing herself before assisting the prince
who had become her lover into his armor. Jaehaerys normally would have felt shame; he had
always been uncomfortable with the dalliances Ren and Aelor Rykker had so often
participated in, his only attempt to enter that world having been more embarrassing to the
Prince than pleasurable. But this was different, as Jaehaerys and Val were both fully aware
they were likely to die, and thusly Jaehaerys had no moral qualms. It had been natural to
them both to enjoy the other while they could, and others throughout the beleaguered
garrison had taken the same notion.

Jaehaerys had questioned why Val had stayed; she was a wildling and thusly knew how to
fight, and her aim with a bow was excellent, but he had assumed she would follow Dalla and
her nephew. The wildling Princess had never given him an answer other than a kiss to the lips
and a cryptic 'someone had too'. Whatever her reasons and despite his concern for her—the
two of them had led a band of dying children through snows and starvation, and a bond had
risen out of that shared hardship—he was glad she had remained behind, for reasons other
than the physical ones. She'd been the warm spot in weeks of cold, figuratively and literally.

And now it was time for that cold to end, either in death or arrows of fire or both.

A runner had been sent to ring the sentry bell, Val having rushed to wake Lord Stark as
Jaehaerys walked from the warmth of the chambers to the frigid cold of the snow filled skies.
Ghost continued to growl, staring northward, and after a few minutes Jaehaerys could smell it
too, the stench of death and decay. Men and women rushed out of where they had been
bivouacking to their assigned duties; some saddled and geared horses, several teams rode out
to pour the oil over the snow in the trenches, and most others rushed to the walls to take up
bows. The giants, rising to their impressive heights from where they had slept in the relative
warmth of the stables—they were too massive to enter Winterfell proper—made an imposing
line of five south of the gates, standing shoulder to shoulder as they awaited their turn.

The Prince didn't know how they intended to escape, as there were no horses they could ride
and they had brought no mammoths with them, or if they even intended to escape at all. All
he knew was that no living man would ever wish to face down that line, and he wished that
these undead ones could feel that same fear.

Jaehaerys took a place on the parapets just as the men from the trenches were returning. His
sword was at his side, a shield—not his original one, for it had been lost at the Wall—tied to
his left forearm. Though he had once been a proficient archer, that skill had been lost to him
alongside three of his fingers and his thumb. Jaehaerys would have to wait, watching the
battle unfold from above before joining the defensive lines below. In the meantime he would
serve as a runner, resupplying the archers from the stacks of quivers behind him. Val took a
position next to him, dressed in her all-white furs, longbow in her hands.

She looked beautiful, as beautiful as a different, redheaded wildling ever had. Jaehaerys
silently prayed he wouldn't end up to be the death of Val, as he had been of Ygritte.

They came as a horde, fighting through the deep snows, stumbling into and through the
trenches. Winterfell became silent save for the wind, its defenders holding their collective
breaths. All of the archers had arrows knocked, huddling around braziers, waiting for the
orders. It came as the wights reached the second trench, a woman's voice cutting through the
howl of the wind. "Light." The heads of dozens of arrows burst into flame, their wielders
hustling back to line the walls. "Draw." Bows creaked as strings were pulled back, archers
bending their bodies to angles that pointed their fiery payload to the falling snowflakes.
There was a heartbeat of pause as the archers steadied their aim, Jaehaerys unconsciously
holding his breath, before the voice spoke a final time. "Loose."

Dozens of arrows were shot into the dark sky, leaving paths of light in their wake as they
travelled up and up before beginning down at an angle. They fell all around the trenches,
some embedding themselves into the bodies of the undead, setting them aflame, others hitting
the ground, their shafts burning. Most of them, however, hit the trenches, and lines of fire cut
through the white of the world as the oil ignited in scores of places, burning towards the other
flames until three distinct lines of orange and red were visible. Even at this distance
Jaehaerys could see undead burst into flames, some stumbling into the pits of fire, other
having been trapped on the spies left in the trenches and unable to climb out before the fires
took them.

There were no shouts of elation, no cries of victory. The archers simply began firing at will,
focusing now on the wights that had escaped the fires. Some were trapped between trenches,
others working their way around them, and still more had managed to traverse all three.
Jaehaerys moved to bring quivers of arrows when called for, watching the wights grow closer
and closer, more of them skirting around the flaming trenches. The bowmen were soon firing
at almost point blank range, leaning out over the parapets to fire down on the massing horde
of undead as they soon pressed heavy against the walls. Boiling oil was dropped on those at
the gate, the smell of burning flesh mixing with the stench of decay, but more and more of
them took the places of those burnt and boiled.

They were in the furs of wildlings and the leathers of the Night's Watch, gripping swords or
axes or just swinging their clawed hands. Some didn't even have hands, missing one or more
limbs, some dead so long that the flesh had decayed from their bodies, leaving only skeletons
in halfhelms rushing the walls.

It was terrifying beyond anything Jaehaerys had ever seen, so horrible to witness that it felt
surreal. Jaehaerys felt like screaming in terror, retching in revulsion or both. Instead he ran
arrows where they were needed, and when the mass of undead outnumbered the arrows flying
in to incinerate them, their numbers shaking the gates of Winterfell soundly, he stretched his
shoulders and prepared. The cold wind buffeted his face, his helm lost alongside his shield in
the collapse of the Wall, but Jaehaerys didn't mind it. He may be half dragon, but he was also
half wolf, and wolves were of the cold.

The prince sprinted towards the stairs off of the parapets, as down below the giants braced
and men and women formed defensive lines. Archers still fired, some shouting warnings that
the creatures were trying to climb the walls. The gates rocked violently; Jaehaerys heard
wood cracking and creaking, the hinges rocked violently by the press of bodies. So this is
how it ends, surrounded by the sound of splintering wood and snarling dead and the smell of
burning flesh. My mother will never forgive me.

He made one stop just shy of the stairs, using his good hand to reach out and grab her arm.
Val was still firing, her latest quiver close to empty. Jaehaerys yelled over the noise, placing
his lips directly next to her ear. "Go, Val! You can do no more good!"

She didn't argue, instead placing one hand against his armored chest. "Come with me."

Jaehaerys shook his head. "You've done your part, now I do mine. Go while you can."

The princess gripped the back of his neck suddenly, smashing her lips to his in a desperate
kiss. Jaehaerys returned it, allowing himself that one moment of sweetness before he
disentangled himself. He met her eyes, Stark grey and brilliant blue, and gave her a small, sad
smile. "Go."

The Targaryen Prince left her there, drawing his sword and taking the steps two at a time to
the courtyard. Lord Stark, tall and regal, gripping the two-handed Valyrian steel blade the
Starks had carried for hundreds of years, stood at the forefront, his hard face as calm as ever.
Mag the Mighty, the leader of the last of the giants, focused his great eyes on the gates, ready
to smash whatever crossed through the threshold. Jaehaerys took his place beside Lord Stark
and one of the end giants, the one called Wun Weg Wun Dar Wun, and drew his blade.

They came over the gates first, climbing the heaped bodies of the others to leap down on the
defenders. Giants roared, smashing them aside like annoying flies, men and women cutting
them apart. Many carried torches in one hand and a weapon in the other, igniting the wights
as soon as they fell to the ground. Jaehaerys swatted aside the blade of a one-armed dead man
with half a face, disemboweling him to let black and rotted guts fall to the snow before
stabbing him through the remaining eye.

The gates finally gave some time later, after enough wights had climbed over the walls to
fully engage the lines of remaining defenders and the archers who had remained. When they
did the giants surged forward, crashing into them with shouts and roars, crushing them with
mighty clubs and stomps or picking them up to tear them apart in large hands. But they could
only stop so much, and dozens more spilled around them to attack the flesh of man.

Jaehaerys lost all true senses. His world had come down to slaying those who should have
already been slain, smashing skeletons to scattered bones with his shield and slashing legs
and arms and heads, most of them so rotted that they gave way to his blade like water to the
bow of a boat. It was hell on earth, battling these creatures that defeated all ideas man had for
reality. The courtyard became home to dozens of fires as torchbearers set the fallen wights
alight, yet no matter how many they slew more took their place. Ghost snarled and growled,
tearing apart wight after wight. The first child to attack Jaehaerys should have stopped him
dead in his tracks, but he was so overwhelmed by the horror of it all that he merely sliced off
the small arm carrying the dagger and cleaved the skull in two. Only a small, insignificant
part of his mind recognized the child as one who had frozen to death following Jaehaerys
south of the wall.

It was if someone else was doing it; Jaehaerys Targaryen was only an observer as another
being in the skin and armor of Jaehaerys Targaryen fought back the spawn of a cold hell.

They fought that way, wading through waves of enemies that never seemed to end, for hours
or days or seconds. Jaehaerys would stop one only to be attacked by two more, the smell of
decaying and burning flesh prevalent over it all. It was a mindless, bitter struggle, one he was
both horribly intertwined with and absolutely separated from.

The first time he saw one it was shearing through a giant's leg as if it was made of butter,
sending the giant form crashing to the ground, crushing many of its minions beneath it. It was
dressed almost like a brother of the Night's Watch, covered in black leathers and armor of
studded steel. Its weapon was an odd thing, a long handle twice the length of a man's forearm
capped with a twisted, white blade that seemed of ice. Its hair was as white as the falling
snow, its skin wrinkled and bluish and looked for all the world like it was made of ice.

And it's eyes. Its eyes were blue, hauntingly blue, glowing and utterly bright.

Jaehaerys was amidst an army of undead trying to kill him, his body instinctually going
through the motion of parry, parry, kill, but his eyes watched the being that could only be a
White Walker. It cut through defenders like nothing. Jaehaerys watched in terrified
amazement as weapon after weapon, be it rusty wildling iron or castle-forged Winterfell steel,
shattered when it came in contact with that icy blade. Jaehaerys heard the shouts to retreat, to
flee south, but all he could do was watch the being carve through the battlefield.

And then its eyes locked on Jaehaerys'.

The Other was upon him before he could truly comprehend, that blade slashing in. He drove
his sword to meet it out of instinct, crying out when the steel shattered and the pommel was
wretched from his hands. The Other angled its odd weapon, what the Targaryen Prince swore
to be a smile on its icy lips, as it drove forward to make the kill.

And then shattered into a thousand slivers of ice.

Jaehaerys blinked thrice before he realized he wasn't dead. In front of him, where once there
had been an ice demon about to cleave him in half, stood Eddard Stark, face equally
surprised. Ice, its Valyrian steel blade smoking, was thrust out from his body, occupying the
space the Other's torso had been.

The Lord of Winterfell and the Prince of the Iron Throne locked gazes, and both of their eyes
lit with understanding.

Eddard spoke, voice rough. "Go. Rally those south, tell them off this." The Lord of the North
whirled and sliced a charging wight in half, actions one smooth motion, before he offered his
nephew one last parting phrase. "Tell them winter has come."

The Lord Paramount of the North waded back into the fray. There were other White Walkers,
eyes icy blue and hair white as snow, striding through the gates of Winterfell as if they were
conquering kings. Jaehaerys watched his uncle make for one, greatsword flashing, for only a
moment.

Then he turned and ran, Ghost appearing at his side, the white direwolf red and black with
old and new blood.

The waiting horses were gone by the time he arrived there, the picket lines cleaned save for
one being on top a garron, firing arrows from horseback. Val saw him, her horse near
prancing, and kicked the garron to his side, tossing the bow aside as Jaehaerys let his shield
fall to the ground. Jaehaerys climbed behind her, wrapping his bloody arms around her
middle as she kicked the shaggy horse into a sprint through Winterfell's southern gates, Ghost
loping along beside them.

The two said nothing as they left the crackling of fire and roar of battle behind them, said
nothing as they rode deeper into the snowy night. There were no words to be said that could
summarize any of what had just occurred, nothing horrible and terrifying enough to give it
the levity it needed.

Only one thing echoed in Jaehaerys' addled mind, spoke in his uncle's haunting baritone.

Winter had come.

 LXVII

It took five weeks and twice as many battles before the Golden Company surrendered.

After the Second Battle of the Trident, the Golden Company had retreated towards King's
Landing, though it had fallen to the Dornish one day before. King Aegon hadn't followed
them; instead, he had marched for the docks south of Darry, sending instructions to Lord
Edmure Tully to chase the Golden Company towards the Dornish via Harrenhal. The King's
instincts had been right; he found the Golden Company a day's ride away from those docks,
marching towards the sea to flee back to Essos. The Royalist cut off that avenue of retreat in
the Battle of the Flats, and pursued them until he engaged them again two days south at the
Battle of Berry Keep. Each battle saw a royalist triumph but also saw a smoothly executed
Golden Company retreat, leaving Aegon on the cusp of complete victory but denying it to
him time and time again.

Lord Tully's forces engaged them days later, Aegon arriving only as the Golden Company
abandoned the field. The two forces merged and pursued, chasing the Golden Company
towards the Dornish, who were marching out of King's Landing after installing Lord Anders
Yronwood as regent of the city. It was a game of cat and mouse for days, accompanied by
dozens of light skirmishes and a handful of full-scale engagements with the same result as all
the others, before the trap was laid.

Aegon and his force made a point of pursuing the Golden Company while continuously
denying them any travel north towards the coast of the Bay of Crabs, while the Dornish
denied them access to the Narrow Sea. The King himself had devised the simple yet effective
plan; they would funnel the Golden Company to Maidenpool, the only port deep enough
between the docks of Darry and the Whispers on the Claw to not be frozen by the damnable
cold. There they would unite with the Dornish to finish them.

For once, it went perfectly.

The Golden Company was caught just as her ships began to dock, thousands of Royalist
charging into the old town of Maidenpool from the east, west and south. The Battle of the
Bloody Shallows earned the name, the waters of the port at Maidenpool turned red with
blood. It was fierce but short, claiming the lives of thousands in less than an hour of brutal
combat. The Golden Company, an organization that had survived for generations, was cut to
pieces on the shores of the Bay of Crabs, half of her galleys burned before the others fled
without a single ground soldier aboard.

The prisoners were sent under heavy guard to King's Landing, to await judgement by King
Aegon. Renly Baratheon was among them, wounded and captured by Baelon Targaryen as he
tried to board a galley. Renly's brother, Stannis, had defeated the last of the Ironborn off the
shores of Pyke, and was sailing to the warmer shores south where he could make better
landfall to unload the plethora of prisoners he had taken. Whatever remained of the Ironborn
fleets were scattering back to their rocky islands, and though Aegon knew he would have to
scourge them clean in the coming months their teeth had been removed from being able to
inflict further damage.

The War of the Three Kings was over. The Second War for the Dawn had just begun.

Aegon stretched his left shoulder, feeling the healing scar from the arrow he had taken resist
the movement. He had fought in every battle despite the warnings of both the maesters and
his Kingsguard, compensating for the wounded shoulder as well as he could. The wound had
been more painful than debilitating, but he had yet to regain the full range of motion he was
used to. He also had a bad habit of reopening the puncture wound while fighting; every
undershirt the King owned now bore bloodstains around the injury. It was proving as
frustrating as it was uncomfortable.

Sers Barristan and Arthur Dayne sat horses alongside him, watching as crews scavenged the
battleground for salvageable weapons and armor, pulling corpses from the shallow waters
and lining them along the docks and beaches. Maesters and healers roved the lines of
wounded royalist, saving who they could, forsaking those they couldn't. Baelon led the hard-
hearted butchers, most of them men from his father's retinue, slitting the throats of the
wounded traitors, sparing only the odd few of noble blood to be hostages. Peasant levies
swarmed the bodies of dead Golden Company men, brawling with one another over the
golden rings of service that lined many arms.

It was the aftermath of war. Aegon had grown used to it, just as he had grown used to death.

Lord William Dustin had died at the Battle of the Flats. Jon Arryn, the Lord Paramount of the
Vale, had been slain at the Battle of Berry Keep. His son, now Lord Artys Arryn II of the
Vale, had bravely taken command of his father's forces for the remainder of the War of the
Three Kings, but the young man was grieving fiercely. Over a dozen minor lords had been
killed and several more wounded. Randyll Tarly had lost an eye.

Ren had lost his life.

My uncle was right all these years. War is hell.

Aegon was shook from his reverie by the sound of approaching hooves. His other uncle, the
Red Viper of Dorne, approached atop a Dornish sandsteed, his lips twisted into a smirk of a
smile. Aegon returned it; he hadn't seen Oberyn Martell as much in recent years as he had
when he was a child, but his mother's brother had always cared greatly for him. This was
their first meeting since months before Aegon had originally travelled north, their two forces
in constant contact but never having merged until today.

"Uncle, cousins." The King called as Oberyn reined to a stop in front of him, nodding in
greeting to both Barristan and the Sword of the Morning. A spear was strapped to his back,
and two of his bastard daughters—brutal Obara and austere Nymeria—sat sandsteeds behind
him.

The Red Viper let the smirk grow into a full smile. "Nephew. I hear you've never lost a battle;
you're making quite a name for yourself as a warrior."
That praise once would have inflated Aegon's ego for days, but now he only nodded lightly.
"None of it would have been as complete without your help. You and uncle Doran have my
thanks. How is Elia?"

"She and the other hostages were unharmed when we took King's Landing. She wished to be
here, but her mother refused to let her out of her sight again. They were both waiting with my
supply train, well out of harm's way. I imagine they'll catch up to us any moment now that it
is over." The Dornishman's smile faded. "How is Aelor?"

Aegon looked away, back to the scurrying figures around the dock, debating just what to say.
He eventually decided to tell only what Aelor himself would; the truth. "He comes to the
council. He fights in the battles as well as he always did, kills as only he can. He oversees
picket lines and scouting duties, organizes the layout of the camp each night. On the surface
he is the same authoritative, ruthless prince." Aegon sighed. "How is he truly, though? I don't
know. I'm only his son."

Oberyn nodded slowly, looking down. "He always loved his family more than life itself. Now
he's lost two children and had to kill a brother, even if it was one of your Kingsguard to
swing the sword."

The King of the Iron Throne sighed. "He hardly speaks outside of duty; he never contradicts
my decisions or orders anymore, even if they are questionable. If you would have told me a
year ago that I would miss having my uncle advising my every move, I would have called
you a liar. Now I'm desperately wishing for him to call me foolish and correct what I'm doing
again." Aegon glanced back to Prince Oberyn, the Red Viper's concerns for one of his oldest
friends clear on his olive-toned face. "I wrote for Alysanne. She should already be at
Chiltern, awaiting our return as we move back north. Hopefully she can bring him back
from…wherever it is he's at now. Anyone who truly knows him can tell it isn't here." He
glanced back to Baelon, his cousin in the process of bringing his sword down on a wounded
mercenary. "Hopefully she can bring them both back."

Ser Barristan spoke up, his eyes also on Baelon though he spoke of the lad's parents. "She has
always been able to reach him, even when he was long past listening to anyone else. I've seen
him deal with grief and rage before, but never this way. Perhaps Alysanne has. "

The Prince of Dorne nodded. "We can hope." His face lightened as he changed the subject,
though it wasn't necessarily to a lighter topic. "What is this about marching north that your
ravens have been mentioning? You're a bit too old to believe in ghost stories."

"I wish they were only ghost stories, uncle, but I've got the entire north coming towards me to
feed and protect. Jaehaerys is—or was—at Winterfell to try and hold back what's chasing
them. I pray to the Seven every night that he meets us at the Neck; I don't think Aelor would
survive the loss of another son."

"Aye, one can only pray." His smirk returned. "I imagined you wouldn't call Dornishmen into
these snows without a true threat. While I was in King's Landing, I recruited a few thousand
bits of help. If Alysanne can't cheer Aelor up, perhaps another old friend will."
Aegon cocked an eyebrow, following the Red Viper's extended finger. Squinting against the
white of the snow, Aegon could just make out a line of wagons rumbling through the snow.
They didn't carry men or rations; instead they were filled with sand.

And nestled in that sand were dozens of jars.

Her sons looked haggard and worn, their silvery hair unkempt and faces gaunt, the dark
circles under their eyes easily visible against their pale Valyrian skin.

There were also two of them missing.

Neither of their eyes, Targaryen violet or Lefford dark brown, met hers as Ser Vardis helped
her off of the mare she'd ridden from the Gates of the Moon to Chiltern, and then from
Chiltern to where the army was camped. King Aegon Targaryen, the most powerful man in
Westeros, looked like a chastened child, eyes locked on his armored boots. Her third son
Baelon, he who had gained a sort of vicious infamy in the War of the Three Kings, was
fixated on his gauntlet, scratching at an invisible blemish. Even the Kingsguard, deadly men
who had faced down lines of screaming knights, looked anywhere but at her.

Wars they could handle. Grieving mothers they could not.

Aegon cleared his throat and finally raised his gaze to her as she crunched over the snows
towards him, her woolen skirts brushing the mud and ice. Despite the pain in her heart, a pain
she had thought couldn't get worse after Rhaella until news of Renlor reached her, a streak of
relief filled her soul when she looked to the boy she had mothered since he was less than two
namedays old. He was changed to be sure, considerably thinner than he had been last she saw
him and his face now one of a hardened man and not an untested boy, but she could still see
her Aegon underneath it.

He squared his shoulders as he spoke, voice strong and formal. "Lady Alysanne, I—"

The King fell suddenly silent when she threw her arms around his armored middle. She felt
Aegon let out a long, relieved sigh, and then he was hugging her back, his voice now small
and quiet. "I missed you, mother."

Alysanne hugged him a long moment before she leaned back, fighting back tears as she
placed a motherly hand on his cheek. She didn't trust her voice so she didn't use it, instead
turning to wrap Baelon in a similar hug. He had grown an inconceivable amount since she'd
last saw him in the courtyard of the Red Keep; Baelon was tall, nearly as tall as Aelor, and
where once there had been peach fuzz there was now whiskers.

They're both men now. Gods, how much I've missed.

She didn't say anything for a long while, holding the two Targaryen warriors, thanking the old
gods and the new that they were alive and well. She felt the sudden urge to hold Aemon, her
sweet sweet Aemon, though she knew he was travelling south with the refugees of the north.
A pang of fear for Jaehaerys spiked through her, as did a fresh new wave of pain as she
thought of Renlor.
He never got to meet Lucaerys. He never even knew.

It took her a long while before she gathered the strength to speak without her voice cracking.
"Where is Aelor?"

Aegon shook his head. "I didn't tell him you were coming. He is…not himself. I don't believe
he has slept since…"

Alysanne had heard all she needed to. "Take me to him."

Her husband's tent was dark when she quietly stepped through the canvas, her eyes taking
several moments to adjust to the dim interior. This tent was different than the one she and
Aelor had hammered out their own agreements in outside Lannisport; then his had been the
center of command for the entire surrounding army, needing to be capable of housing all of
his advisors and chief lords. During this campaign however those duties fell to Aegon, and so
the Hand of the King had opted for a modest pavilion capable of housing a cot, a chest, a
small writing table, one brazier for warmth and not much else.

A candle sat on his chest of belongings next to the cot, which clearly hadn't been used
anytime recently. It, like the lantern on the table and brazier in the corner, was unlit. Quill and
parchment was perfectly organized alongside said lantern, too perfect to have been used since
they were originally set out. While the canvas walls protected her from the bite of the wind
and the falling snow, the interior was nearly as cold as the conditions outside of it.

It was tidy, much too tidy for her Aelor. It looked as if a ghost resided here, a ghost that was
currently seated in an open-backed stool in the very center of the shelter.

Alysanne didn't say a word as she moved towards the broad shoulders and lean hips that she
knew every bit as well as she knew her own body. Aelor's back was to her, her dragonlord as
still and silent as the mountains around the Golden Tooth of her youth. He remained that way
as she neared, his head down as he focused on something in his hands that was shielded from
her view.

The Dragon of Duskendale didn't even flinch when she slipped her hands under his arms and
wrapped her own around his ribs, resting her chin on his left shoulder. It wasn't difficult; even
seated, her husband was much larger than she herself was, despite Alysanne being on the
taller side for a woman. Tucking her cheek against his neck, she peered down towards his lap
where Aelor held the object of his fixation.

The empty eyeholes of her son's helm stared back at her.

The warlike spikes along the center a sharp contrast to the pale skin holding them, the dark
steel polished to a shine. The lack of violet eyes staring back at her from the empty black eye
gaps broke her heart into more pieces, as did the lack of a smiling Ren underneath it all. I'll
never see it again. Tears burned her eyes until one slipped down her cheek, trailing off to run
across the smooth steel of her husband's shoulder plate.

He never moved his head, focused on the helm of their son, but one broad hand reached up to
cup her cheek. His voice was rough and raspy when he spoke, the palm of his hand cold
against her cheek. "Allie?"

The Lady of Duskendale said nothing, instead turning her head to press a kiss to his cheek
before looking back down at the piece of armor in his hands. With a long, infinitely tired sigh
the Targaryen prince melted back into her, his movement accompanied by the sound of
popping joints. Neither of them said anything for a while, peering down at the memento of
their son. Alysanne leaned her head against his, letting tears roll unchecked. Aelor kept his
hand on her cheek, thumb gently stroking, speaking after a long while with a somber, broken
tone. "I lied to you, Allie. I said I'd bring our sons home, and I failed."

Her own voice wavered as she spoke, but Alysanne was past caring enough to try and hide
weakness, particularly from Aelor. "Our boy never did follow our plans for him."

"I couldn't even avenge him, not properly. Viserys was dead by the time I learned Ren was
gone. In my youth I would have slaughtered the entire Golden Company in vengeance, as I
tried to do to the Lannisters after Elia, but now…now even death doesn't fill the hole in my
soul."

"Ren wouldn't have wanted you to anyway, love; he was always more diplomat than warrior.
A smile rather than a punch, a love letter rather than a declaration of war. A…" Her voice
broke and the sobs came uncontrolled.

He gently reached across to the table beside him and placed Renlor's helm there before
leaning out of her grasp. He slid around on the stool, and she was greeted by the dark bags
under his eyes and his unkempt beard before he reached for her again, pulling her into his
embrace. She clutched him with ferocity, burying her head into the side of his neck as he
spoke again over her tears. "How could you ever forgive me?"

It took her long minutes to control herself enough to answer, the sobs slowing as she
struggled to regain herself. When she did her voice was muffled by his skin, but she put as
much conviction behind it as she could. "I never once blamed you. Ren fought and he…died,
just as Rhaegar and Renfred Rykker and all those before him have. You told me yourself
when you started his training that it was the way of war."

Aelor grunted, arms tightening around her. "You never truly believe it will happen to your
own children when you say those things. You always foresee it as happening to someone else,
someone distant and foreign, not someone you held since the day he was brought into this
world."

Alysanne choked back another round of sobs, rallying her inner strength before she leaned
back in his arms. She placed a hand on either side of his face, meeting his eyes as she spoke
with as much conviction as her broken heart held. "There are seven others you have held
since the day they entered this world left, and they need you now more than ever. Aegon is
still half a boy—he needs your guidance and your strength. Baelon has lost his eldest brother
and half of his mind; he needs your strength. Aemon is coming south with thousands of
refugees; they need your strength. Jaehaerys is fleeing from a foe he cannot defeat, and likely
feels as if it is all his fault; he needs your strength. And I am Renlor and Rhaella's mother just
as much as you are their father; I need your strength. We can grieve, love, and we will for the
rest of our lives. But we have a duty, not only to our living children but to the one we won't
see in this life again. There is much to live for; to live for as a man, not as a hermit in his
cave."

Like Lucaerys. She wondered if she should mention that they had a grandson, but opted to
wait. Now was a time to grieve with one another; there would be time to tell him all else
later. There would be time to tell him of grandsons and gooddaughters and even dragons;
they'd kept the hatchlings quite from all, no one having entered or left the Gates of the Moon
aside from the Kingsguard and herself, and Sers Arthur and Rolland—and Tyrion Lannister,
who had been there at the first—had been sworn to secrecy. At first it was because they were
too small to have done anyone any good—Alysanne and Daenerys had wondered if they
might in truth die, creatures of fire born into a world of ice. Aegon and Aelor hadn't needed
any further distractions from the difficult battle they faced, particularly not one as significant
to their House as Balerion, Aelon and Rhaegal were, at least not while the hatchlings were
too small to singe a housecat much less an army. Their war was to be won with swords and
strategy, not dragonfire; the women had agreed it best to not give the men even the slightest
idea of anything different.

Then they had kept the news hidden for fear that it would draw Viserys down on the Gates of
the Moon; nearly all of the fighting men in the Vale had marched to war, as they were too far
from the Western coast to draw the ire of Ironborn raiders, and even that heady defense could
have fallen to the discipline of the Golden Company. If Viserys had taken dragons into his
possession—and in the process Daenerys—his rebellion would have grown tenfold.

Now, though, there was no true reason to hide the birth of the dragons from Aegon and Aelor.
They were nearly a year old, and bigger than any animal Alysanne had seen though she
wasn't sure how anyone could ride the beasts. Word of the return of dragons was not to be
entrusted to a raven, but since she, someone who had seen them grow, was here in the flesh…
well, perhaps it was time. The dragons were willful and ornery, flying where they wanted
when they wanted and preying on livestock and wildlife alike. They could not truly be
controlled, though they always returned to wherever Dany was at night, save for Balerion.

The smallfolk of the Vale were doubtlessly spreading word that they had seen dragons
swooping through the snowy skies, only the snows that prevented easy travel and the
skepticism the stories were clearly met with keeping the news from already spreading all over
Westeros. The secret wouldn't be held much longer. If anyone had a right to know, it was the
man she was with now.

But she didn't say anything, at least not then; there was something else, wholly inappropriate
for a woman grieving, on her mind. They'd kept word of the dragons hidden for almost a
year; a few more hours would make no difference.

Aelor had watched her as she spoke, his hand at some point having stroked back the hair
from her face. Alysanne kept her eyes on his, shaking from the cold and the emotion and
something else entirely. Aelor finally smiled, a small and sad smile, deadened by clear and
obvious pain, but a smile none the less. "I never deserved you."

Her response was to press her lips to his, pushing as close to his body as she physically could.
One turned to another, then another.
The next morning, the cot was anything but tidy.

"Aegon." A hard grip grabbed his shoulder, shaking the King of the Iron Throne out of his
dreams of sunshine and fire. "Wake up, son, now."

Aegon the Sixth opened his eyes to see his uncle standing over him, silhouetted against the
light of a lantern. The Dragon of Duskendale turned to light the candles on Aegon's table as
the King sat up on the cot, rubbing sleep from his eyes. "Uncle? What…what hour is it?"

"Closer to dusk than dawn." He was forced to squint as the candles burned to life, and when
Aelor turned to face him again Aegon was taken aback by the difference in the man. This was
not the haggard, broken hearted man he had seen this morning; the darkness under his eyes
had dissipated some, and Aelor stood taller and straighter than Aegon had seen him in years.
There was a healthier gleam to his Valyrian features as well, the blush of life prevalent where
there had been only deadened white skin earlier.

His uncle looked positively alive.

With a shock Aegon realized his uncle wasn't in his armor for the first time in forever, instead
dressed in a simple robe cinched at the waist that was entirely unfit for the deep snows
outside. When Aegon's sleep-addled mind remembered Alysanne had arrived only hours
earlier, it all clicked.

Oh. OH.

The wave of revulsion he felt—those were his parents for the Seven’s sake—was quashed by
his uncle's intently focused gaze and tone of voice. "Are you awake enough now, boy?"

Aegon didn't even mind being called boy, as long as it was the old Aelor saying it instead of
the new. He nodded once, and Aelor reached out to grip his shoulder. It was strong, as strong
as the conviction in the Dragon of Duskendale's voice.

"Good. You're going to need all of your wits for what I'm about to tell you."
 LXVIII

Jaehaerys looked half frozen and haggard when he rode through the trenches behind a
beautiful woman. His scratched armor was caked in blood and ice, whiskers unkempt and
black-hair unhealthy, his body thin with half of one hand missing.

Aelor had never seen a better sight.

The black-haired Prince huddled beneath a pair of heavy furs in his brother's tent, a steaming
bowl of the bland-tasting stew the defenders of the Neck had grown accustomed to on the
table before him. The blonde-haired woman called Val was seated beside him, likewise
equipped. Aelor had noticed that the wildling had refused to release his nephews' right arm.

That was problematic considering Lyanna Stark had a death grip on the other. The poor lad
hadn't been able to touch his stew.

Although I doubt he could eat, not with so many eyes boring into him.

The long table was filled with people, each one staring at the Black Prince. Aelor sat at its
head, Lyanna and then the two recent arrivals on his right. Aelor shook his head ever so
slightly. This is the first time since Harrenhal I have ever been around Lyanna Stark without
the wish to snap her neck. He was so happy to see Jaehaerys he couldn't summon anger at the
She-Wolf even if he tried.

Alysanne sat to his left, one hand resting on his own arm while the other gripped Aemon,
their eldest surviving child. She hadn't let him out of her sight since he had staggered out of
the swamps of the Neck a fortnight earlier, somewhere along the journey having taken a
semblance of command of the great host leaving their homeland. Perhaps it was his
Targaryen name or the fact that the evacuation was his idea or maybe because they found him
the best man for the job; whatever the reason, Aemon had gained a large measure of respect
from the northern lords and ladies. Lord Mace Tyrell, having arrived a week earlier with his
army after ridding the coasts of Ironborn holdings, was beside Aemon, his second son Garlan
next to him. Both Tyrells had been floored and devastated by Loras' betrayal and death, and
both were intent on proving their loyalty. Brandon Stark—potentially now the Lord of
Winterfell—continued on that side, Lady Stark next to him. Lord Edmure Tully was seated
next to the end and his sister, across from Tyrion Lannister, who was followed on that side
back towards Aelor by Oberyn Martell and Artys Arryn. Tormund Giantsbane, a brute of a
wildling, was seated between the young Lord of the Vale and Val, eyeing her curiously.

And across from Aelor at the opposite end of the table, light dancing in his green eyes and a
smirk on his lips, sat Jaime Lannister.

Both Jaime and Lyanna in the same room, and my fists aren't even clinched. I'd like to think
I've learned diplomacy and restraint, but I imagine I'm just getting old.

The ranger of the Night's Watch had arrived only hours before Jaehaerys and his wildling
princess, having fought at the Battle of Winterfell until it became pointless to linger there.
The surviving Black Brothers—many of them lost as to what their lives were now without a
Wall or Lord Commander—had instantly rallied to him, and Jaime had become part of the
council as a representative to the men of the Night's Watch. No one knew what would happen
to them once the war was done; there was no Wall to return too. For now, all parties involved
were focused on the coming threat rather than any decisions regarding the future.

There would be no future if they lost the coming fight.

Still, the change in the political landscape of Westeros left many a question they would
hopefully be forced to confront someday. For now, old enemies and sworn rivals coexisted as
best they could.

Others stood in the tent around them; Alaric, Randyll Tarly, Ser Karyl Vance and Wylis
Manderly, Bronn and Sers Barristan and Arthur Dayne. And, perhaps most interestingly of
all, young Elinor Prester, the Shebull of Feastfires. Short, slender and with hair as light and
delicate as cornsilk, she had not only repulsed the Ironborn from her childhood home but also
liberated several other Westerland holdings ahead of Mace Tyrell's advancing force, rallying
the relieved defenders until she controlled half an army. She was as sharp of tongue and
vicious as she was attractive; Aelor liked her.

There was no King Aegon, but that was intended. While the Dragon of Duskendale knew
Aegon would love to be here greeting his brother, the King was on a much more vital
mission.

Lady Stark spoke, voice calm but carrying a hint of the grief Aelor knew she must be
experiencing. She too had lost a son, and her husband Lord Eddard had not made it south.
"Lyanna, Lady Val, Jaehaerys will not be able to eat if his arms are occupied."

Lyanna didn't budge, which was all well and good; Jaehaerys could hardly maneuver the
spoon with only a pinky. The Lady Val however did release his right arm, though one hand
remained out of Aelor's sight, likely on Jaehaerys' thigh. Aelor raised an eyebrow when
Jaehaerys' didn't even so much as blush. The boy he had known would have been a red-faced,
spluttering fool at such an obvious sign of affection from a woman.

But then again, Jaehaerys was no longer the boy Aelor had known; his time and trials in the
north had turned him very much so into a man. It was obvious when you looked into his eyes
that Jaehaerys had seen things that had shaken his very soul. Nothing as trivial as a woman he
was clearly involved with showing affection in public would rattle him these days, especially
if that woman had underwent harsh trials alongside him.

Aelor had never fought alongside a woman before, but he still thoroughly understood the
bonds formed between those who share suffering.

He spoke, covering any awkwardness others might feel at the sight. "Prince Jaehaerys, what
are we facing?"

Jaehaerys took a mouthful of the stew, eyes on the table as he considered his response. "I'm
sure Ser Jaime has already told you."
The Lannister in question answered. "Oh I have, but they'll actually believe it if it comes
from you." A few shifted uncomfortably at the statement. Aelor did not.

The Prince mulled his answer a few moments longer before he spoke again, voice quiet and
deadly serious. "Do you remember all of the stories you heard as a child? Tales of ice demons
turning the world into a place of everlasting snow, slaughtering all they come across? Stories
of pain and terror and death?" Prince Jaehaerys looked up, meeting his uncle's eyes and
holding them. "They're all true, except that the reality is much, much worse."

Jaime Lannister chimed in again, picking back up his narrative now that he knew they'd
actually listen. "Corpses without guts and half their faces gone, men and women with their
arms missing and organs hanging out, sometimes straight skeletons, all walking at you as if
they were no different than a normal Westerosi. Except of course that they are carrying
swords or axes, and they're trying to kill you."

Catelyn Stark began to rise, hand on her young sons shoulder. "Perhaps we should leave."

Brandon Stark's voice was calm and lordly, quite an impressive feat for one not yet even two
and ten. "No. These are my people and my lands being discussed; I will not shy from the
facts." Bran swallowed once before adding quietly, "Father wouldn't." His mother retook her
seat, visibly fighting her emotions.

Jaehaerys spoke as if there had been no interruption. "The walking dead aren't what we
should be scared of, other than their overwhelming numbers. They can be killed with sword
and shield and fire. It's their masters that are the key to it all; they cannot."

There was a moment of silence before Edmure Tully's disbelieving voice filled it. "They can't
be killed? Nonsense."

"Truth, trout," chimed in Ser Jaime. "Two of my best men tried to engage one. Both of their
swords shattered on it's, and then it cleaved them in two. Manmade steel cannot bring them
down."

Arthur Dayne raised an eyebrow. "Then what can?"

The Black Lion shook his blond head, leaning back in his chair. "I have no idea."

Jaehaerys was still methodically devouring spoonful after spoonful of stew, Val eating just as
feverishly beside him. His voice was quiet and calm when he spoke in between. "I do." He
looked up again, eyes focusing on Bran Stark. "Valyrian steel shatters the demons into a
million pieces. Uncle Eddard and Ice saved me from one before he ordered me to flee."
Jaehaerys swallowed, looking down once more as he went back to his stew. "Then he charged
others, and I lost sight of him. Valyrian steel will destroy them; it is all we have."

"Well we certainly have plenty of that," dryly quipped Tyrion Lannister while eyeing Lord
Tarly, Heartsbane slung across his back. "Lord Tarly, Lyn Corbray, the axe of Lord Celtigar,
the King's newfound weapon…why, I daresay the Walkers are doomed." Tyrion's mismatched
eyes turned to Aelor then, eyebrow quirked. "Speaking of King Aegon…"
"As I've told you all, the King is working on another solution."

"Unless he has it already it won't matter." Jaehaerys had finished his stew, rising and using
his good hand to wrap the blanket that had been thrown over his own shoulders around Val.
"Lady Stark, Lady Alysanne and the other noncombatants should travel as far from here as
they can as quickly as they can. The enemy will be upon us soon."

Lyanna was looking up at her son, still gripping his maimed left hand. "You have only just
arrived. Ned and the others—"

"Slowed them down as much as we could. But just as we made better time south from
Winterfell than the noncombatants did, the dead will make the best time of all." Jaehaerys let
his eyes sweep the room. "Our enemy does not rest, they do not sleep. Storms don't slow
them, for they are the ones to bring the storms. They are hard to kill, perhaps even
impossible, and they will not stop until all of us are just like them. The Wall fell before them;
we had best pray to the Old Gods and the new that we do not, or south will not go south
enough. Get the noncombatants away from this place, and prepare every fighter we can
field."

Jaehaerys turned to stride from the tent. "It is as uncle Eddard always promised; Winter has
come, and Night will soon be upon us."

He had visited the Eyrie once before, in the tenth year of his reign. Jon Arryn had hosted
Aegon and half of the King's court for a fortnight, taking the young Targaryen falconing in
the mountains and hosting a tourney near the Blood Gate. The views from the impregnable
castle atop the Giant's Lance had been astounding, enrapturing the blood of the dragon. The
young King had spent an absurd amount of his time on the balcony of his chambers,
pretending he was riding a dragon over the forests and valleys below.

And now, all these years later, Aegon was returning to the Eyrie, hoping to realize that
childhood dream and make it reality. He wouldn't have thought it possible a month earlier,
but he had seen the truth of it all two nights before. He had never known of Alysanne, Arthur
Dayne or Rolland Storm to be liars, but it had all seemed an impossible thing to him when
Aelor first told him of what Alysanne had said. The Kingsguard knights had supported the
Lady of Duskendale's claim, but it still had taken the insistence of his uncle to convince the
King to ride out and see for himself.

He was certainly glad he had.

One was cream and gold, the other green and bronze, and they were both the most
breathtaking things he had ever seen. Daenerys, her hair still growing from the fire that had
taken Rhaella's life and hatched the wonders before them, had taken command of the servants
of the Gates of the Moon; a shelter was erected each night over the huddled forms of her
hulking dragons, both of them having grown much too large to fit even in the stables. Aelon
and Rhaegal were not obedient by any stretch of the imagination, but they seemed content
enough to allow hunters sent out to bring them the majority of their meals, though they had
made prey of a few unfortunate horses and still hunted occasionally. Scorched bones were
scattered all over the Gates of the Moon, much to Lysa Arryn's furious consternation; only
the continued efforts of her daughter Aemma had kept the Tully woman from trying to expel
the Targaryen's. How she intended to do it when Daenerys had dragons was beyond Aegon,
but he had understood even in his first visit all those years ago that Lysa wasn't quite right.

Both dragons were big, much larger than anything a year in age had any right to be, and both
were large enough now that they could quite likely bear a smaller human such as Daenerys,
though his aunt hadn't tried. But Aegon was no small human even after losing a considerable
amount of weight over the past year, and while he just like everyone else didn't truly know
the capabilities of a dragon, he was fairly certain they would have difficulties bearing him
any true distance.

But Balerion…Aegon had yet to see the black dragon with any real clarity, but the glimpses
he had caught of a massive shadow cutting through the snowy skies overhead left the King of
the Iron Throne with the impression that he was largest of them all. Aegon prayed he would
prove large enough, for if he didn't then his folly would be for not.

That of course required him to survive, and Aegon wasn't certain he was going to. I've
endured over a dozen battles, but it's going to be buggering ice that kills me.

The same factors that made the Eyrie unassailable also made it very difficult to resupply; the
walking path up and down the Giant's Lance was not very large and certainly wasn't easy to
traverse, and this logistical issue and the severe cold forced the Arryns to retire to the Gates
of the Moon during the winters. While the path from the base of the Giant's Lance to the first
waycastle Stone wasn't overly difficult and the steeper path from Stone to the second
waycastle Snow was manageable as well, the path from Snow to the third waycastle Sky was
treacherous, open to the biting wind. Its steps were cracked and rotting, deteriorating from the
repeating process of freezing, thawing and refreezing. Handholds carved into the mountain
itself led from Sky to the walls of the Eyrie, though a pulley system was used to transport
supplies and oftentimes people this last leg of the journey. That pulley system was of course
useless when there was no one in the fortress above, so it did Aegon no good for now. It was
a difficult, dangerous journey in the best of conditions.

Aegon was almost as far from the best of conditions as one could get, but he needed
Balerion, and Balerion had made his den in the unoccupied Eyrie.

The king had ordered his Kingsguard to remain with the army now under Aelor's command
while Aegon himself rode as hard as the weather would allow for the Eyrie. None of his
surviving white cloaks—there were only four of them now, the last year having cut his
Kingsguard nearly in two—had argued indignantly, but if Aegon's plans worked as he
intended the deadly fighters would be trapped in the Vale while the King flew back to his
army. He had relented by accepting the wounded Ser Rolland into the retinue of fifteen men
accompanying the king, although the ride must have jostled the bastard-born man's shattered
ribs and left him in a constant state of pain. The Stormlander had endured the entire journey
in silence, however, and had remained at the Gates of the Moon as Aegon and one other
figure began the ascent.

Who would've believed a son of Rhaegar Targaryen and a daughter of Robert Baratheon
would one day work together.
Mya Stone was tall and strapping lass who kept her coal-black hair shorn short. It was an
unkept secret that she was the bastard of Robert Baratheon, conceived when the would-be
Usurper had been fostered in the Vale, though Mya had given no indication that she was
aware of just who her father was. She had been taken in and raised by Nestor Royce, the Ser
of the Gates of the Moon, left alone by Aelor despite her parentage—Colmar the Grey had
once told Aegon that that had been an insistence of Alysanne, not a mercy from the Dragon
of Duskendale himself. Mya had by one way or another become the chief guide on journeys
to the Eyrie, the blue-eyed woman and her team of mules ferrying trains of supplies up and
down the Giant's Lance during the summer years. She had willingly volunteered to show the
king the way to the Eyrie.

Aegon assumed she probably regretted it now.

Under normal conditions the path from the Gates of the Moon to the Eyrie would take half a
day, but the snow and ice had made it instead nearly two whole days. Aegon and Mya had
camped in the stone walls of Snow during the night, using the warmth of a small fire, the
mules and each other. The bastard and the king's dalliance had been one of straight need;
Aegon hadn't had a woman in over a year, and Mya had been more than willing. I can't begin
to imagine what Aelor would say if he knew I was sleeping with the daughter of the man who
killed my father. The girl seemed plenty wise enough to know that it meant nothing beyond a
physical release, and Aegon had done his best to assure no bastard of his own would result
from the meeting; he intended to be the second coming of Aegon the Conqueror, not Aegon
the Unworthy. Despite that spot of warmth it had been a cold, harrowing trip.

And this was the worst of it.

An advantage to the steep angle of the mountain from Sky to the Eyrie was that there was
finally only small amounts of snow buildup, the cold stone mostly clear of the frozen rain
that Aegon had seen more of than he ever wanted to see again. But while snow couldn't
accumulate on the handholds, ice could still freeze it, making the already hard climb all the
harder. Aegon had already slipped twice, only catching himself with his frozen fingertips at
the last second.

The wind bit through the many layers of furs and cloth, its howl barely registering over the
sound of his heartbeat in his ears. Aegon's progress was slow, one handgrip and footstep at a
time, made more difficult from the not-quite-healed wound to his shoulder. Aegon had never
been overly pious, but for every foot he ascended half a dozen prayers of thanks went up with
it. The Eyrie loomed high overhead, both close and forever far away. The King of the Iron
Throne, the wealthiest man in Westeros, scraped his hands and knees through the fabric of his
garments as he clung to the side of a mountain, climbing towards a dragon that might very
well kill him if the ascent didn't.

His arms were burning as if they were engulfed in dragonfire by the time he reached the top
of the handholds, a short and blissfully horizontal path between him and the gates of the
Eyrie's courtyard. Aegon pulled his body over the precipice and instantly collapsed to the
ground, rolling over onto his back as his booted feet still hung over the steep incline he had
just climbed. He lie there, chest heaving as he puffed mists of steam into the frigid air, snow
pelting his face. Mya had stayed in the rough walls of Sky with the mules, instructed to wait
two days before she began her descent. Aegon would join her if he had failed, ride off the
Giant's Lance astride a black and crimson dragon if he was successful, or be dead.
Somewhere in that timeframe he would achieve one of the three.

In truth he hoped it was the second or third choice—he didn't even want to think about how
difficult and dangerous climbing down the handholds would be.

The Eyrie was cold and lifeless when the King entered it sometime later, the light outside
having faded. There were no lords or servants living here and there wouldn't be any until the
spring, so the small castle of seven towers was dark and freezing. Aegon found and managed
to light a single torch, navigating through the castle by its orange glow and decade-old
memories. No one was certain just where Balerion denned in the Eyrie—the dragon had only
been seen flying to and from the castle, having lasted all of one night at the Gates of the
Moon before spreading his wings and flying back to where he had spent nearly all of his time
until that point. He would periodically fly back down to join the feeding of his siblings,
terrifying the residents there and pleasing Daenerys to no end, but the black and crimson
beast never stayed long after the feeding ended.

In hindsight, there was no guarantee Balerion even denned here at all; perhaps he simply
enjoyed flying around the highest mountain in Westeros, and Aegon had risked his life for
nothing.

That theory festered in his mind until he came upon the blackened and cracked bones of
something roughly the size of a hog.

Balerion's den was in the only truly logical place it could be—the garden. As Aegon held his
torch higher, casting more light around the pitch black of the open space, he saw great piles
of scattered skeletons, each blackened from fire and cracked from crunching jaws. The
shrubbery had been turned into blackened sticks, and many of the pieces of statuary spread
throughout the former garden bore scorch marks. Aegon saw bones belonging to what he
guessed to be goats, hogs, deer, perhaps even a cow or two. Balerion had clearly spent most
of his time hunting, Aegon taking in every detail of the beast's den in fascination.

He didn't realize how poor of an idea walking into a strange dragon's home was until he saw
the light of his torch reflected in a pair of great eyes.

Aegon froze, realizing his foolishness only as the sound of Balerion uncurling his body
reached his ears, accompanied by a low, ground-shaking growl. The black pools of the eyes,
which had been lower to the ground, slowly rose up and up and up. Aegon watched, terrified
and exhilarated, as the animal of his family's sigil started towards him, ground moving with
each step the beast took. The king didn't move because wasn't able, too in awe of what he was
seeing to even attempt to run.

Balerion was big, much bigger than either of his siblings. Perhaps it was due to his
inclination to hunt his own game whereas Aelon and Rhaegal allowed most of their meals to
be brought to them; as the quantity of bones spread around the garden made clear, this dragon
was eating plenty and often. Perhaps Balerion was simply a bigger dragon, just as there were
runts and brutes in other species. Whatever the reasoning, the monster was nearly twice again
as big as the others, bared teeth black as obsidian.
And he was looming over Aegon, shaking the dragonlord's soul with his rumbling growl.

I didn't think of what I'd do when I reached this point. What did I think would work, saying
'hello, I'm a king, may I please ride you'?

Aegon stared up at the dragon overtop him, terrified and mystified and confused as to why he
wasn't already dead. Is it my Targaryen blood? Can he sense it? Swallowing, the King of
Westeros began to slowly raise his hand, extending it towards Balerion.

It was the most foolish thing he had done yet.

With a roar that nearly left Aegon deaf Balerion shot forward, massive head rushing towards
him like the strike of a viper. Aegon let out a cry, stumbling backwards both from fear and
the sheer force of the dragon darting at him. The King fell to the ground of blackened bones,
torch rolling away from his hand, violet eyes shut against the coming pain of a dragon
snapping him in two.

But he still wasn't dead.

Hesitantly Aegon opened his eyes, first the right then the left. His vision was filled with the
snout of a dragon, teeth bared but not in the process of crushing the king's skull. Balerion
stood over top him, eyes two pools of fire as his nostrils sniffed the odd being trapped below
him. The dragon's snout slowly smelled from Aegon's boots back up his body until Balerion's
nose nearly pressed against his face. Aegon stared up at the beast, not daring to so much as
twitch a muscle.

Balerion sniffed him once more, and then exhaled so forcefully that it fluttered Aegon's
silvery hair. Abruptly he was no longer looming over the being he could so clearly make a
snack of, the ground beneath Aegon's back rumbling as the dragon roared into the night sky.
The king watched from his lying position, hypnotized as Balerion ran on his two hind legs,
flapping his great wings twice before he became airborne.

The King of the Iron Throne slowly sat up, eyes fixated on where he caught the last glimpse
of Balerion, surrounded by a garden of burnt stone and blackened bone.
 LXIX

Jaehaerys hadn't been lying when he said you could smell them before you could see them.

The Dragon of Duskendale stood a few paces to the front of the longest line of men Aelor
had ever known of Westeros fielding, the scent of death and decay swirling in his nostrils.
They stretched nearly out of sight to either side of him, the long line of shields and spears
resting silent as men and women waited. They were stacked behind one another, the second
waiting one hundred yards behind the first. Between the two defenses a deep trench had been
dug, implementing the tactics of the survivors of Winterfell by dousing it with lantern oil.
Archer towers, hastily built by the abundance of men who had been waiting, were dotted
around the lines, crossbowmen and longbowmen waiting with stacks of cloth-wrapped
arrows and braziers for lighting them. Aelor turned to look at one, where his eldest surviving
child waited. Aemon had never been a warrior and wasn't a good shot, but he volunteered to
remain behind and reload for crossbowmen, claiming this was everyone's war. Aelor was
terrified for him—he'd already lost two children, and the death of a third would kill him—but
he was also fiercely proud.

The White Dragon turned back around, peering at the field of white and wildfire.

The jars had been stacked at key points in the terrain, in naturally occurring trenches where
the dead were likely to funnel and in chokepoints the defenders had made by throwing up
barricades to try and influence the dead's advance. The most accurate shots in all of the
combined armies stood ready to target them and fire, equipped with the goldenheart bows
that had been taken from the dead and captured archers of the Golden Company. Catapults,
the same simple and quick to build design Aelor had implemented two decades earlier at
Casterly Rock, stood just behind the second line, long lines of barrels of burning pith ready to
fling at the enemy.

The living were as prepared as they could be for the dead. Aelor supposed they would soon
find out if it was prepared enough.

King Aegon the Sixth had not returned. Aelor didn't know what that meant; perhaps he was
on his way, perhaps the dragons hadn't been big enough, or perhaps he was even dead. Some
men had grumbled that the king had abandoned them, forsaking his own people in face of a
reportedly infinite foe. The White Dragon himself hoped his nephew either showed up with a
dragon or didn't show up at all; he had already told Aemon and Baelon there was no shame in
fleeing if this fight became hopeless. He imagined Aemon would follow the command; his
second born had grown in force of personality and toughness over all he had seen, but he had
never tasted battle. Baelon likely wouldn't follow that command, no matter how
overwhelming the opposition became. His fourth born had tasted battle, and he had found the
taste sweeter than anything else in life. Baelon would only lave this field if he was victorious
or he was dead.

That was all well and good, for Aelor had the same determination.
"Do you suppose Lucaerys will fare well?" Aelor wished desperately he could have met his
grandson. Perhaps he still would if the day was won, but Aelor knew the likelihood of that
was small.

Alaric pondered the question for a moment from Aelor's side. "What do you mean? He's only
an infant." He had been as blindsided by the knowledge of a grandson as the Dragon of
Duskendale had been, and Aelor didn't know if he was thrilled or furious. Both men had been
pleased to hear that Alysanne, Cersei and Tyrion had been savvy enough to cover the
marriage up with the story of a rushed marriage, but Aelor wondered if the skepticism it was
surely met with would negatively affect Lucaerys' position as Aelor's heir. In all legality the
infant truly wasn't, as his birth was in truth that of a bastard, but Aelor would kill any man
who questioned Lucaerys. But Aelor might not live out the day, in which case there was call
for concern. "I mean if I don't live out the day. I doubt Aemon would ever have any intention
of trying to usurp him, and Baelon has never shown any interest in ruling over anything other
than a sword, but still…"

Alaric answered after a moment more of deliberation. "As far as the rest of the world is
concerned, Myrcella and Renlor were married. The only ones who know otherwise aren't
likely to tell the truth. He's the grandson of Aelor, cousin of Aegon and great-nephew to the
Lord of the Westerlands. Not to mention he'll have Alysanne Lefford and Cersei Lannister
fighting for his rights. I daresay he'll do better than either of us ever did."

Aelor nodded, gazing on ahead. Alysanne had followed the non-fighter south less than an
hour ago, remaining with her sons and husband until the scent had rallied the defenders to
their positions. He already missed her fiercely, and part of his mind wondered how she would
do without him. His wife had always had a strength unseen in most nobles, a strength that
had allowed her to survive years of marriage to a man many saw as a monster. She'll do well.
They'll all do well.

Of course, I can always just survive this and make sure they will. Yes, let's try for that.

So the Dragon of Duskendale stood and waited, as the stench of decay grew ever stronger.

When his violet eyes caught distant movement in the dredges of the swamps leading south,
Aelor ordered the defenders to stand ready. The order was repeated up and down the long
lines, men who had been standing somewhat relaxed tensing, shieldwall growing closer
together and spearmen gripping their weapons in preparation. Randyll Tarly had command of
the left, Ser Barristan the Bold the right. Balon Swann had command of the archers, and
Mace Tyrell was as out of the way as he could be in command of the catapults. His son
Garlan, the fierce swordsman, was in the center; he would fight alongside Aelor and Baelon
today.

The snow, which had been so fierce and constant for weeks now, suddenly and abruptly
stopped. Aelor looked up to the grey skies overhead, pondering the occurrence. Sailors
always say the eye of a storm is calm. That makes sense; the Others bring the storm after all.

Aelor watched as the horizon slowly turned from white snows and the stumps of the trees the
royalist had chopped down to a mass of cloth and armor, covering shambling beings that
gained speed as whatever they used for consciousness registered the army of living before
them. There were so many of them Aelor couldn't even begin to estimate their numbers, a
literal ocean of dead coming for them. Even at a distance he could see the furs of wildings,
the leathers of northmen, the black of brothers of the Night's Watch and the armor of southern
knights and lords.

The Dragon of Duskendale took a deep breath, letting it leave his lungs in a slow exhale. He
looked over to the tall Lord of the Brindlewood beside him, holding out a gauntlet and saying
something he hadn't in eighteen years. "Are you with me, Alaric?"

And as always, Alaric took the proffered gauntlet and replied. "To the death, Your Grace."

Aelor looked back to the approaching tide of dead, lowering his white flamed helmet over his
Targaryen silver hair as Alaric turned to go to his command. The Dragon of Duskendale drew
his sword and held it high in the air, hearing the sound of thousands of other blades leaving
their scabbards.

The White Dragon stared into the heart of the approaching storm. They spread as far or
farther than Aelor's own lines, seemingly large enough to wrap around them twice. Alaric,
Oberyn Martell, Arthur Dayne and young Artys Arryn were in command of four separate
forces of cavalry, under orders to rush to where they were needed, be it a threatened flank or
a faltering point in the lines. Aelor didn't bother to turn and see if they were already reacting
—he trusted his men to do as was best, even the young Lord of the Vale.

There were too many dead to truly funnel as the living had intended them too, but enough
avoided the barricades or fell into the natural dips in the terrain. The archers fired as one,
bunches of burning arrows flying through the sky to land around the wildfire catches as the
catapults launched barrels of pitch. Aelor knew what was coming, and braced himself against
the coming explosions.

He was taken back to a time outside of a now-dead city when the world exploded with a great
green light, the force sweeping across them. Aelor stood against it, feeling the force of it
batter against him as he watched dismembered body parts fly into the air amidst clouds of
snow and ground. He heard the gasp of shock from those behind him, heard armor and
weapons rattle as men were knocked down. More explosions soon shook them, but Aelor
kept his feet, staring towards the enemy.

The dead kept coming. Aelor had known they would, but he had hoped none the less. Great
gaping holes had been opened in their ranks from the wildfire that still burned all across the
field, but more dead soon filled them. Groans of despair sounded behind him as the men and
women saw the relentless advance, the last of the wildfire holdings exploding in a shower of
blood and green flame.

Aelor turned to the two lines behind him, looking first to the left and then following the lines
all the way to the right. He was a man alone in front of the lines, a black speck against the
white snow with a tide of enemies rushing towards his back. Aelor raised both his sword and
his voice, shouting over the sound of firing catapults, burning wildfire and snarling dead. "Is
that all that it takes to dishearten the men of Westeros?"
A few voices shouted a quiet negative. Aelor shook his head, raising his voice even louder. "I
asked, is that all that it takes to dishearten the men of Westeros!?"

More voices, dozens of them, answered him. "No!" Others along the lines turned to look at
the dragonlord to their front, taking their eyes from the terrifying waves of death approaching
them.

Aelor wasn't done. He yelled, louder than even he knew he could bellow. "We are alive. I aim
to stay that way. What say you?"

The answer was hundreds of voices this time, more and more men and women turning to
watch their leader. Some likely couldn't hear what he was saying, but they shouted anyway.
The response was more of a wordless bellow than a true answer, but Aelor took heart in it all
the same.

"I say we put the dead back into the ground!"

Hoooooooooo!

"We fight for our sons!"

Hoooooooooo!

"We fight for our daughters!"

Hoooooooooo!

"We fight for the living!"

Hoooooooooo!

Swords slammed against shields, spears were thrust into the air, banners waved and horses
screamed. The black ocean was close to Aelor, close enough that they would be all over the
lines at any second. Aelor didn't turn. Instead, he thrust both his sword and shield into the air,
holding his arms to the heavens as he shouted again.

He let his final word morph into a long, guttural war cry, one that every living man and
woman present would echo. "FIRE AND BLOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOD!"

HOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

Still screaming and violet eyes blazing, the Dragon of Duskendale spun, in the same motion
bringing his raised sword down in a vicious strike. The blade cleaved a half-rotted man in
two through his chest, Aelor beheading another with the backstroke, wading into the ocean of
dead.

All seven hells were unleashed.

He still wasn't dead. Aegon took that as a positive sign, mainly because it was the only one
Balerion had given him.

He had been at the Eyrie for seven days, and he hadn't accomplished any of the three options
he was supposed to accomplish in two. He had scourged the Eyrie for parchment and quill,
writing a letter telling Mya to leave for the Gates of the Moon. He had tied it to a rock and
thrown it from the precipice towards the waycastle of Sky, hoping Mya would investigate it's
clatter and do as he said.

It'd taken him six times writing the same missive and six throws before he got one near the
small castle far down the slope of the Giant's Lance.

The King of the Iron Throne had taken only enough food for the two days he was supposed to
have been here, and had taken to subsiding on a dangerous food source. He would scavenge
Balerion's most recent kill once the dragon took flight for another, using his dagger to carve
off small chunks of scorched meat. It tasted terrible and half the time wasn't cooked
completely through, but it was better than the nothing he would otherwise have; supplies and
food in particular were valuable resources in the winter, and nothing had been left in the
Eyrie when the Arryns left for the Gates of the Moon.

It was risky business, going anywhere near a dragons recent kill, but Balerion had proven
time and again that he wasn't interested in outright killing the silver-haired two-legged being.
He had come to accept Aegon's presence as long as the king kept his distance, paying him
little attention and showing no aggression unless Aegon tried to draw too close to him. Even
then the dragon would only roar and rise to his legs, and Aegon would slowly back away.

It was hard to ride a dragon if you couldn't even get within ten feet of one.

The King was in a constant state of freezing, all stocks of wood having been taken down the
mountain with the Arryns as well. He'd managed to light some of the garden's shrubbery that
Balerion hadn't already turned into cinders, and the walls of the Eyrie kept him from the
wind, but those supplies were running low as well. Something needed to change, but be
damned if Aegon had any idea of how to make it happen.

Aegon peered out of the Moon Tower, the bedchamber of the Lord of the Vale that the King
had taken as his own while he tried to plot his next move. Balerion was in the garden,
gnawing on the skull of a bull he had likely stolen from some farmer that morning. His eating
habits seemed to differ on the dragon's moods; sometimes he would bring fresh kills back and
devour them slowly, sometimes he would return with a mass of burnt fur and flesh and
chomp it down quickly. Aegon imagined the dragon likely ate a number of his meals
wherever he killed them, feeding his voracious appetite at a rate that nearly matched his
growth.

I'm supposed to ride you. There's a prophecy, 'Prince that was Promised', all of that good
stuff?

Balerion actually looked up towards where Aegon leaned halfway out the window, glancing
at the King in seeming mockery before returning to the skeleton he was savaging. With a sigh
he walked back towards the bed, throwing himself across it in frustration. He couldn't very
well save his army from whatever fate was descending on them from here, but he also
couldn't return to the Gates of the Moon as a failure. What kind of Targaryen am I when a
dragon won't even let me touch him? Some 'blood of Old Valyria' I'm proving to be.

Aegon racked his brain for every bit of dragonlore Grandmaester Colmar had driven into his
mind, but it hadn't give him anything useful the last seven days and didn't give him anything
now. Many dragonriders had been given their future mounts when the dragons hadn't even
hatched. Aegon imagined Dany would have a much better chance of mounting Balerion than
Aegon did, but each dragon only ever had one rider at a time and each dragonrider only had
one dragon at a time, not three. Perhaps he should have tried to mount Aelon or Rhaegal, but
neither dragon seemed large enough to carry his muscled form.

Other past dragonriders, like Maegor the Cruel, had claimed dragons after their dragonrider
had died. Aegon didn't rightly know just how they did so, as the process had never seemed to
be something he should learn; dragons were supposed to be extinct after all. He remembered
the story of how Nettles, one of the dragonriders during the Dance of the Dragons, had left a
dead sheep a day for Sheepstealer, building trust between the two—that would work
swimmingly if it wasn't for the fact that Balerion was keeping Aegon fed, as there was no
way he could traverse down the slope, kill something with his sword or dagger, then climb
back up carrying it. Other Targaryens had the advantage of the Dragonpit, a controlled space
where the dragons resided; Aelor had the open garden of the Eyrie and a steep fall down its
sides.

Such was his predicament. It wasn't kingly to pout, but Aegon had been doing a fair bit of
pouting over the last seven days.

He assumed Balerion was just grumbling when he first heard the dragon make a sound, and
thusly ignored it. But when he heard the explosion, horribly distant but still audible to him,
the king rose to a sitting position on the stripped bed, furling his eyebrows in confusion.
More explosions followed, each likely miles away but the sound carrying even to the highest
mountain. Aegon supposed he wasn't overly far from where Aelor and those would rage war,
at least not as a dragon flies. If I could only RIDE THE DAMN DRAGON, I'd find out for
myself.

Only one thing Aegon knew of could make that sort of sound, and only vast amounts of it
would make it loud enough to be heard this far away. Wildfire. I'm too late; the dead are upon
the living, and I'm too far away to be of any use.

Aegon sprinted out of the tower, rushing down the steps before rushing out of the tower onto
the walls of the Eyrie, leaning against the parapets. He stared to the northwest, where a
mountain range and a section of the Riverlands separated him from where his people waged a
war for their very existence. He couldn't see anything through the falling snow and dark
skies, but Aegon knew in his heart just what was happening.

A reptilian rumble shifted his attention to Balerion down in the garden. The great black
dragon had risen to his legs and forearms, snakelike neck craned back as his large nostrils
sniffed the air. The black dragon let out a short, loud roar, and far below Aegon at the foot of
the Giant's Lance echoed the cries of his siblings. Aegon cocked his head, watching as
Balerion scraped first one clawed foot and then the other across the garden's ground.
And then, ground shaking, he took off at a run.

Aegon watched him for a moment, sprinting parallel below where Aegon stood on the wall.
The idea came to him suddenly with a punch of anxiety, fear and exhilaration. In order to
mount the dragon he needed to get close to him, and Balerion had prevented that. But even if
he would, that would end with Aegon on Balerion's back.

Balerion's back was right there.

Aegon's legs were sprinting less than a second into the thought, the sound of Balerion's
pounding wings filling the air. The king's mind was running even faster than his body, telling
him to stop now while he still had a life. If I can even land on his back, what if I can't hang
on? How do I steer him? What if he rolls midflight? CAN he roll midflight? This is a terrible
idea, an absolutely worst idea I've ever had. Stop stop stop stop stop…

He had one last thought as Balerion began to rise into the air. Well, at least I'd have done
something to try and help my kingdom, even if it was to fall to my death.

The King of the Iron Throne leapt.

Aemon had always thought he would make a shit soldier.

He was right.

Yet the second son of Aelor clung to a rickety archer tower, reloading crossbow after
crossbow for the men around him. His arms ached from pulling the strings back, fingers
bleeding in several places from where he had nicked himself on the steel or iron points of the
crossbow bolts. The world around him had resorted to a bloody mess; where once there had
been an orderly line to the front, now there was a mass of dead and living laying into one
another with reckless abandon. Shouts and screams filled the air, accompanied by the roar of
the still-burning wildfire and otherworldly snarls of corpses.

Aemon had only been able to watch as his father disappeared into the ocean of steel, the
collective war cry he had started—so contagious that even he, quiet and bookish Aemon, had
joined—still echoing across the battlefield. Dead had leapt onto the top of the lines, crashing
against the forest of spears and shields. The battle had engulfed everything, now raging all
around the bottom of his tower and in the oil covered trench behind him. It still hadn't been
lit, though in several places all along the front the dead had pushed through and engaged the
second line.

Aemon from his position high above the melee could still see his father, a bubble of whirling
steel far ahead of where the first line had once been. Baelon and Jaehaerys, both having been
in the center, had somehow found their way to him, a rock of three sword-wielding
Targaryens dealing death to the dead.

Aemon would occasionally glance over at his kinsmen as he continued reloading crossbows
as fast as he could, throwing them into the hands of the men around him. One was a deaf
black brother aptly called Deaf Dick Follard, the old man able to aim and fire quickly with
great accuracy. Another was a Valeman man-at-arms sworn to House Hunter named Hugo, a
third a lordling from the Reach named Ben Cuy who had served as the wounded Ser Rolland
Storm's squire. There were four others on the tower, three archers and a young wildling girl
that was, like Aemon, reloading.

Aemon's body acted on instinct, pulling the string back, setting the mechanism, loading a
bolt, and then handing that ready crossbow to one of the archers, taking the empty one from
their hands and setting to reloading it. It was a simple, mindless process that he did over and
over, fingers becoming raw, the sound of snarling dead all around him. He glanced out either
at his father or at the battle as a whole only periodically, but he could see the tide turning.
Catapults still fired barrels of burning pitch into the mass of dead, men and women still
fought in a bloody melee, and archers like those on his tower still fired bolt after bolt and
arrow after arrow. Fire was everywhere, both the green of wildfire and the orange of normal
flame.

But Aemon could see the number of living, already outnumbered, steadily dwindling around
him. Ben Cuy saw the same, the young lordling with peach fuzz dropping his crossbow and
drawing his sword, leaping from the tower to the mess of gore below. Another of the archers,
a bearded man the wildling girl was keeping resupplied, turned and leapt from the other side
of the tower, looking more like he was intending to flee than join the battle. The second line
had become fully engaged, the forces of cavalry long ago having ridden to where they
seemed most needed.

The living were losing, and the White Walkers hadn't even arrived yet.

Aemon was so terrified he wanted nothing more than to follow the bearded man in his flight.
Instead he stayed on his tower, reloading crossbow after crossbow, trying desperately to
block the sounds of pain and terror all around him.

The wildling girl—Farrah, Lara?—saw it first, eyes opening in terror as she pointed behind
Aemon. The Targaryen with Lefford features whirled around, and to his utmost terror saw the
rotting arms of a wight in the process of pulling himself onto the platform, dagger in it's bony
hand. Aemon looked to Deaf Dick, who was aiming his crossbow entirely oblivious to the
threat. "Follard!" The old man didn't move, and the wight's head came into view. "Follard!"
The black brother still didn't move, trying to pick a target out of the mass of bodies below.

Of course he can't hear me, he's called Deaf Dick.

As the wight snarled, pulling its decaying body onto the platform, Aemon lurched forward.
He snatched the dagger out of Follard's belt, turning and throwing all his strength into a stab
towards the dead man. The blade sank into its eerie blue eyes, gut-wrenching cry cut short as
the blade stabbed into his already dead brain. Aemon yelled—half war cry, half terrified
scream—as he withdrew the blade, the wight tumbling down atop the bodies alive and
reanimated below.

Aemon stared after it in shock before he hesitantly raised his eyes, glancing around the
battlefield once more. It was worse than it had been the last time he looked, more and more
living turning to flee despite their compatriots hollering for them to stay and fight, for there
was nowhere south enough to escape. The trench had somehow been lit, separating the battle
into two separate entities, but the second line was as jumbled as the first had been, a massive
melee that turned the ground red and brown and covered in dead. One of the catapults was
swarmed with wights, and most of the others had gone silent.

We're losing. The dead are prevailing against the living, and there is nothing we can do to
stop it.

Aemon swore it was his imagination when he heard the guttural roar.

He looked up anyway—he didn't want his last sights to all be of walking corpses and dying
men. Three figures soared in the skies, growing ever closer and bigger. Aemon squinted
towards them, trying to determine what in the sake of the Seven they were.

When he realized, Aemon nearly fell off of the tower.

Seven save me, I'm seeing dragons.

One was bigger than the other two combined, all three roaring as they neared the slaughter
field. Steam rose from their scales, the largest red and crimson, one white and gold, the third
green and bronze. Their great wings beat against the air, cutting through the skies quickly.

And perched on two of them, one the black and the other the white, were two figures.

Aemon didn't know where they had come from. He didn't know how any of it was possible.
He had no bloody clue if he wasn't just seeing a hallucination; perhaps he was already dying,
and this was the last dreams of a dying man.

He also didn't know who one of the riders was, but he had no doubt of the identity of the
other.

Aemon may not have been much of fighter, but he could yell when he wanted to.

"Look to the skies! The King! The King comes! Dragons! Fight, fight for your King!"

Little by little men or women would look up and see the approaching figures. Some would
die, frozen by the sight and being killed by those they were fighting. Others turned and
sprinted all the faster, their already maximized terror growing longer. Yet more took up the
call, and a spirit reentered the beaten forces of the living. Aemon stood on his tower, bloody
dagger in one hand, screaming as loud as his under-used lungs would scream. The survivors
fought harder, shouting for their king, shouting of a sign from the Seven, or just shouting
mindlessly.

Some laughed hysterically, others cried, many died.

And then the dragons swooped low, three plumes of fire spreading across the ocean of
wights.

Aelor nearly leapt out of his skin when a stream of fire swept across the wights a few feet to
his front.
It was odd that anything could take him by surprise in this field of terror and disbelief. He
was fighting beings that should have been dead long ago, their guts hanging from their split
bellies, their faces desiccated or rotting, eyes icy blue and dead. More than one had attacked
Aelor while still burning, covered in green fire, screeching a terrible broken war cry. Aelor
had dismembered them, crushed their skulls, cleaved their bodies in half, yet more just kept
coming.

He screamed, he gouged, he fought, and it had all seemed for nothing.

But as the wights to his front burst into flame, Aelor looked to the skies in shock.

Swooping over him was a cream and golden dragon.

A dragon.

Aelor had believed his wife was telling the truth about the animal that adorned his family's
banner—he'd sent the king in search of them, after all—but he was in no way prepared for the
real thing.

As the dragon swooped over, Aelor spied a figure on its back, too small to be Aegon. The
hair was shorter, but Aelor recognized his sister instantly.

Daenerys Stormborn, coming to battle like Visenya Targaryen of old.

Aelor's spirit soared, his blood nearly singing. Shouts of 'the king', 'dragons', 'for the living'
echoed somewhere behind him, and Aelor added a wordless roar of his own. Baelon and
Jaehaerys were somewhere near him, their own shouts of elation joining his.

It was as if dragonfire was burning through his body, and Aelor loved every moment of it.

Aelor cut through the dead like they were made of snow, bashing them aside, every swing of
the sword killing the dead. He rushed a wildlings head with his shield, decapitated a former
knight, snapped the brittle arm bones of a decayed black brother before stabbing him through
the eye.

He laughed as dragons roared overhead. This was what he had fought his entire life for—
dragons had returned, the symbol of Targaryen power that had been lost to them a century
earlier restored. He spotted Aegon upon a massive black dragon, his nephew's face alight
with a vicious grin as he swooped overhead.

It was mirrored on Aelor's.

The bloodbath continued, always more enemies no matter how many they chopped down.
Aelor and his sons had been an island far ahead of the rest of the force for a long portion of
the battle, but not long after the arrival of Aegon and Daenerys Aelor begin to see more of the
living around him. They were gaining ground, emboldened by the arrival of their king and
princess atop creatures long thought dead, the living finally making progress against the
dead.

They made so much progress, in fact, that they drew the true enemy onto the battlefield.
The White Walkers were as Jaehaerys and Jaime had described—icy blue skin, horribly blue
eyes, hair as white as snow. The Walkers tore into the survivors, replacing the numbers their
wights had brought with their sheer indestructability. Aelor saw swords shatter, armor part
like skin under a maester's blade. The revitalized army of the living were soon shattered
again, some turning to flee despite the dragons continuously razing the army of the dead.
Aelor stood detached from it all, watching as the last hope seemed to flee amidst a rash of icy
demons.

And then he saw him.

There was no mistaking this particular Other. The ice of his head was shaped like a crown,
two of his kind beside him like bodyguards. He wasn't participating in the battle, instead
calmly strolling through the field of death and destruction, watching the unfolding slaughter.
He was dressed in black studded leather, a sword sheathed across his back, walking as if he
owned the world.

He doesn't yet. Too kill the body, you remove the head.

The Dragon of Duskendale bashed aside a wight and broke into a sprint, leaping over the
piles of bodies towards the Night's King. He didn't know how he was going to do it—his
sword was simple steel, good work but not otherworldly. It didn't matter though. If today was
going to be the day mankind would fall, Aelor intended to go out as he had lived.

The chief ice demon saw him, grotesque face unmoving as he registered the black-armored
being charging at him with reckless abandon. Instead of drawing his own weapon or moving
to avoid, he simply twitched his hand towards Aelor as if he was an annoying fly. The two
bodyguards instantly moved to intercept him, both raising their icy weapons. Aelor readied
himself as they drew close, having no real plan but to swing and swing hard.

And suddenly a dragon dropped out of the sky.

Aelor was forced to dive to the side as the black dragon crashed to the ground, his nephew
atop it, landing atop the two advancing White Walkers, clawed feet smearing them across the
field as the great beast slid to a stop. The black dragon roared as Aelor gained his feet,
darting his neck forward to snatch a wight, tossing it into the air and then down his gullet.

And off of his back leapt the King of the Iron Throne, Blackfyre raised as he screamed a
battle cry.

Valyrian steel. The Prince that was promised. Rhaegar's proclamations.

It all flew through Aelor's mind as he rushed to join his nephew in battle.

The Night's King met the living king's charge, and just as Jaehaerys had claimed Blackfyre
did not shatter. Instead the two blades collided, smoky black and sheer ice, giving off a
terrible clang as they did. The Night's King parried Aegon once, twice, and then Aelor was at
his side.
The Hand of the King's sword was not Valyrian steel. The Others blade met his, and the ruby
pommeled blade that had claimed so many lives shattered in Aelor's grip. Aelor stared in
shock at the useless grip in his hand, arm vibrating from the blow, before an icy hand
slammed his helmet upside the head.

The Dragon of Duskendale went flying, the blow ringing his ears and buckling his knees
despite the seemingly careless way it had been delivered. It was as if Gregor Clegane had
come again, swatting him into the wall of Aegon's nursery as the Mountain had done so long
ago. He hit the ground with a ferocious exhale, world swimming.

Looking up through those swimming eyes, Aelor saw his nephew battle the ice demon. The
Night's King was faster and infinitely stronger, and though he couldn't destroy Aegon's blade
he could still outduel him. It became abundantly clear to Aelor that that was about to happen.

The Dragon of Duskendale regained his feet, wobbly from the blow to the head, and
staggered towards where Aegon grew more and more taxed though there was nothing Aelor
could do. The King in the Iron Throne was losing ground rapidly, the Night's King's icy blade
everywhere at once. Aelor increased his pace though he still had to focus on each step,
stumbling over the uncountable number of bodies littering the ground.

Three blows from the Night's King sent Aegon to his knees, and then a savage two-handed
swing sent Blackfyre from the King of the Iron Throne's grip. The Night's King's icy lips
twitched into a semblance of a smirk, and he drew his blade back.

Aelor sprinted forward.

The Night's King drove the blade forward in a stab aimed for Aegon's chest, the Targaryen
dragonrider defenseless.

With a throaty roar The Dragon of Duskendale crashed into the Night's King, taking the blow
meant for his nephew. The Other's blade stabbed through Aelor's armor like butter, plunging
through his guts and out his back.

And, with another strangled war cry of rage, elation and pain, Aelor's hands wrapped around
the White Walker's wrist, trapping his blade.

The icy contact burned Aelor's hands even through his gauntlets, but he did not let go. The
King of the True North pulled at his blade embedded in Aelor's innards, and while it jerked
the Hand of the King forward and tore up more of his insides he did not relinquish his grip or
the blade. Icy eyes met violet ones, and Aelor let out a pain-filled chuckle. The Night's King's
head snapped around as Aegon reappeared at his side, Blackfyre swooping in, the King of
Westeros sounding for all the world like the dragon he rode as he shouted.

Aelor saw the Other's face contort in otherworldly terror before he shattered into a million
pieces, the wrist Aelor was gripping and the sword he was trapping following suite.

The Dragon of Duskendale grunted in pain, hands pressing against the split steel over his
belly, and fell to the corpse-covered ground.
One second Aemon had been fighting as wights swarmed his archer's tower, stabbing and
slashing with dead Deaf Dick Follard's dagger, and the next they just fell to the ground.

Aemon stared in confusion as the wights that had been very-much moving seconds earlier lie
motionless over the field. The wildling girl—Farrah was definitely her name, and she and
Aegon were the only survivors of their crossbow team—peaked out from behind him, tear-
tracks down her face. Aemon looked around, from the burning ditch to the fiery swaths
dragonfire had made. Where earlier there had been wights and White Walkers, now there
were only men, standing in various states of confusion, their swords raised to parry blows
that had been smashing towards them. Corpses covered the ground as far as the eye could
see, more than could be counted.

But there were no standing dead, no White Walkers. All that was left was the living—few of
them, so few it overwhelmed Aemon's mind, but living nonetheless.

We've done it. We've won.

A laugh escaped him then, sharp and disbelieving in its own sound. Farrah clutched him from
behind, her small head—she couldn't be more than ten—pressing against his back. Aemon
laughed louder, whirling to grab the wildling into a ferocious hug.

We've done it, just as the men of old did. We've prevented the Long Night!

He whirled Farrah around the rickety, bloody archer's tower, laughing as hysterically as
anyone ever had. But that laughter died when Aemon spotted Baelon sprinting across the
field, Jaehaerys limping along behind him, to where a figure was crouched between two of
the dragons, holding a third in his arms.

Aemon was off the tower and sprinting over the carnage before Farrah realized he had
moved.

He knew it was his father before he even found the ring of people.

The dragons were all over the suddenly sparse field, gobbling corpses old and new. The
mystery rider, whom Aemon could now see was his aunt Daenerys, stood next to the
crouched man, tears down her pretty, grim-covered face. Baelon was holding her, bleeding
from a nasty cut across the bridge of his nose, the always-emotionless brother's eyes also
filling with tears. Aemon had passed Jaehaerys, his cousin gripping a bleeding thigh as he
hobbled. His other cousin, the King of the Iron Throne, sat in the snow, holding a man in his
lap. Blood covered the king's legs, clearly hemorrhaging out of the lying man's back.

His father's hands were pressed to his stomach, blood flowing between and around them.

Aemon let out a strangled cry as he fell to the snow beside them. His father was taking
shallow, pained breaths, body occasionally twitching. His violet eyes, racked with pain, found
Aemon. A weak smile covered his face, his voice weak and faint, the words coming at great
cost. "I…knew you…were a dragon, son."
Aegon spoke in his king voice, though it wavered. Tears fell down his face as well. "You are
not allowed to die. I am your King. You will not die, am I understood?!"

Aelor coughed a bloody cough, looking up at his nephew leaned over him. "Rhaegar…was
right. You are…the Prince…that was Promised."

"No, uncle, you cannot go! I command you to live! For once in your life heed me, please!"

Suddenly the convulsions in his father's body stopped, his violet eyes going unfocused and
unseeing. A great, bloody smile crossed a face that was suddenly at peace, a hand reaching up
to pat his nephew's cheek. When Aelor spoke this time his voice was strong, as strong as
Aemon had ever heard it.

"Your mother is as beautiful as ever. But tell Alysanne I loved her most. Don't worry; Elia
understands."

The hand fell to the side. With an exhale that sounded to all gathered like a roar, the Dragon
of Duskendale breathed his last.
 LXX

King Aegon Targaryen, the Sixth of his name, stood on a balcony of the Red Keep
overlooking his city, sunlight bathing his upturned face.

Winter had not ended with the death of the Night's King, but the days of near constant snow
had. Sun, which had seemed to have taken a year's hiatus from the world of men, had
returned, popping its bright head out of the grey skies to give the battered and bleeding lands
of Westeros a respite from the cold. Snow still fell often and the air was still bitterly cold, but
every now and again they were blessed with a ray of sunshine.

"Your Grace."

Not one moment of peace it seems. Oh, to be but a peasant boy…

But Aegon wasn't now and never had been a peasant boy. He was a king, the king despite
recent attempts to claim the title, and a king never truly rested. Westeros had prevented a
Long Night, but there was not an easy road left to it. There would be pain and suffering to
come, just as there was pain and suffering behind them. Life was a vicious cycle.

"Your—"

"I heard you the first time, Arthur." The King opened his violet eyes, turning to face the Lord
Commander of the Kingsguard. The only healthy Kingsguard I have left. Legendary Barristan
the Bold and strong Balon Swann had been among the countless dead of the Second Battle
for the Dawn, dying in service to their liege. Borran of the Bramsfort, Manfred Darke and
Oswell Whent had done so as well, the last in a battle, the middle in a betrayal and the last in
a falling Wall. That left only one fighting man, the Sword of the Morning, as defense to his
liege, Rolland Storm still at the Gates of the Moon to recover from his shattered ribs. I
suppose their replacements will be one of our first orders of business. But then again, a
Kingsguard can't follow me into the sky. Neither can a council.

Balerion and Aegon's relationship was a rocky one. The black dragon almost seemed to
detest Aegon for having stolen that first ride atop him, ignoring any commands the King had
given as he and his siblings scrounged the battlefield, gobbling corpses like a fat man did
lemon cakes. There had certainly been plenty of corpses to go around; the casualties had been
beyond counting, miles of land covered in great piles of dead. The army of the living that had
once been over fifty-thousand strong had been reduced to less than half that—closer to a
quarter, though it was hard to get a truly accurate count—and that didn't even begin to
number the wights. But Balerion allowed Aegon near him without complaint now, and
despite a large amount of dragony grumbling had allowed Aegon to ride him several times
since.

Not that he listened very well…or at all. In the two months since the Second Battle for the
Dawn, the great black beast had shown a tendency to up and fly away to wherever the hell he
wanted to go. Aegon didn't know if it would take training, time or reconstructing the
Dragonpit, but Balerion at least showed an inclination for him now that hadn't existed prior.
Maybe it was even respect.

But Aegon doubted that.

I suppose we'll discuss the dragons as well, though the Seven know none of us have any real
knowledge about what to do. It'll be years of learning for all of us.

Ser Arthur tilted his head slightly, the greatsword Dawn at his side. "Your Grace, the Council
is waiting. There is much to be discussed."

Aegon nodded, adjusting the pointed crown atop his head with a sigh. "This is one thing I
didn't miss during our time at war, Arthur."

The Lord Commander gave a small, good-natured grimace. It was to be his first Small
Council meeting, as it was the first time the appointed council had managed to convene in
King's Landing after the destruction of the wars and the mass amounts of snow had left them
widespread. "You leave me with such a bright outlook."

"I leave you with the truth, my friend, only the truth."

Soon after, Aegon stepped into the familiar small council chamber, the long table and its
high-backed chairs the same as they had always been. His advisors stood as he entered, same
as they always had. Only the faces had changed, several new in the room and one constant,
scarred countenance noticeably absent.

"My lords, I apologize for the delay. It is not an excuse, but I was enjoying the sunshine. We
have seen so terribly little of it lately." He nodded at their murmured pleasantries, then took
his seat at the head of the table, gesturing for his lords to follow suit. He turned to look at the
man nearest his right, an old face in a new position on the council. "Lord Tyrion, I believe
you have the docket."

The halfman nodded, the Hand of the King pin proudly displayed on the breast of his crimson
tunic. He was the first man to wear it in nearly two decades, for Aelor had never saw a point
in the badge of office; everyone in Westeros knew who he was, pin or no buggering pin.
Aegon supposed everyone would recognize the dwarf Lord of the Westerlands as well, but he
clearly had no qualms about wearing the hand and quill. "Yes, Your Grace, and the stack is
considerable. One of our more pressing issues is what to do with the survivors of the Night's
Watch. There is no Wall to return to, and whatever the crimes that sent them there, they
fought and died for the King during the Second Battle for the Dawn."

A new voice to the council, soft but firm, was the first to speak. The new Grandmaester was a
physical opposite to the old, a slightly built, short and decidedly Dornish man named Ulwyk.
He had been born into the knightly House Santagar, the second child of the Ser of
Spottswood near Sunspear, but had taken the chain and forsaken his surname before his tenth
nameday. His beard was black with a heavy peppering of grey, and Aegon supposed he had
been a fair of face man in his youth. "How many black brothers survived, Lord Tyrion?"
"Thirty-two that have stayed in some semblance of a formation, waiting for further orders. It
is highly likely many others have shed their black cloaks and disappeared into the smallfolk."
Tyrion swallowed, likely unnoticed by most but not by Aegon. "There are no men with
feasible claims among them, so that potential political situation has been avoided."

The king knew that held a particular point for Tyrion; Jaime was his elder brother, and there
had been whispers even before the slaughter of the Neck that the former Kingsguard's claim
was strong. Tyrion had been saved from that potential crisis when Jaime had fallen at the
Neck, though Aegon was certain Tyrion would give up all claim to Casterly Rock if he could
only have his brother back.

The king would give up most anything for one more discussion with his uncle.

Ulwyk rubbed his trimmed beard, the olive-skinned maester oblivious to the king's inner
dialogue. "Perhaps they could be conscripted into the gold cloaks, at least for a period of
time. I realize many of them are not the most trustworthy of individuals, but those who have
remained show a semblance of loyalty. They could be required to serve for some amount of
years depending on the severity of their crime—if they were ever guilty of one. Perhaps we
could offer the incentive of allowing them to go their own way at the end of it."

Aegon pursed his lips, nodding. The idea seemed viable enough to him, though there would
likely be some slight alterations to be made. Still, he looked over to another new face, one
whose appointment had been Aegon's decision and not the Citadel's. "Ser Garth, your
thoughts?"

Garth Hightower, known as Greysteel, was a younger brother of an old friend of Aelor's,
Baelor Brightsmile the heir to Oldtown. The first had remained in the south, not venturing far
since he lost his leg in the Rebellion, but the second son had come to replace Bronze Yohn
Royce as Justicar, the Lord of Runestone falling in the savage but short fighting at the Red
Keep when Viserys took it. Garth was tall and broad, not half as handsome as his crippled
brother and a survivor of the Second Battle for the Dawn. Unmarried though near forty, he
had led the considerable number of Hightower men through both of the recent wars.

In truth he wouldn't have been Aegon's first choice for the office of Master of Laws;
Greysteel was known for questioning Aelor's brutal tactics even as he followed him during
Robert's Rebellion, and his temperament was not one well suited to making friends. But the
only better options in Aegon's mind, Alaric Langward and Randyll Tarly, had died like Aelor
during the Second Battle for the Dawn, and Ser Garth was a strict defender of the law with a
penchant for training men. Whatever his thoughts on Aelor, he would serve ably in the office.

The knight nodded. "I could use them. They'll have some notion of martial pursuits and
organization, and will prove useful in rebuilding the gold cloaks. With His Grace's
permission, I will begin recruiting from the smallfolk of the city as well."

The Targaryen King nodded. "You have it."

Tyrion nodded, moving on without being told to do so. "Also of importance and also to do
with the fall of the Wall is what to do with the wildlings. There are few of them, but they
fought hard for Your Grace. They agreed to bend the knee once; perhaps they will keep them
bent."

"Do you intend to rebuild the Wall, Your Grace?" asked Ser Arthur, seated to the king's left.

Aegon shook his head. "I wouldn't even know how to begin, and the cost would be
tremendous."

The final new member of the council spoke up, his fingers ink-stained already even though
he had only been in the city for less than a week. "Rebuilding the Wall would be absurdly
expensive, Your Grace, but the construction of a new castle would be more than
manageable."

Aegon raised an eyebrow. "What are you suggesting?"

Alesander Staedmon was nicknamed Pennylover, and the Lord of Broad Arch in the
Stormlands certainly had a mind for business. Black of hair and green eyed, he had a pug
nose and large, almost club-like hands. "There is more than just ice in the ruins of the Wall;
there is stone from the former castles. The wildlings have shown that they are willing to
kneel, at least for now. I think we all would like to believe the Others have been permanently
dealt with, but we do not know that. My humble suggestion is that we excavate the wildlings
another gate through which to return to their homes, and turn the ruins into whatever
fortifications we can. If we raise a castle and establish a loyal lord over the new holdings
north of the old Wall, subservient to House Stark, we not only try and maintain the wildlings
loyalty but we also open ourselves up to a larger supply of goods from the forests to the
north. Furs, wood…there is no telling what resources lie untouched."

Stannis Baratheon, hero of the War of the Three Kings and the returning Master of Ships,
said what was on everyone's mind. "The wildlings followed Mance Rayder, and only knelt
when he persuaded them to. Now Mance Rayder is dead."

Lord Alesander nodded in concession. "That is true, Lord Stannis. But they fought even after
Rayder was dead, even if it was for practical purposes."

"Their culture will not assimilate well to the south now that a unifying evil has been
removed," pointed out Grandmaester Ulwyk. "Perhaps Lord Staedmon has the right of it."

Aegon was staring at the table, mind tossing the idea around. "There is only one southerner
they will follow. I will talk to my brother and see his thoughts on the matter; he spoke to me
once of how he felt he belonged in the North, and his relationship with the Starks is certainly
a positive one. It is an excellent notion, Lord Staedmon, and one certainly worth more
thought."

Tyrion was staring pointedly at Aegon with his mismatched eyes. "Speaking of Prince
Jaehaerys…"

Aegon let out a great sigh. "I have told you, Lord Tyrion, I have no control over whom my
brother believes his heart belongs too. Jaehaerys and Val have a bond forged from mutual
suffering; it cannot be easily broken by the word of a brother, even if that brother is a king."
Varys had gone to the Vale with Alysanne before simply appearing at the main army,
managing spies throughout the War of Three Kings despite the heavy snows. Aegon didn't
know the details of how Varys did what Varys did and he was certain he didn't want to. "Lord
Tyrion has a right to be concerned. Many nobles are grumbling about the obvious
relationship, even if Lady Val is considered by some to be a wildling princess."

Two years ago Aegon would have slumped back in his chair, throwing his head back in
exasperation at such an annoying issue. Now, though, he merely cocked an eyebrow. "How
do so many even know of it? We're not entirely certain which nobles are dead or not yet."

Tyrion shrugged. "Perhaps if they were not concerned that a future Targaryen king would
have barbarian blood..."

Aegon sighed again, long and deep. Aegon knew his unwed status needed to be addressed,
and soon. It was another of his duties, and one of the most important/pleasurable ones at that.
But Aegon was in no mood to discuss it, not now. "We will handle that soon, Lord Tyrion, I
promise you, but not today. I will discuss the plausibility of Lord Staedmon's suggestion with
Jaehaerys and Bran Stark both. For now we move on."

Ser Arthur spoke before Tyrion could. "The matter of your Kingsguard, Your Grace. I have a
list of potential candidates I think suitable for your review."

"Excellent. I already have one member decided. Baelon Targaryen."

There was a moment of silence before Stannis spoke, voice neither approving nor
condemning. "He is very young."

"I don't care for his age, I care for his ability to kill, and he does that better than nearly
anyone present, myself included. I knighted him at the Neck, and the only reason I didn't give
him the white cloak then was my family's shared mourning for Prince Aelor."

Greysteel seemed the most hesitant. "The Kingsguard is an old order of the highest honor,
Your Grace. Ser Baelon is a very young man infamous for savagery. Some of the men were
calling him 'Blooddragon', and it wasn't meant as a compliment."

Aegon sat straight in his chair, his voice deepening along with his seriousness. "I have
discussed it with Baelon, and he is willing. There is no man left alive—aside from my two
present Kingsguard—whom I would more willingly trust with the lives of myself and my
family. This is not a point of contention, my lords. I am not asking your opinion; I am
informing you of my decision."

Tyrion had the tact to instantly move on. "As Your Grace says. Next is the housing and
feeding of the northern refugees while they remain in the south…"

And so it went.

Hours were spent in that chamber, details and decisions made in the dozens. Aegon missed
Alysanne's guidance, but his surrogate mother had retired to Duskendale with Myrcella, her
youngest children and little Lord Lucaerys, serving as his regent. The decision was made to
leave the Iron Islands be until an army could be built up and the dragons controlled, for
nearly every fighting man in Westeros was either dead or infinitely weary of war. Whenever
it was deemed prudent, the severely weakened Ironborn would be given the chance to
surrender their homes willingly. Those that didn't would be destroyed, for Aegon was
adamant about changing the raiding culture even if it meant killing every surviving squid.
The Iron Islands would be placed under the control of a loyal house, though which house it
would be was left to be decided once the Islands were cleansed.

Matters of coin were discussed in excruciating detail, the expenses of the war high. Envoys
were deemed necessary to send to the Free Cities to buy food and supplies for the Northern
refugees, as all stores of the northern houses had been picked clean during the flight. Ravens
were to be spent to each of the Lord Paramounts to gather the states of the houses under their
command, to gather an idea of who was still living and who was the heir in the cases of those
that weren't; the bodies after the Neck had been many and hard to distinguish. Two of the
Lord Paramounts present at the Neck—Artys Arryn and Edmure Tully—had been wounded,
the latter severely, and Mace Tyrell had died, though his son Garlan would survive.

It was determined that Summerhall, former seat of Prince Viserys, would be granted to
Jaehaerys if Jaehaerys didn't take the opportunity in the north or to Daemon if he did. Aegon
would write Alysanne, requesting betrothals of Daena, the eldest of Viserys' bastards, to
Daemon, and Daenella to Lucaerys, to hopefully help prevent a future issue like that of the
Blackfyre's. Aegon didn't know if Alysanne would accept in truth; the loss of Aelor so soon
after Ren and Rhaella was very, very hard on her. Regardless, it was deemed the best way to
handle the potential problems the twins could prove to be.

Aegon had a pounding headache when he called the meeting to a close, his lords rising as he
did. The king's joints cracked alarmingly as he straightened, violet eyes tired and bloodshot.
"That is enough for today, my lords. We will reconvene tomorrow."

He hadn't made it very far into his retreat before Tyrion called after him. "One last thing that
needs be addressed today, Your Grace. What of the prisoners from the Golden Company?"

Aegon slowed to a stop. He had entirely forgotten about the influx of men that had been
crowding the black cells of the Red Keep for months. Now that, Lord Tyrion, is an excellent
question. The Golden Company had been part of half a dozen failed rebellions, each of which
brought pain and suffering to the realm. Mercy had been shown in the past and been repaid
with blood, but Aegon couldn't very well forget that among those imprisoned men was Lord
Renly. Stannis served me well during the War of the Three Kings. I can't well repay that
loyalty by chopping his baby brother's head off, even if Renly's a traitor.

The king contemplated a long moment before turning to face his advisors, expression a
confident mask when he did. "These men have rebelled against the Targaryen kings time and
time again, and no matter how many times they fail they always return to try again. My
forbearers have shown them mercy, and that mercy has done us no good." He looked to
Stannis. "Lord Renly's fate can be decided by Lord Baratheon; he has earned at least that
much. As for the others…kill them."

Grandmaester Ulwyk seemed particularly taken aback. "But, Your Grace, they are prisoners
of war."
"Prisoners of war whom, if I allow to live, will continue to breed men with claims to castles
they no longer possess. They have never learned of their folly in the past, and they will
always keep coming back as long as they draw breath. The Golden Company has been a
thorn in the Iron Throne's side for much too long; it ends now, before they are once again
plague shores with sword and fire."

"But none will dare attack again, Your Grace, not with the return of dragons."

"Perhaps. But where else would these men go but back to cesspools to further plot the
downfall of the Targaryen dynasty? No. We kill them. All of them." Aegon turned and began
striding from the room, head held high.

Garth Greysteel's voice called after him. "That is what your uncle would have done, Your
Grace."

Aegon stopped for a moment before a great laugh escaped him. "Yes," the king said as he
started forward again. "It is what my uncle would have done."
 LXXI
Chapter Notes

Hey guys!

This is the last chapter of the Dragon of Duskendale. I apologize for not posting as
regularly on this site as I intended to, but at least we finally made it! I thank everyone
who has left kudos and especially comments on this story; even if I didn't respond to
very many, all of them were read and appreciated, and I thank you very much for your
words of support and constructive criticism. As I'm fond of saying in A/N's on the other
site, y'all rock.

This chapter is split in two. The first half is beloved Alysanne a few years after chapter
70. The second half, as the writing entails, is from Aelor's great-grandson, 100 years
after the Second War for the Dawn.

I hope you all leave your final thoughts, whether you've followed as I've updated or
you've stumbled across this story long after I stopped. Again, thank you all for your
support.

Strong shield, stronger sword.

Kerjack

The capitol wasn't the same without him. Then again, very little was.

Alysanne Lefford walked down a corridor of the Red Keep, the same castle she had once all
but ruled as Queen. The walls were the same, as were the guards in Targaryen livery and the
white of the Kingsguard. The same stench of sewage, the same crimson dragon banners.
Aelor's balcony was still there, the view as glorious now as it had been when he'd first shown
it to her.

It was all the same, yet so much had changed. Aelor would tell her that it was simply the way
of the world.

She missed him every day.

There was a new queen now, and soon there would be a new heir; that was why she was here
after three years of being away, to pay homage to the new heir to the Iron Throne, both as his
or her surrogate grandmother and as representative of his or her cousin, Lord Lucaerys
Taegaryen of Duskendale. Aemma Arryn was the second queen of that name, married to
Aegon a year and a half earlier. It had been a reward for the services House Arryn had
rendered the Iron Throne during the latest wars, as well as for the key part Aemma herself
had played in keeping the Royal Family in the safety of the Vale throughout both conflicts.
The former handmaiden to Daenerys was righteous and honorable, not at all a fan of the man
Aelor had been, but she had a mind for diplomacy and had been quietly in love with Aegon
since she had come to court at age ten. Alysanne didn't know if the king returned that love—
doubted it, really—but then again she and Aelor hadn't loved each other either, not at first.
Perhaps the young rulers would learn as they had.

The return to King's Landing was more than just a diplomatic trip of course; it was good to
see Aegon again. In Alysanne's mind, he looked more and more like Aelor every time she
saw him. And of course Baelon, her silent, grim Baelon. His father would swell with pride at
the sight of him in his white armor and cloak.

He'd swell in pride at the young child braced on her hip too.

Vaella Targaryen, silver of hair and violet of eye, had come screaming into the world nine
months after her father fell in the Second Battle for the Dawn. She was ferocious and fearless
even as a baby, as physically exhausting of a child as any of Alysanne's brood. The regent of
Duskendale loved every minute of it, though she doubted anyone else did.

Lucaerys was growing at an absurd rate, his mother and both of his grandmothers—beautiful
Cersei Lannister, influential Alysanne Lefford—wrapped around his chubby finger. He had a
half-sibling on the way now, Myrcella having remarried just shy of a year prior. Aelor Rykker
had once been a lustful, boisterous young man, not to mention one of Ren's best friends. The
wars had changed him, just as Alysanne was sure they would have changed her son if he had
survived them. She once thought the now strong and stern Lord Rykker had married Myrcella
because he felt guilty that he had survived when Ren had not, but anymore she wasn't so sure
that was the case.

Whatever the reasons, his position as one of Lucaerys' bannermen allowed Myrcella to all but
live at Duskendale with her son, and his support of the infant lord did much to solidify
Lucaerys' reign. Lord Rykker was, after all, nephew of Lord Farlan of the Antlers, another of
Lucaerys' bannermen, and young Lord Manfred Langward was the uncle of Lucaerys
himself. That left only the Byrch's, and Lord Cleyton seemed more than content to follow
Aelor's grandson as he had once followed Aelor.

Lucaerys was safe. They were all safe. Alysanne thanked the Seven and Aelor every night.

Aemon was Lord of the Golden Tooth now. Alysanne's father Lord Leo had been ill since
before the War of the Three Kings, and had passed two years past, leaving his daughter's
eldest surviving son his lands. Aemon had been married at Duskendale a fortnight before
moving west to his new home, wrapping a cloak with his new sigil—a green Targaryen
dragon on a black field—around the shoulders of Shireen Baratheon. The banner for his cadet
branch of House Targaryen was fitting; Aemon was, after all, dragonrider to Rhaegal. It had
surprised them all; one morning Alysanne had awoken to find her quiet son, who was
supposed to have been in King's Landing, sitting astride a dragon in the courtyard of the Dun
Fort, the fiercest of smiles across his face. Daenerys and King Aegon had both soon arrived
atop their own dragons, equal-parts terrified and exhilarated for Rhaegal and Aemon. It had
been a laughter-filled, wonderful morning.
Alysanne took a deep breath; it was good to be back in the capitol, despite the changes. There
were many wonderful memories here, too, even if many of those who had had a hand in
making them were gone.

Jaehaerys had gone north with the Starks a few months prior, riding to Duskendale to say
goodbye before rejoining the massive train of returning northerners. Spring had sprung, and
while the air was still chilly and snow still covered much of Westeros, the roads were clear
enough for Lord Brandon and his lords to finally return home. Val, the wildling woman
Jaehaerys had married despite venomous protests from Aegon and the nobles—the two
brothers had reputably come to blows over it twice—had been with the Wolf Prince, beautiful
and decidedly pregnant. There were plans for a keep to be raised near the ruins of the Wall,
from whence Jaehaerys would control the lands north of it for house Stark. Alysanne knew he
would thrive there; much as it pained her for him to be so far away, Jaehaerys belonged in the
lands of winter.

The North was still overrun with dead bodies, and the cleanup of the Wall would take
decades if not centuries, but it still belonged to the living. Jaehaerys had written that Lord
Eddard's body had been found in the courtyard of his castle, one hand on Ice, the other on the
dagger he had thrust under his own chin. The Lord of the North had been mortally wounded
in several places, and when it had come to an end had prevented himself from being able to
be revivified. Ice was back in the hands of House Stark, and Lord Bran had the looks of a
true ruler; the north would survive, as it had for millennia before the Targaryens and would
for millennia after.

Jaehaerys' decision to go north had meant Daemon, Alysanne's youngest son, was now the
Lord of Summerhall; he would leave her and Duskendale in less than a year to take
'command' of his new home. Dany was in King's Landing and the best dragonrider of all
three, and Aegon was ruling as a king should. Rhaenys was pregnant again, she and Lord
Willis already travelling to King's Landing to greet the coming Prince or Princess. Betrothal
requests for Saera and Alyssa were already coming in the dozens despite their young ages,
and soon enough they would come for Vaella as well.

Her family was spreading out, her children starting to go their own way, but they were still
her family. Aelor would have loved to have seen it all; Alysanne swore she would enjoy it
double for them both.

"Lady Alysanne," called a cheery voice, and she was already smiling as she turned. The times
since the Second Battle for the Dawn had been good to Tyrion Lannister, the Hand of the
King pin shining on the breast of his tunic. Tyrion smiled broadly as he made his way
towards her, the expression mirrored on the face of his wife. Elinor Prester, the Shebull of
Feastfires, was a sharp-tongued girl with unrivaled ambition. Her exploits in defending her
home from the Ironborn and then in helping to relieve many other Westerland holdings had
prompted Tyrion to offer her anything she wanted within his power; all she needed to do was
name it. She had replied, simply, 'I wish to be the Lady of Casterly Rock.'

It had been what she wanted, it had been in Tyrion's power, and she had named it. Whatever
they said of the halfman behind his back, he was a man of his word. While there was no love
between the two there was no hatred either, and Lady Elinor was respected across the region
she was now lady of. Alysanne was happy for him; she and Tyrion had long been friends, and
the dwarf was one Lannister whom Aelor hadn't hated with all of his heart. It was pleasing to
see him with this manner of happiness.

"Tyrion," Alysanne called in greeting, facing them as they neared. "I suppose you are both
going the same direction as me."

"Indeed, my lady," Tyrion said, shooting a silly grin at Vaella in Alysanne's arms. "It is not
every day that a new heir to the Iron Throne is born."

Lady Elinor chimed in, glancing down at her husband in amusement. "Tyrion has been
working towards this since he first pinned on the badge of Hand of the King. I'm not sure
which of them, he or King Aegon, are more excited."

Tyrion held his hands out in exasperation even as he smirked. "Convincing His Grace to
marry was more difficult than it should have ever been; I work for the security of the realm,
and that security requires an heir. I will not feel ashamed."

Alysanne laughed lightly. "Nor should you. This is a monumental day for us all."

Others waited outside the birthing chamber throughout that long evening, the anticipation of
a new heir heavy in the air. Lord Alesander Staedmon gave both his greetings and his
condolences, Lord Commander Arthur Dayne doing the same. Aemon arrived, having ridden
Rhaegal from the Golden Tooth on a whim. He took Vaella from his mother's arms, playing
with his youngest sibling as if he were a child of an equal age, eventually leaving the hallway
to put her down for a nap. Daenerys went with him, the beautiful young dragonrider followed
by a near army of suitors, Dany shooting her surrogate mother a good-natured eyeroll in the
process. Baelon relived Ser Mychel Redfort of his post outside the birthing chamber,
allowing Alysanne to fawn over him as she waited, Baelon having grown taller than Ren or
Aelor either one had been. Lord Artys Arryn, his wife Margaery Tyrell and his mother Lysa
arrived, Artys fidgeting restlessly at his sister's screams from the birthing chamber, the Rose
of the Reach finding his discomfort endearing. Tyrion took lighthearted bets on whether it
would be a boy or a girl, Elinor reprimanding him. Varys slithered in and out as silent as a
spider. Other lords and ladies arrived, until soon the hall was overflowing and the midwives
had to bodily force their way through the awaiting throng.

Chills went up and down Alysanne's spine and a flurry of excited squeals left the crowd when
an infant's cry was heard from the birthing chamber.

The king stepped out soon after, having insisted on being in the birthing chamber. That had
made Alysanne smile; Aelor had always insisted on being there for their children too. Aegon
had grown taller and more muscular in recent years, allowing a closely trimmed silver beard
to grow, just as Aelor always had. His hair hung to his shoulders like a silvery waterfall,
flowing out from the warlike crown of his ancestors Maekar the First and Jaehaerys the
Second. He stood straight and kingly, a broad smile on his face and a bundle held carefully in
his arms.

There were dozens of nobles Aegon could have gone to; Lysa, the infant's grandmother. Lord
Artys, his or her uncle. Its cousin Aemon or its great aunt Dany. Even Tyrion, the man who
had pestered Aegon to death over the need for the heir now in the king's arms.

Instead, Aegon walked to Alysanne.

"Mother," the king said as he gently came to a stop beside her, a violet-eyed, silver-haired
infant staring out at her from the swaddles in his arms. "I would like you to meet the future
King of the Iron Throne."

"Aelor Targaryen."

From the writings of Aerion Targaryen, Grandmaester to his twin brother King Maekar
Targaryen the Second, his nephew King Aegon the Seventh and his great-nephew King
Baelon the First, titled The Dragon of Duskendale. Written AC 400.

History will not be kind to Aelor Targaryen.

Grandmaester Colmar the Grey once wrote that you either loved him or you hated him; there
was no middle ground. A century after his death, that statement still rings true.

The second son of Aerys, the Burner of Lannisport, the Dragon of Duskendale, was the son,
brother, uncle and grandfather of Kings. His youngest daughter, my grandmother Vaella
Targaryen, married his namesake, the firstborn son of King Aegon, sixteen years after his
death at the hands of the Night's King. From them, the Targaryen dynasty has grown even
more prolific than it was in the days of Aegon the Unlikely.

In this humble scholar's opinion, that can be directly contributed to the Targaryen Prince of
War.

After his death, many men who once feigned friendship to the first Targaryen Lord of
Duskendale would forsake him. Stories of his butchery, his fearsome rage and his affinity for
taking lives are known to all, from the highest noble to the lowest peasant. Even now he is
widely considered a madman, a highly competent ruler but also a cruel murderer who used
his power to crush his enemies into oblivion.

If one believes the stories, the Dragon of Duskendale himself never claimed to be anything
less.

Maybe those labels were earned; maybe they weren't. But somewhat lost in the horror of his
atrocities is the greatness of his heroics. Accounts and stories written by the likes of
Grandmaester Colmar, Lord Brandon Stark the Wise Wolf and Lord Samwell Tarly of the
Westmarch all agree that Aelor Targaryen fought all his life for his family, a family that he
saved from extinction. If not for the Dragon of Duskendale the Targaryen name would be a
legend of old. Dragons would not fly the skies. King Aegon, forever known as 'the Promised',
perhaps the greatest king Westeros has ever seen—greater, even, than his forefather Jaehaerys
the Conciliator—would have been slaughtered as a babe. Perhaps Westeros wouldn't even
exist as anything other than a ruined wasteland, overrun in the waves of Others and wights
that toppled the Wall and nearly wiped out an entire generation of fighting men.
We will never know what may have been, but we do know Aelor Targaryen played an
important role in all that is. For every horror story there is a song, for every act of contempt
another act of reverence.

King Aegon the Sixth ruled for fifty years of peace after the Second Battle for the Dawn,
only slightly interrupted by the Cleansing of the Isles. Pat of that was due to the fact that all
of the regions had lost so many men in the War of the Three Kings and Second Battle for the
Dawn that they couldn't wage war. Part of it was the rebirth of the dragons. But most of it
was the fact that Aegon was a wise, just ruler who would attribute the man he was to the
uncle who could have usurped him. King Aegon did, as all know, name his heir after the
Dragon of Duskendale, though that Aelor Targaryen never became king; he died of an
ailment of the heart at the age of eight and forty, followed in death by his heartbroken father
less than a fortnight later. His own son and my father, King Jaehaerys the Third, would
succeed the Promised as King of the Iron Throne.

Jaehaerys told me stories about the White Dragon since the day I was born, those stories
having been told to him by King Aegon and Lord Commander Baelon 'Blooddragon' of the
Kingsguard. They spoke of skill-at-arms, of vicious retribution, and of a dragon made man.
The songs A Dragon's Wrath and Sun and Sword were written about the Lighting of the Lions
and the rumored love of Aelor and Elia Martell respectively. Thundering Hooves, Glinting
Steel glorifies his charge across the Ruby Ford at the First Battle of the Trident. Plays of his
life, some flattering and most not, are performed in all eight regions and across Essos.

Duskendale, now home to a secondary branch of house Targaryen that rivals even the Lord
Paramounts in wealth and influence, thrived under the supposed butcher. The scarred helm
and its white flame crest are still displayed in the Dun Fort alongside the ruby pommel of the
shattered blade that claimed so many lives, placed there by Aelor's grandson Lucaerys
Targaryen.

His children, both in blood and in spirit, helped solidify Targaryen ties to the other regions of
Westeros and to previously rebellious factions. Though his eldest son, Renlor Targaryen,
would die at the Second Battle of the Trident, Renlor's own son—the aforementioned
Lucaerys—would marry Daenella Waters, his cousin and the daughter of Viserys the
Betrayer. His shrewd mind and charming nature would later see him appointed Hand of the
King to Kings Aegon, Jaehaerys and Maekar, a position he would hold for six and thirty
years until the day of his death.

Aemon Targaryen, Lord of the Golden Tooth and first dragonrider of Rhaegal, would marry
the only daughter of Lord Stannis Baratheon, the greyscale survivor Shireen. He served Lord
Tyrion Lannister faithfully until the Halfman's death, the Giant of Lannister fostering his heir
Jaime with Aemon the Scholar and doing much to repair the once-tattered Targaryen-
Lannister relations; Lord Jaime would later marry Aemon's daughter Rhaella, further
strengthening Targaryen rule in the Westerlands.

Baelon Blooddragon would serve in Aegon's and Jaehaerys' Kingsguards, eventually rising to
Lord Commander. Considered both as deadly and as erratic as his father had been, Aelor's
third son was as loyal and dedicated a Kingsguard as ever lived, even if honor was never his
foremost attribute. He would die defending King Jaehaerys from the assassins of a slighted
lord while the King was hunting in the first year of his reign, slaying all four before he
succumbed to his wounds.

Daemon Targaryen, Lord of Summerhall and a child during the War of Three Kings and the
Second Battle for the Dawn, would—like his eldest sister Rhaella—suffer a tragic end. At the
age of two and twenty he was slain in a jousting accident against his brother Baelon. His wife
Daena—the other and elder child of Viserys the Betrayer—would give birth to a daughter,
named Viserra, four months after his death. Viserra would serve as the Lady of Summerhall
after him, later marrying Aegon's second and final son Vaekar.

Lady Saera Targaryen lives in Winterfell to this very day, great-grandmother to the current
Lord Benjen Stark and only living person to have ever seen the Dragon of Duskendale in the
flesh. At three and one hundred her mind often roams, and the memories she had of her father
have long been lost, though the few fuzzy recollections she had when she could recall them
were included in the writing of her husband, the Wise Wolf.

Alyssa Targaryen would marry future Lord Steffon Baratheon of the Stormlands, dying at
seven and twenty of complications from the birth of her fourth child, the future Lord Orys II.
It is widely believed that her death was the final blow for Aelor's wife Alysanne Lefford, the
surrogate mother of King Aegon; the universally respected Westerwoman would join her
husband and four of her children in death less than a year later, passing away in the Dun Fort
of Duskendale of a broken heart. The whole of Westeros grieved her passing, and as per her
wishes she was interred in the Sept of Baelor alongside the ashes of her husband and two
eldest.

The final of Prince Aelor's and Lady Alysanne's children, born nine moons after the former's
death, would birth a future King and advise him until her own death at the age of five and
fifty. Vaella Targaryen was considered smart and beautiful, though stories would carry
through the years of her vicious disposition and penchant for ruthlessly dealing with
offenders. She was every bit the daughter of the father she never met.

Princess Rhaenys Targaryen, the niece Aelor so loved—and who was rumored after his death
to actually be his ill-conceived daughter, though I myself believe that false—would be the
Lady of Highgarden, giving Lord Willas Tyrell three sons and an olive-skinned daughter, a
daughter who would be named Aelora in honor of the Dragon of Duskendale. Aelora Tyrell
would prove her Valyrian heritage, be it through Rhaegar or Aelor, when she would become
the second dragonrider of Rhaegal after Lord Aemon's death, much to the consternation of
Princes Aelor and Vaekar. Neither would ever bond with a dragon, though King Jaehaerys
would ride Balerion after the death of his grandfather.

Prince Jaehaerys Targaryen, namesake of my father and always more wolf than dragon,
would spend the rest of his days in the north, travelling south less than a dozen times for the
remainder of his life. House Targaryen of the New North shares very few similarities with its
southern counterparts; Valyrian features rarely crop up in their children, and the House began
worshipping the Old Gods not far into Jaehaerys' reign. The way of life is different there than
it is in the south and even in the Old North, but the former wildlings who inhabit the forests
and glaciers obey the descendants of Jaehaerys, and they have since the Second Battle for the
Dawn fought as ferociously for the King of the Iron Throne as they ever did a King-Beyond-
The-Wall.

And then there is the Dragon of Duskendale's sister, the Silver Princess Daenerys Stormborn.
The first dragonrider of Aelon and hero of the Second Battle for the Dawn would rise to
become perhaps the most powerful woman who wasn't a Queen in Westerosi history, even
more powerful than her surrogate mother Alysanne. She was a trusted advisor of King Aegon
in matters of diplomacy, and while she would only ever ride the white dragon Aelon, all three
of the beasts and their subsequent hatchlings would show a particular affinity for the Mother
of Dragons. She would marry the youngest son of Lord Ardrian Celtigar, Ser Melwys, who
carried his House's Valyrian steel axe during the Second Battle for the Dawn and every day
thereafter. Melwys was a strong man and fair of face, yet also quiet and gentle; Daenerys
reputedly chose him more for his poetry and courtly manner than for his Valyrian heritage or
skill at arms. Their marriage was a matrilineal one, all four of their children belonging to
House Targaryen. Aegon would appoint her to the Small Council as a personal advisor, the
first woman to serve on the ruling council of the Seven Kingdoms in a permanent capacity
when not a regent or queen, and the Mother of Dragons would spend her entire life in King's
Landing.

The royal coffers overflowed under Aelor's care. Trade between Westeros and the Free Cities
increased by large margins. The right of agnatic primogeniture, the succession law Westeros
was built upon, was honored. Two rebellions were crushed, and the worst threat to ever
plague the Targaryen dynasty—themselves—was twice defeated.

These are only stories and artifacts of course, though the logistical and familial statements are
accurate; who truly knows what Aelor Targaryen was honestly like as a man. Lady Saera was
two namedays old when her father rode off to war, and Lady Alyssa wasn't even one. Renlor
and Rhaella would die in that war, Dowager Queen Vaella would never know him, Baelon
Blooddragon and Daemon were not fond of writing, and Aemon the Scholar's works were
ones of a son about his dead father, and have had their nature called into question—though it
is only fair to mention that his accounts paint Aelor in a much different light.

I am not writing this to defend my great-grandfather; for all this maester knows he was every
bit as mad as the worst rumors claim he was. But as a scholar, I seek to teach the truth, and
the truth is that Aelor Targaryen, whatever his many faults, is as important a figure in the
history of Westeros as any king of any house. His atrocities were great, but so were his
achievements. He helped build the modern Targaryen dynasty, reshaping Westeros along the
way. He wiped out entire Houses and burned prosperous cities to the ground, yet he also
spared thousands of innocents and didn't usurp an infant when most of Westeros wished him
to. The Dragon of Duskendale was truly a man of extremes, both positive and negative, and
those extremes would shape the future of an entire continent.

No, history will not be kind to Aelor Targaryen. But without him, nothing in this life would
be the same.
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