Dragon Ryder - Adam_Yozza - A Song of Ice and Fire (2024)

Chapter 1: Jacaerys I

Chapter Text

Storms were not something Jacaerys feared. Though the wind howled as though an angry god was bellowing in rage, and the rain lashed down impressive force and quantity, the Prince of Dragonstone did not flinch. Rather the opposite, in fact, the Prince was grinning broadly, barely affected by the the rocking of the boat as he stood at the prow of his grandfather's pride and joy; the War Galley Sea Snake, the flagship of the Velaryon fleet that had been named after the moniker of the man who led said fleet. Jacaerys thought it a little bit much to use such an impressive war ship as a simple transport vessel between King's Landing and Dragonstone, but his mother's father; King Viserys; wasn't taking any risk. Apparently no expense was spared when it came to the safety of the royal family.

In truth, Jace should have been back at Dragonstone nearly a month ago, with his mother and brothers. But once again Aemond Targaryen had ruined things. The ten namedays boy was a menace. Four years older than Jace, Aemond was the second son and third child that King Viserys had born to him by his second wife, Alicent Hightower. In the privacy of his own mind, Jace believed that being cruel and arrogant must be a Hightower family trait, but in public was courteous enough with the family; such consideration was not shown to the Queen's offspring. Aegon; the King's oldest son; and Aemond were both quick to anger and were often cruel to their younger nephew's. Jace was sure that they and their mother were responsible for how widespread the rumor's about his parentage had become.

Officially, Jace's father was Laenor Velaryon. Jace himself had no doubt that this was true. However, that Jace had been born with brown hair and eyes, instead of the silver hair both his parents possessed, many of his father's uncles and cousins had begun to claim that he and his siblings were actually fathered by Harwin Strong, the now deceased heir of Harrenhal that had been his mothers friend in childhood and eventually became her sworn sword. These accuser's compared Jace, Lucerys and Joffrey to Ser Harwin and brought up his father's well-known degeneracy's as further proof. Personally, Jace thought he and his brothers looked more like their grandmother Aemma Arryn. The Arryn's had similar traits as the Strong's; with the exception of their pug like noses; and if his mother's cousin, Jeyne, was any indication as to what grandmother looked like then Jace would be inclined to guess that he inherited his looks from her.

Frowning, Jace wished that spreading rumors; rumor's grandfather had quickly put down by ordering that anyone that spoke of it would have their tongue's torn out; was the extent of Aemond's antagonism towards the Velaryon siblings. But on their last visit to King's Landing a much more tense confrontation had taken place. It seemed both Aemond and Jace had gotten the same idea. Both wanted to tame the dragon Vhagar, the last of the dragons from the conquest and the largest of the mighty beasts still alive. This shared desire had led to a fight outside the dragonpit between Aemond and his three oldest nephews, resulting in Luke's nose being broken and Aemond's eye being cut out with a dagger.

Jace winced at the memory that brought up. Queen Alicent had been furious at what had happened to her son and wanted the same to be done to Luke in retaliation. It was fortunate, the six year old Prince supposed, that the five year old Lucerys was the King's favourite of all his children, grandchildren and niece's. He had consented to a whipping for each of them; by which he meant each of their whipping boys; but had been firm that he would go no further than that and had; Jace had been told later; privately congratulated Luke on doing so well with his blade at such a young age. Though the punishment was lenient, Jace still thought it unfair. They hadn't even been the first to draw their knives, no matter what tale Aemond spun to his mother. Even worse, Aemond had managed to tame Vhagar. The smug satisfaction on Aemond's face had made Jace want to remove the craven's other eye.

His mother had immediately began to have their belongings packed for the trip back to Dragonstone. She was unwilling to remain in the city when her half brother went unpunished for starting the fight by slapping the youngest of the brothers, two year old Joffrey. The plan had been to move back to Dragonstone, but that plan was halted when Jace started to develop a fever. A slash across the stomach that Aemond had given him had become infected, forcing the move to be halted. Eventually, tired of the constant tension, the King sent his heir and her children back to Dragonstone, promising to send Jacaerys along when he had recovered.

So here he was, standing at the front of the triple decked War Galley that was taking him home, where he hoped to tame one of the untamed dragons that had set up their lair on the island that housed the ancient Valyrian fortress or at least hatch one of his own.

There was a bright flash of lightning and then not a few a seconds later a roar of thunder that sounded rather similar to the roar of a dragon. Jacaerys' grin widened. He had been raised on Dragonstone. While such storms as this were not as common as they were in the aptly named Stormlands or even along the coast of the Vale and the bay known as the Bite they weren't exceptionally rare either. While Lucerys had often been forced to seek comfort in the arms of their mother and, more recently, their great uncle Daemon, in fear of the noise, Jacaerys felt exhilarated whenever they happened. This was no exception.

"Young Prince!," he heard from behind him. Turning, he saw the grizzled old captain of the ship, Lacaerys Rambton. With hair that was more gray than silver, Jacaerys estimated the man was about a decade older than his uncle Daemon. Lacaerys was the younger brother of Lord Rambton of Hull; a small keep on Driftmark sworn to House Velaryon; and had been a leading commander in Daemon's war against the Stepstones. The man was soaked to the bone, with a black leather cloak wrapped around his shoulders. It's hood was barely doing anything as water dripped down the fabric to land on the man's prominent nose.

"You should return to your cabin, my Prince," the veteran said "This storm is something fierce, might be you'd be safer inside. And a good deal warmer too I'd think,"

Jacaerys nodded in slight disappointment, but he could see what the man was saying. His clothes had been soaked through within minutes of the storm picking up and he was shivering a little. He had only just recovered from one illness. He wasn't excited at the idea of getting another so soon.

Jacaerys started towards the Captain, when another flash of lightning lit up the sky around them. Then the drums of thunder rolled again. It sounded less roar like this time, to Jacaerys disappointment. But then, a moment later, there was another earth shaking noise, much closer to the sound he had heard only a minute or two ago while at the prow. Intrigued, Jacaerys stopped and observed the sky around them. There had been no flash, which meant the noise was not thunder, as he had first assumed. No, that was the roar of a dragon. Jace knew that no sane dragon rider would take their mount into the sky in a storm like this unless absolutely necessary, regardless of whether the beast was big enough to withstand the gale. Which meant one of the wild dragons was about; the Sea Snake's crew would have to be very careful until they knew which one it was. The Grey Ghost was shy and avoided humans whenever possible. Sheepstealer; as the name implied; was more like to hunt sheep than humans and the Cannibal was also aptly named, as it only feasted on it's own kind. Any of the three would likely leave the ship alone, though the Cannibal was temperamental at best. If the Bronze Fury was about though, or Silverwing...

The boy looked at the Captain and saw the man had recognized the sound too. All the time around Caraxes he was bound to, even if he hadn't grown up next door to the most dragon inhabited island in the country. Rambton opened his mouth to say something, but was interrupted, this time by one of his own crew.

"Milord!" the dread filled voice called out in warning, pointing behind the highborn pair. Jacaerys spun around but it was too late. The force of the massive wave; that had for a moment towered over the massive boat, threw the Prince across the deck. He barely managed to grab hold of one of the ropes to keep himself from being thrown overboard. A dozen, maybe two, of the crew members on the deck were not so lucky. The main mast had snapped in half and wooden spikes impaled several of the crew while the mast had crushed two more into a pulp right before the six year old's eyes. The boy wanted to be sick.

Growing up in a warrior based culture, Jacaerys understood the concept of death from an early age. But as a royal living in a time of peace it was always rather abstract. He heard about great battle's fought years or even centuries in the past. He had seen the trio of dragon skulls that decorated the Throne room in the Red Keep; Balerion, dead of old age not a few decades past, Meraxes, killed in Dorne more than a century ago and Quicksilver, torn apart by Balerion some ninety years previous. The little of death he had seen involved the burial of his father and aunt, the Velaryon siblings Laenor and Laena. He hadn't witnessed either. Seeing the gruesome deaths not ten feet from his face was horrifying to the child.

The waves had knocked the ship of course, the Sea Snake now veering far too much to the left of the designated course and leaning on a dangerous tilt. However the main sail was down and the second ripped and torn. Even had they not been, the constant hammering of the waves would have made correcting their path nearly impossible. As it was, the Sea Snake was being forced further and further to the left.

Jace could see Rambton shouting orders that the boy couldn't hear, and clutching at his left arm which had bent at a sickening angle. There were shouts from every direction, as well, some scared and some determined. They were mixed in with the screams of the injured and dying. Then, Jacaerys heard one cry go up that was louder than them all. He may not know all that much about sailing at such a young age; though certainly more than someone from the mainland; but he knew what that word meant. The combination of both the word and the panic that filled the voice meant that Jace didn't even have to look to confirm his thoughts.

"ROCKS!"

Unable to help himself, Jace did turn. The massive jagged rock jutted up from the sea by nearly a hundred feet, one or two more of a similar nature just barely visible beyond it. Jace knew that there would be many more too far away to be seen through the storm, just as he knew that there would be dozens of smaller rocks just beneath the surface of the water for each of the tall ones. He knew exactly where they had ended up. The Spears of the Merling King were well known to any sailor who frequented Blackwater Bay. Jacaerys had heard his grandfathers Lord Corlys and King Viserys complain about losing a ship captained by a novice being lost to the Spears often enough. They were treacherous waters, and Jace knew that the underwater rocks could shred even the strongest of ships undersides to pieces.

It happened exactly as he knew it would. No matter of work could turn the Sea Snake from it's course and the second they came within half a dozen feet of the spear, there was a mighty lurch as the bottom of the ship was ripped apart and water began to flood the vessel. Jace himself was thrown to the deck and his head cracked painfully against the wooden planks. His sight became unfocussed and his head felt inexplicably heavy. He pressed a hand to his hairline and when he pulled it away it was covered in a sticky, crimson red liquid that he knew was not a good sign.

"My Prince! Move!" he heard vaguely. Jace's mind was clouded, and instead of moving he sluggishly turned to see what the problem was. His eyes widened and at the last second his eyes widened and his head cleared. There was no time to do anything though, as he was sent flying over the side of the ship by a second colossal wave. He impacted painfully with the water, thankfully; somehow; missing the jagged rocks that were hidden beneath the tide. Jace panicked briefly underwater, trying to swim to the surface. Though a strong swimmer; having been taught by his father and great uncle; Jace's small body was powerless against the waves and even if he wasn't, he could barely tell which way was up. His lungs began to burn and his arms and legs were heavy and tired. He felt as though something had grabbed him around the chest and was pulling him away. He wondered if this was what death felt like; if this was what the sailors aboard the ship had felt as the mast crushed them, or the spikes impaled them or as the waves dragged them down as they were doing to him.

But then he wasn't in the water anymore. He was above it, rising higher and higher with every second. And the feeling around his chest hadn't gone away yet. He looked at his chest and he was shocked to see a dragon's claw, clutching him in it's grasp. Wildly, he glanced around and then finally looked up and confirmed what he thought he must be imagining. Shocked to his core, Jacaerys could do little more than gape at the rather large dragon that was flying him away from the soon to be wreckage of the Sea Snake that Jace could see far below him. The dragon, Jace estimated was probably about half the size of Caraxes and was as white as snow; though Jace had not experienced that particular weather before, he imagined the comparison was accurate enough. From his position, Jacaerys could just barely make out the outline of a small figure that was sitting on the dragons back.

It must have been close to an hour; or perhaps more, as Jacaerys wasn't sure if he had passed out from exhaustion at some point; that the dragon landed. They were on a small island, with a stone castle sitting atop the cliff they had landed at the base off. To the east, Jacaerys thought he might just be able to make out a long peninsular of land, that was probably Massey's Hook, unless the flight had been far longer than he had thought. Which would make the castle Sweetport Sound, seat of House Sunglass.

The dragon had unceremoniously dropped him on the beach; from a low height, thankfully; before collapsing into the sand itself. After pushing himself up onto his knees, Jace noticed that the dragon was injured, with several open wounds in it's flank. The figure on top of the dragon dropped to the beach himself and seemed rather distressed over the injuries. Rightfully so, Jace knew, as most dragonriders formed close bonds with their dragons and to lose a mount was not pleasant according to the stories he'd been told.

Jacaerys wasn't surprised at the care being shown for the dragon by it's rider. He was surprised, though, when the figure's hood fell down and revealed the rider to be a boy of an age with Jacaerys himself. The boy was taller than Jace, though less stocky, with brown eyes and short, messy dark hair. There was a faint trace of Valyrian ancestry to be found in the boys face, but nothing that stood out to much. Jacaerys only noticed it because he was looking for it, knowing it must be there else the boy couldn't have bonded with a dragon.

Hearing the sound of hooves behind him, Jace glanced around and saw a group of riders approaching, their banner bearing the colours of House Sunglass, proving Jacaerys assumption on their location correct. Jace quickly clambered to his feet and hastened over to where his savior's stood (the boy) or lay (the dragon). Seeing the tears in the boy's eyes as he looked at his companion, Jacaerys did the first thing he thought of.

In a gesture he'd seen Daemon make for grandfather when father died, he put his hand on the boy's shoulder "Help is coming. He'll be fine," he promised.

Sniffling, the boy turned a questioning gaze on him. "How do you know?" the boy asked. The accent was odd. It was some sort of odd mix of Northern and Essosi. Now that he looked a bit closer, Jace thought that his features did rather remind him of a northman.

Jacaerys found some of his usual confidence returning to him, though he knew his voice still shook slightly. "My family knows everything about dragons," he boasted "They'll help him. I'm Prince Jacaerys Velaryon. What's your name?"

The boy hesitated for a moment before replying "Lucos," he said "Lucos Ryder."

Chapter 2: Viserys I

Chapter Text

124 AC

Viserys

The King of Westeros stood in the yard in front of the imposing Red Keep. His lovely wife of nineteen years stood beside him to his left. Dressed in a finely embroidered green dress, Alicent Hightower had retained the slight frame and lithe body she'd had when they first married, despite four childbirth's, and struck a very attractive image as she stood in the summer sun. The look was marred only by the blatantly visible scowl her beautiful features. To Viserys' regret, the same expression could be found on all of his children as well. His eldest son, Aegon; now a man of eighteen years, with rather thin, silver hair and somewhat pinched features; and his only daughter, Helaena; who had not handled childbirth as well as Alicent had, and was quite plump with a lot of fat still clinging to her; stood to his right, each holding one of their recently born twin children to their body. Viserys wasn't particularly impressed nor fond of Aegon; the lad wasn't all that skilled martially nor administratively, and was entirely too quick to anger; but he already adored his newest grandchildren.

Aemond was the next in line. Though only four and ten namedays old, the boy was noticably tall and broad for his age, and he seemed to have inheirted his skill with a blade from his uncle, Viserys brother Daemon. He was a dominant force in the training yard. That the boy had managed to tame Vhagar at such a young age was worthy of praise. Still, Viserys found himself somewhat disappointed in his second son, despite the boy's natural talent with a blade. Like his older brother, Aemond was proud and arrogant. He held his temper in check better than Aegon, but was prone to bursts of cruelty and jealousy.

At the end of the line was Viserys youngest son, Daeron. The boy was the most promising. He had heard from Maester Orwyle that Daeron had expressed an apptitude towards strategy and tactics, and he'd progressed better with numbers, letters and history than any of his full siblings. The child lacked the arrogance his older brothers had. Daeron was remarkably humble and kind, both of which had been reported to the King by Daeron's tutor's. Being of an age with Jacaerys, the King's eldest grandson, Viserys had hoped that his youngest would be the key to mending the gap between the two branches of his family, and the traits the ten year old exhibited had only reinforced this belief. It seemed that was not the case. Forcing them to take their lessons together had only served to highlight their distaste for each other, and Daeron was further fueled in his hatred by Aegon and Aemond.

At that moment, all four of his children wore the same disdainful expression his wife did.

They'd been taking a private family meal when the news had reached them. Viserys had been glad of the occasion; so rarely was there a chance for his wife and children to all join him for a meal these days. Helaena was always looking after Jahaerys and Jahaerya, Aegon and Aemond practicing their riding high in the sky or their swordsmanship in the yard, never finding time to spend with him. But Daeron's tenth nameday was soon to pass, and it gave him the excuse to bring his family together often. Though Viserys was ashamed to admit, he wished he didn't have to invite Aemond. The King was unnerved by the boy. Aemond had lost an eye to Lucerys Velaryon years ago and recently had a saphire put into his eye socket to replace it. The stone served it's purpose, and was certainly very intimidating.

Viserys had been helping himself without retraint; he failed to see the point anymore, as his girth would either kill him or it wouldn't; when a red-faced, out of breath servent had rushed in to inform them that the sentry's on the wall had spotted a set of dragons making their way to the capital. Knowing it could only be his daughter coming to attend the feast Viserys had arranged for the upcoming nameday of Daeron and the recent one of Jacaerys, Viserys had ushered his family to the yard in order to greet them properly. By the time he'd made it to the courtyard, Viserys was almost panting with exertion. It made him wish for the days of his youth. While the King had always been rather plump and heavyset, it was only in recent years that his size had grown to the problematic size it had and started to cause him health problems.

His family were not the only attendents in the yard that day. Tagaryen men at arms stood guard on the battlements and against the walls, while the Kingsguard and the Small Council formed the line behind the Royal Family, the White Knights standing tall and proud, their eyes always alert. Behind them stood the other courtiers; minor nobles and guests, as well as the household of Red Keep like the stablemaster and the Master at Arms. Everyone who took residence in the Keep had gathered. No less was expected to great the heir to the Iron Throne.

He was yanked out of his musing's by a mighty roar that woke his grandchildren from their slumber, and the ruler of the kingdom supressed a groan at his brother's need to show off.

The first dragon to land was large and fearsome, with yellow scales and luminous eyes of a similar colour. Syrax wasn't the largest or oldest of the dragons but neither was she the smallest. Rhaenyra had been seven when she tamed Syrax, the young dragon she had hatched only a few years earlier. As expected, Viserys saw his eldest child slide down from the back of the dragon. Rhaenyra had suffered the same problem as Helaena. She had gained a lot of wieght from five pregnancies, and she carried a large bossom and thick waist with her now. Viserys, despite the effect child bearing had taken on her, still believed she had grown into a rather beautiful girl.

His own brother was the next to set his dragon down. Out of all the current Targaryen's, Daemon was the most battle hardened. The man had enjoyed a great deal of freedom in his youth; and, in fact, still did; and during this freedom, Daemon had grown bored. To alleviate this boredom, the warrior had taken Caraxes and the Velaryon fleet to conquer the pirate islands of the Stepstones, warring with both Dorne and the Triarchy to do so. Before long, Daemon Targaryen was King of the Stepstones, a title he gave up to Viserys himself only a few years later. Viserys often envied his brothers ability to do as he pleased, though he still hadn't forgiven the man for that 'half a day heir' comment.

Caraxes himself was a sight to behold. Known as the Blood Wyrm, Caraxes' scales were a dark red and his back and tail were ridged with spikes. While Vhagar, Vermithor, Silverwing and Dreamfyre all outstripped the dragon in size, Caraxes was easily the most fearsome and had seen more battle than any of them, with the exception of Vhagar.

It was the last two dragons that caught Viserys interest. One was a very dark green colour and looked rather young. He knew that it must belong to Jacaerys, and it had been hatched only two years ago. Viserys had been unaware that Jace had managed to tame and ride the dragon yet, and the beasts name was also unknown. In some ways, Viserys was glad. Daeron had also recently bonded with a dragon, though he had not hatched his himself. He had forged a connection with Tessarion, who's last rider had been Viserys own father, Baelon. Her bright blue colour had earned her the nickname the Blue Queen, and the regality of Tessarion showed she fully deserved such a title. Jace and Daeron becoming riders at the same time would give them something to bond over...or it could simply reinforce their rivalry. Either way, Viserys supposed he should just be grateful that his oldest grandchild had recovered fully from his ordeal aboard the Sea Snake and had still been willing to ride after it. The King had heard of how a flight at such a young age could stop a child from ever mounting a dragon again.

Turning his attention to he last dragon, Viserys wasn't slow to work out who it belonged to. Rhaenyra and her family had not returned to King's Landing since the incident at the Dragonpit four years beforehand, and Viserys couldn't blame her, much as it irked him to see his family at odds, but that hadn't stopped the King from receiving news. He'd heard of the young Lucos Ryder that had appeared from nowhere atop a mighty dragon to save Jacaerys. Though he had never met the boy, or his dragon, the dark haired youth could only be the young Velaryon's constant companion. From what he had heard, Ryder and Jacaerys were hardly ever apart, which had led to some rumours about Jacaerys' inclinations. Viserys was interested in discovering if those rumours were true and, if they were, putting a stop to it. His heir's son had enough rumour surrounding him already. The dragon, which Viserys believed was named Snowfyre, seemed almost too large for the boy to ride. Easily the size of Sunfyre; Aegon's magnificent golden dragon; Snowfyre was an extremly pale, icy blue colour and dwarfed Jacaerys' own mount.

The four dismounted quickly, and made their way over to where the King stood with his family. When they were not three feet from Viserys, Rhaenyra stopped and curtsied delicately while Daemon, Jacaerys and Lucos all bowed lowly (with Ryder's looking rather stiff, as though he were not used to the action).

"Your Grace," Rhaenyra greeted charmingly.

Viserys laughed heartily and brushed off the formality, drawing her into an embrace "None of that, my dear, none of that. You are my daughter, not a vassal!"

"Thank you, father," she smiled at him "It is good to see you after so many years."

"It'd have been a good deal less years if you left that bloody island sometimes," he boomed merrily, turning to his grandson "Why, you didn't even tell me my eldest grandchild had started riding yet!"

"I only started some weeks ago, grandfather," Jace told him, a charming grin on his face "We wanted to surprise you."

"Then you suceeded. I'm glad though. Daeron rode Tessarion for the first time recently too," he told them, his pride in the two boys showing. He carefully ignored the way Jacaerys' face tightened slightly at the mention of his uncle, nor did he observe Daeron's hands clenching into fists at the fact that Jace was allowed to ride over the Blackwater already, where he had been forbidden from doing by his mother "After Daemon, I'd say the pair of you are some of the youngest riders I've ever seen!"

Daemon still had the small, devious smirk that had always infuriated Viserys when they were younger, and it was on show for eveyone to see "You always did claim I was born on a dragons back, dear brother," he smirked, as he stepped forward and the brothers clasped each others forearm. The difference was incredible. Daemon's arm was muscled and toned, clad in steel gauntlets and leather riding gloves. Viserys arm was plump and soft, like the rest of him, covered by a bright red silk shirt.

Viserys turned his attention to the last guest. The boy was standing stifly, and not moving an inch though Viserys could tell the lad was desperately trying not to fidget. Many underestimated Viserys; understandably, given that he would likely lose to even the shoddiest of Knight's; but he knew how to observe people, when he wasn't willing himself to ignorance. The way Ryder's eyes were focussed on the ground indicated shyness, and that he had positioned himself firmly on Jace's right hand side screamed loyalty. The tension in his pose suggested that he was not used to the circumstances he now found himself in. It was odd, Viserys thought, that Ryder should act as though he had never met a royal, or even a superior before. He was Westerosi, of that there was no doubt, depsite the Valyrian blood he obviously had, and distinctly northern too. The Stark's had raised all seven hells when they heard of a Ryder in the south. Yet, any nobleborn man or woman in westeros had been taught the etiquette about greeting someone of a higher rank. So why hadn't Ryder?

"You must be Ryder?" Viserys addressed him, putting his questions aside for the time being.

"Yes, your grace," the boy muttered "Lucos Ryder, your grace."

"Then I am obliged to give my thanks, lad," Ryder looked up for the first time since first being addressed "Were it not for you, I would have lost a grandson a few years past. That is a debt I will forever try to repay."

"No thanks is needed, your grace," Ryder spoke hesitantly

"Nonsense, nonsense. I insist you join us for supper tonight!" Out of the corner of his eye, Viserys saw Alicent's head snap to him when he said that. The glare she focussed on him was withering, and had he been a lesser man he might have quailled. But he also saw the delight that filled Jace's eyes and knew he wouldn't be backing down. "Now then, let us head inside. I'm sure you recall where your rooms are? Good. I'll have a few maids set up chambers for Lord Ryder in the same wing, and send some servants to draw a bath for each of you so you can clean up after your journey. I'll see you all for supper."

With that the meeting broke up. Aegon and Aemond instantly began making their way towards the gate, claiming that they were going to visit the Dragonpit (Viserys absently ordered Ser Willis and Ser Lorent to go with them). Daeron insisted on training with the Cargyll brothers, while Helaena took her children back to their chambers. Alicent gracefully made her way back inside the keep, not saying a word. He knew she was angry at him for inviting Ryder to their family supper; in her eyes it was bad enough for Daemon and Rhaenyra's family to attend them; but her upbringing would not allow her to make a scene in front of everyone else. She would make her displeasure known in private. But by all accounts Jacaerys and Ryder had become as close as brothers, having spent every waking moment together for the past four years and if that were true then Jacaerys would not feel comfortable suddenly being separte from him. And Viserys could see already that it was true. The closeness between them could have only one other meaning, but the silver haired King had a suspicion that romance was not the case. He was rather certain of it actually. Such certainty came from the fact that while Ryder had indeed spent almost the entire greeting staring shyly at the ground, there had been brief moments were his eyes would flick to Daeron, interest and, dare he say it, fascination shining in his brown eyes.

Viserys sighed. He would much rather spend time with his family, but the realm would not run itself. Viserys may not be the best King, but he felt it his duty to at least attend as many council meetings that he could. There was one scheduled for later that day. As he made his way up the steps to the Keep, resigned to several boring hours to preceed the uncomfortable ones that were sure to take place at supper, Viserys overheard a snippet of conversation between Jace and Ryder as they followed Rhaenyra and Daemon into the royal wing of the keep.

"See?" Jace was saying "I told you he'd like you," the boy was bragging, his tone made it clear.

Ryder seemed unconvinced "The Queen didn't though. Or Aemond, Aegon and Helaena,"

"They don't like me, Luke or Joff either. They're Hightowers, and so is Daeron. I'm sure Oldtown must teach you how to be a cunt," Daemon, it seemed, had been teaching his grandchildren curses. Viserys would have to talk to him about that.

He didn't hear Ryder's reply, as they had been led in an entirely different direction than that than which Viserys himself had to follow to reach the council chambers.

Once more, Viserys sighed, as he again pictured the tense meal he would soon be having. He wondered what it would take to bring his family together.

As it turned out, Viserys was mostly right about supper. Hours after the four dragonriders had arrived, as the sun was setting in the west, the family had gathered for their meal. Alicent was coldly polite and courteous to Rhaenyra and Daemon; and completely ignored the children. Aegon had no such restraints and was outright rude. Viserys found himself wanting to step in and admonish the boy several times, but refrained. Daemon could always take the insults as a compliment and then fire his own jape back, usually at Aegon's expense. Viserys guiltily admitted that he got some amusement out of that. Aemond just glared at Jace.

However, despite this, the supper actually managed to beat Viserys' expectations. Helaena had begged absence, wanting to stay with her young children and watch over them, which removed one person who would try and antagonize Rhaenyra; though it was the most mellow of his heir's siblings. Daeron, was were the real change could be seen though. In the past, he had tried to seat himself as far away from his sisters and her family, specifically Jace, much as his older brothers were now doing. Today though, he had rather willingly taken the seat next to Lucos, despite it being only one seat in between his and Jace's. Though he claimed it was because he was leaving a seat next to Aegon open for Helaena, should she decided to attend, Viserys felt as though there was more to it than that.

"When can I expect the arrival of my other grandchildren?" Viserys had been asking Rhaenyra when the incredible had happened.

"They left by ship the same day we did. It should be less than a week, should the winds be in their favour," Rhaenyra anwered. Luke, Joff and Aegon were sailing into King's Landing with Daemon's daughters, Baela and Rhaena, and the Sea Snake himself, Corlys Velaryon. The old admiral had not been happy to lose his prized ship, and one of his closest friends along with it. His rage mellowed slightly when Jacaerys returned to Dragonstone alive and relatively unharmed. Even so, Viserys almost pitied any pirates the man had caught in his waters for a good few months after that. Viserys own cousin, Rhaenys; Corlys' wife; was flying with the boat, to enure the children had a way to escape if another incident should happen.

"You're being paranoid," Daemon had told his wife, as she explained the situation to her father "It is highly unlikely that anything of the sort would happen again,"

"I would rather be paranoid than lose a child! How would you feel if Aegon, or Baela or Rhaena died because there was no dragon there to save them?" Rhaenyra defended, admirably. At the mention of losing his daughters, Daemon's entire resistance against having Rhaenys guard the boat had crumbled.

While this discussion was happened, Daeron had been nervously pushing food around his plate taking glances at the two boys on his right out of the corner of his eyes. Finally, Viserys observed his youngest take a deep breath before doing what nobody had though he would ever do.

"Jacaerys," he addressed his nephew, his voice neutral if a bit strained "I'm curious. What did you name your dragon?"

Viserys felt like crying out in triumph. Alicent stared disapprovingly at their youngest, who easily ignored it. Both Aegon and Aemond were visibly angry that their brother was addressing Jacaerys so cordially. Rhaenyra seemed uncertain about what to make of it, while Daemon; damn him; sat there smirking smugly, as though he knew something they didn't.

Jace looked just as taken back as anyone. He narrowed his eyes at Daeron and stared at him suspiciously. Ryder turned a pleading gaze on his friend though, and Viserys saw whatever retort had been building on his tongue disappear. Instead, Jace answered cautiously but equally amicably "Vermax. The name is supposed to be a mix of Vermithor and Syrax,"

Conversation, no matter how stiff and tense, flowed from there.

Viserys was beyond pleased that his wishes had finally seen fruition, though he was incredibly confused as to why Daeron had now decided to attempt to be friendly with Jace. That was until the King saw Daeron smile, and stutter and blush slightly when talking to Ryder. Ah, the plump man thought. It seemed Daeron returned the infatuation he'd suspected Ryder held for his youngest. His first instinct was to crush this attraction quickly. But then...Daeron was his third son, his fifth child. He already had six grandchildren and a brother; with two daughters of his own. Daeron not having any children would not be that great a loss, and Lucos was not even a Targaryen. As long as their...relationship was never exposed, then Viserys supposed he could ignore it. Especially if it managed to forge the friendship between Daeron and Jace that he'd hoped to create for so long.

As Daeron gave the dark haired lad a shy smile, Viserys allowed himself to smile. He had a feeling that he had just met the way to unite his family.

Chapter 3: Daeron I

Chapter Text

128 AC

Daeron

It had been four years since Daeron had first met the enigmatic boy that was Lucos Ryder. Even now, after four whole years of what had quickly become close friendship, the young prince knew next to nothing about the other boy.

When Daeron had first seen him he had felt...interested. He didn't know how else to describe it. The second they met, Daeron had felt a need to get to know the other boy. But the boy was so close to Jacaerys. Daeron, only a few years before, had been unable to even tolerate the Velaryon boy. He'd seen him as arrogant and proud, and felt that he and his mother; Rhaenyra; were stealing his older brothers rightful crown. Not to mention the likelihood of the Velaryon boys being bastards. The fact that his father kept trying to force Daeron to spend time with Jacaerys through making them take lessons and training together had done nothing but make the two despise each other even more. He'd never regretted his attitude more than when he saw the brotherly adoration Lucos and Jace held for each other. So on that one day he'd chosen to be polite with his nephew, hoping that Jace would accept the offer of a truce, hoping that he would be able to spend time with the boy that had captivated his thoughts for that whole day.

He still wasn't entirely sure why he had tried so hard, why he desired to become friends with Lucos so much. The silver haired boy supposed it had something to do with the fact that Lucos had ridden a dragon at age six, something Daeron had thought impossible. Not even his brother Aemond or uncle Daemon had been riding at that age, and they were some of the most naturally talented riders Daeron had ever seen. Hearing the tale of his rescue first hand from Jacaerys had left Daeron a little amazed and a bit in awe of the shorter boy, something he sometimes felt a bit stupid about given that Daeron was the same age as Lucos. It seemed odd that he would admire someone his own age so much.

It wasn't as though his ability to ride Snowfyre was the only reason to look up to the stocky northern boy, though. Daeron felt as much when he failed to dodge Lucos' sword, resulting in a stinging blow landing on his ribs. Said blow knocked the wind out of him and was followed up by a similar sensation as Lucos blocked his clumsy counter attack and brought the blunted blade down of Daeron's wrist, sending the Prince's sword to the ground. Lucos finished the round when he hooked his foot behind Daeron's own and then sent a quick jab to Daeron's chest, which sent him sprawling to the hard floor where he lay, dazed.

"Enough," the kind voice of Ser Willis Fell rang out around the yard, some amusement in his tone.

Lucos' talent, they had quickly discovered, was not exclusive to dragon riding. He had a natural talent for swordplay that had greatly impressed many in the Red Keep, including the seven White Knights of the Kingsguard. According to uncle Daemon, Lucos had been skilled for his age when he first came to live at Dragonstone. That ability had only increased under the tutelage of the legendary Rogue Prince, an extremely skilled swordsman himself. When the King had first heard this, he'd barely hesitated before commanding that Lucos would take lessons from the Kingsguard alongside Jacaerys, Daeron and Lucerys, much to the disapproval of Daeron's mother. Where once this would have caused him to groan; and still did, for entirely different reasons; Daeron had been elated. Swordsmanship was something he himself was good at and would give them something to bond over. He quickly corrected his thinking.

Lucos was distinctly northern in nature. While he had the slightest trace of Essosi in his accent; which, to Daeron's disappointment, faded slightly with each passing year; and was a little darker in skin than his ancestors would have been, he still had the blood of the North in him, and was inherently broad and stocky. While Daeron was just over half a head taller than the dark haired boy, Lucos was nearly twice as broad as his lithe and wiry royal companion. Jace's height and build lay somewhere between them, as did Luke and Joff. Due to this, Lucos was a fair bit stronger than Daeron and though the Prince initially believed he would hold a speed advantage over Lucos, this was proven to not be the case. Lucos was scarily quick and incredibly sure footed, and much to Daeron's frustration seemed to have inherited the northern durability. He could take one hell of a hit and shrug it off like it was nothing. It reminded Daeron of Gregor Umber, who he'd seen fight in a tourney at Duskendale once. The hulking giant of a man had been run through with a massive greatsword by Alan Tarly's son and had kept fighting, going on to win the competition. Though he had died afterwards, Daeron's nine year old self had been amazed; and a little disgusted; that the man had defeated all of his opponents despite having his stomach torn open and his entrails hanging out.

As Daeron's vision finally stopped spinning, he became aware of clapping and cheering from the side. He pushed himself up and saw his eldest nephews rushing over to congratulate their friend on his eleventh consecutive victory over Daeron. He'd gotten closer to the pair; and Joffrey; ever since he'd started spending time with Lucos. It was inevitable really. What had surprised him was that they were nothing like he'd always thought. Jace was nowhere near as arrogant as he'd previously imagined, and had a sharp mind and keen intellect. The future King was incredibly charismatic and charming and in spite of the underlying tension that would likely always be there, Daeron had been unable to keep up his dislike of the boy. Aegon and Aemond had been outraged of course, especially when he had defended Luke against some of Aemond's slandering a few years ago. Daeron was just thankful that his sister had accepted his decision and had stopped her outward antagonism towards Rhaenyra.

As Jace and Luke gushed and praised and admired what sounded like every move Lucos had made, a small hand appeared in Daeron's vision. Following it, he found a grinning Joffrey Velaryon at the end of it. Grasping his nephew's hand he allowed the boy to pull him up, pushing off the ground with some strength so as to help the boy, who wouldn't have been able to pull Daeron up without any assistance.

"You were really good too, uncle," Joff said, smiling slightly. The youngest son of Laenor Velaryon was the shy and quiet one of the trio, which often led to people underestimating him. In truth he was just as brave, if not more so, than his older brothers.

"He was," Fell; their tutor for the day; acknowledged as he drew close. Luke and Jace quietened and their brown gazes narrowed in concentration, both eager to learn as much as they could. None of them had defeated Lucos in more than a year and all wanted to do so "But towards the end you got impatient and tried to take him head on. As I've told my Prince many times, you should never fight a stronger opponent head on. Use your speed and manoeuvrability to your advantage,"

"But my attacks weren't doing anything! I can't put enough power in my attack's if I have to focus on moving all the time," Daeron protested.

"Which brings me to my second point," Ser Willis told them, turning to Lucos "You abandoned your defence early on and focussed only on offense and because of that you took more hits than you should have. I know you northerners think you're invulnerable, but one day that attitude will get you killed. You can't protect someone else, if you can't protect yourself,"

Daeron knew what the knight meant by those final words, and by the way Lucos' eyes were now looking at the ground. The Prince's training was incredibly demanding as it was, but Lucos was always pushed so much further than they were. Many had found it strange, but it was being done by both Lucos' request and the King's orders. Daeron and Jace had been among those who'd figured it out first. Lucos was being groomed to become a member of the Kingsguard and eventually Lord Commander. It made sense. Lucos was skilled and was devotedly loyal to Jace already. He would make a great addition to the order. Daeron wasn't comfortable with it though. The times he and Jace had been forced to carry an exhausted Lucos back to his chambers, or sit with him as the excessive training made him throw up, was part of it. The other part was that Daeron felt like he was being punched in the gut every time it was mentioned, however subtly.

Willis smiled "But you're improving. All of you are. Keep at it, and you'll all be remembered as famous warrior's some day," Daeron smiled. Ser Willis was one of his favourite teachers. He was always kind to them and went easier on Lucos than the other knights did, especially Rickard Thorne. Daeron couldn't find words for how much he hated that man. It was, more often than not, Thorne's training that left Lucos in a sobbing or sick mess. Cruel and foul mouthed, the rumours around him did not paint the elderly knight in a good way. He had been one of the main suspects for Rolland Fell's poisoning twenty six years before when the Stormlord had served as King Jahaerys Master of Whisper's "Now, go put your arms and armour away and then back to keep. You've got lessons with Maester Orwyle soon,"

A few moments later saw Daeron and Lucos placing their tourney blades back onto the sword rack, and peeling their padded armour off. Jace and Luke, having done all this already, had bid them a quick farewell, before rushing back inside. None of them wanted to be late for the old Maester's lessons. He'd tell their mother's if they were and escaping a single lesson was not worth the scolding they'd get for it later. Instead of despairing that he now had to spend a few hours inside a stuffy room, studying heraldry or maps or old language's, Daeron was still grinning at the massive groan of disappointment that Lucos had given when Ser Willis had reminded them of their lessons. While the boy was already an excellent fighter with almost any weapon available; the Master at Arms had banned him from the archery range after the first few attempts with the longbow; and a talented rider on horse or dragon, academic's were not Lucos' element. While he already knew several language's, he struggled to keep all of the different house's and their sigils' and words straight in his head. History confused him; though Daeron loved learning about past wars and battles; and Daemon had quickly given up on teaching the boy strategy.

Daeron laughed as he recalled the day he, Lucos and Jace had been summoned to observe the King as he held court. Lucos' nose had been scrunched up in confusion as he tried to understand the political moves and subtleties of court. It had been amusing and Daeron had found the completely lost expression the shorter boy had been adorning when he looked at Jace and Daeron for guidance to have been cute.

"What are you laughing about?" Lucos asked as he packed his armour away.

"Just remembering how cute your confused face is," Daeron teased, not really thinking about what he was saying, and then laughed again at Lucos' grimace.

"Cute? I'm not cute! If anything I'm rugged and handsome," Lucos exclaimed in outrage. Daeron mentally agreed, before he paused for a moment as he realised he had just called his friend cute, and thought of him as handsome. Talking about another boy like that could get you killed if anyone else heard. A quick glance around showed they were alone though. After a moments thought, Daeron shrugged to himself. It was Lucos, he wouldn't tell anyone and Daeron could always play it off as a jape.

"Definitely cute," he grinned and Lucos growled and leapt at him, with a laughing Daeron barely ducking out of the way.

"I don't know when you're talking about anyway," Lucos huffed "Nothing can confuse me!"

"Politics can. You were so lost. Father must have thought it was a waste of time making you ever watch again," he laughed. It was a forced laugh though. He had seen the flash of pain in Lucos' eyes when the word 'father' was mentioned, just the same as always. Just the same as when the word 'mother' was mentioned. Eight years since Lucos had come to Westeros. Four years since Daeron had met him. Still they knew nothing about him, and they had long since learned to stop asking about his past. It just caused him to close himself off from everyone else.

Daeron gave him a comforting smile and began to leave the armoury.

"We were in Myr before I came here," Lucos said, his voice dull and Daeron stopped in his tracks

Daeron spun around and saw the pain in the boy's eyes was no longer a flash but a flood of grief "Lucos, you don't have to tell me..."

"I want to," Lucos stubbornly insisted "I have to...I need to tell someone," Their eyes met for a moment, and Daeron slowly nodded.

"My ancestor's, they'd left Westeros rather than be ruled by Aegon," Lucos began "They've been part of the Company of the Rose ever since,"

This, Daeron knew. He'd researched House Ryder after meeting Lucos. They had been King's once, ruling the region now known as the Rills before being defeated and subjugated by the Stark's many centuries ago. It had been hard to find information of what had happened since then. Daeron initially thought that the family must have risen in rebellion at some point and those left alive after defeat must have fled east. But then he'd come across records of a Sellsword company made up of men and women from the North who'd refused to kneel to King Aegon the Conqueror. The last of the Ryder's, he'd discovered after sending a raven to Lord Stark, had been among them.

"My grandfather was fighting in the disputed lands when he met grandmother. She was a Valyrian, that's why I can ride Snowfyre. My father was their youngest son and didn't want to be part of the Company. He grew up in Volantis instead and trained as a Smith. When grandmother died, Snowfyre went into a rage. He burned down half the city. My father managed to bond with him and calm him down, but he was forced to leave when he wouldn't kill him. He settled in Myr and his life was good for a time. He met my mother, fathered several children and became famous for the weapons and armour he made,"

"What happened?" Daeron asked. Lucos was sat of the floor now, his arms wrapped around his legs, which had been pulled close to his chest. Daeron lowered himself to the ground and upon seeing the unshed tears in his friends eyes, placed a comforting arm around Lucos' shoulder's. He was surprised when Lucos, who Daeron always admired for his strength, leaned into the touch. He couldn't really believe that of all people, it was him that Lucos was opening up to. Not Jace or Luke who he was much closer with. Not Daemon or Rhaenyra or anyone else that had raised him since he was six years old. It was him.

"The War for the Stepstones happened," Lucos said tonelessly. They were late for their lessons now, Daeron knew. But he'd take his punishment with pride. This was more important "Suddenly the Myrish weren't happy with a dragon rider living in their city. But at that time, my grandfather was leader of the Company, and they had a close alliance with Braavos. Father was protected.

"But then, months before I saved Jace's life, my grandfather died fighting a war against Astapor. Without him, the alliance fell apart within a few months. Suddenly....we weren't safe," Lucos took a deep breath and some tears escaped. He curled up further, and buried his face into Daeron's chest "We tried to leave before anything happened but our guards turned on us. The Myrish soldiers came for us; only I escaped,"

Lucos was fully crying now, and Daeron sucked in a sharp breath. He knew his friend must have seen it happen, there was no way he couldn't have if he escaped on his father's dragon. "Lucos..."

"My parents were killed, but not before they raped my mother. My three brothers...my twin sister..."

Daeron swallowed "I'm so sorry," he whispered, hugging Lucos closer.

They stayed like that for some time. Daeron didn't know how long, nor did he care. After a while, Lucos managed to calm himself down. "I'm sorry," he said "I shouldn't have..."

"It's okay," their faces were only inches apart and their eyes met.

"You said I was cute?"

"I meant handsome," he pressed his lips to Lucos'.

Chapter 4: Viserys II

Chapter Text

129 AC

Viserys

The King of Westeros sighed and rubbed his eyes in exhaustion as he sat through another small council meeting. In recent months he had begun tiring even quicker than he had before and it took considerable effort on Viserys part to do so much as climb the steps to the Iron Throne. He was dying. Viserys knew it wouldn't be long until he met the Stranger.

His reign had been a good one. Twenty six years of peace and prosperity, the only conflict that had been seen was Daemon's war for the Stepstones and the subsequent fighting against Dorne and the Triarchy of Lys, Myr and Tyrosh. The only house's who actually took part in that war though were the house's of the Narrow Sea like his Velaryon cousins, the Celtigar's and the Bar Emmon's. The Vale had, of course, had it's never ending problems with the Mountain Clans, the Starks had been hit by small Wildling parties once or twice and the Marcher Lords had always had to repel Dornish raiders ever so often. But overall, his realm had enjoyed two and a half decades of peace under his rule, to add to the fifty five his grandfather gave them. Such peace had not gone to waste. The small debt owed to the Iron Bank from the Faith Militant Wars had been paid off years ago, and the Crown's treasury was overflowing with gold in spite of the lavish feasts and tournaments he liked to throw when they could spare the expense. By all acounts it was a similar story everywhere.

He only wished his own family had been as prosperous as the realm. Oh it was wide spread to be sure. His line was secure for centuries to come, what with three sons and five daughters, along with eight grandchildren and two niece's. But the family was divided still, despite his best efforts. Lucos Ryder had been a miracle sent by the gods, but his presence had only shifted the loyalties of Viserys' youngest son. Aegon and Aemond still hated Rhaenyra and her children and now that hate extended to Daeron too. Blood, it seemed, wasn't that important to them; they thought only of their own ambitions. Truly, their actions only served to convince Viserys further that Rhaenyra would be the better ruler. While she may not be the most gentle or kind hearted person in the world, she at least knew how to rule. Aegon had no such talent and while Aemond could be great at ruling during wartime, he would be crushed by politics in peacetime, not helped by his cruel streak. It would be Maegor all over again.

The plump king coughed into a handkerchief, grimacing a bit at the blood that dotted the pale white cloth. He quickly tucked it away, out of sight of his Councillor's. He was dying and he feared what would become of his family after his death. Shaking away such thought's, Viserys quickly focused on the report being given by his Master of Laws. Jasper Wylde was not his first choice for the position he had to say. The sour looking man was dreadfully dull, with a low monotone voice that was awfully good at sending people to sleep. He was enthusiastic in his work, Viserys knew, even if he didn't sound it. Too enthusiastic, given that the man oft got caught up in his reports and forgot to bathe properly leaving his dark hair lank and his body to be covered in sickeningly rich perfumes to hide his odor. Still, he was the man most capable for the job out of all those Viserys had seen. Pausing, the King amended that thought. The best after Daemon, but Viserys knew his younger brother was too wild and free to be happy as Master of Laws and he refused to put him back on the council anyway, after the events that led to his exile.

It was at times like these that Viserys wished Lyonel Strong were still alive. The late Lord of Harrenhal had been Viserys' third Master of Laws, replacing Daemon upon the prince's exile. He had been quick witted and always had a jape ready on his tongue; ones he'd never failed to amuse Viserys with; but he could turn stone faced and cold in the blink of an eye when needed and was always ruthlessly efficient at his job. It was those traits that saw him elevated to Hand of the King after Otto Hightower had been fired in 109 AC. Lyonel had unfortunately died in a fire at his keep while managing his affairs there, along with his oldest son, Harwin. He wondered who had started that fire, and if he might be able to repay them in kind before his own death. Viserys knew that many suspected him, but he knew that he had done no such thing nor ordered it done. Rumored grandfather to Rhaenyra's children or not, Viserys had enjoyed having Lyonel as his Hand and would never have wasted such talent needlessly.

Personally, Viserys had his suspicions about Larys Strong being behind the fire, perhaps on the orders of Daemon or even Rhaenyra herself. Lyonel's second son was regrettably clubfooted, and as such hadn't many prospects for him. The only viable option had been to become a maester. That had changed though when he became Lord of Harrenhal, one of if not the most powerful seat in the Riverlands, and later Master of Whispers. Looking at the dark haired young man, Viserys felt a chill go down his spine. Strong was one of the people Viserys feared the most. The brown eyed spymaster was cold and cunning. He seemed to be able to tell you anything about anything, and when his unnatural eyes met yours, it felt as though he knew all of your secrets. Yes, Viserys concluded, that man would be more than willing to kill his father and brother.

Wylde was still prattling on about the disturbance's the city watch had dealt with in the city since the last meeting "...and last night Ser Gwayne Hightower and his men had to break up a fight on the street of silk between some of Lord Rosby's men and Lord Darklyn's,"

Viserys suppressed a groan. Two of the most powerful lords directly sworn to him had both come to court in the previous week to settle a dispute. Apparently there was a small holdfast just on the edge of Rosby land who's last Lord had died without issue. Rosby claimed that since the holdfast was in his land, it should fall to him to grant it to whoever he pleased however Darklyn had sent a garrison of men to secure the keep, claiming that the last lord's grandmother was a Darklyn, giving him the best blood claim on the land. In all honesty, the keep was a simple wooden hall atop a hill with a palisade wall around it and a small village. This wasn't really a matter of value, but one of pride. Each Lord had arrived in the past few days with several dozen men each to petition to the King.

And now those men are fighting each other.

"Blades were drawn and one Darklyn was killed and another injured along with two Rosby's. One member of the City Watch was injured subduing the fighters," Wylde intoned, glancing at them all "With winter's arrival many peasants have entered the city for refuge. The City Watch cannot deal with the amount of people currently in the city; they need more men,"

"More men requires more rations, more armour, more weapons and more pay," Viserys reminded him, his voice sounding weak even to his own ears "How many more men does Commander Largent request?" He knew Luthor Largent, the man had been a close companion of Rhaenyra during their childhood. He was only a few years older than Viserys' daughter.

Wylde blinked "Not Commander Largent, your grace, he insists that his men can handle the unrest. Ser Gwayne and the Queen made the request for a thousand more men to compliment the current fifteen hundred, your grace,"

Viserys scowled. Gwayne Hightower was a skilled fighter there was no doubt but the man had no notion of strategy, economics or politics. He seemed to believe he could overwhelm the criminals with numbers and damn the expense's. He was only Largent's second in command because of Alicent's influence. As for Alicent...Viserys had loved her once. Perhaps not as much as he had doted upon his first wife, his beautiful Aemma, but he had loved her. He had ignored how she treated his heir and grandchildren. She was angry that her son was not to be king, he understood. Her treatment of Daeron though, after he became involved with Ryder; not that she knew that, he didn't think; and started to defend his nephews from Aegon and Aemond and the rumors surrounding Harwin Strong and Laenor Velaryon, was inexcusable. She had sent the boy to Oldtown, to squire for her cousin Lord Ormund. She claimed it to be a reward for winning some squires tourney some ten months ago, but the whole court knew it to be a punishment.

Turning to the oldest man there, Viserys asked "Would our treasury be able to support such an expense, Lord Lyman?"

Lyman Beesbury was the oldest man in the room by a good two decades at least. A man of ninety years old, he was completely bald now save for a few thin, willowy strips of white hair that adorned his temple's. He was forced to walk hunched over a cane, and his voice little more than a croak. Beesbury was not only the oldest man in the room but had used it more than any other currently alive, perhaps even ever. He had become Master of Coin for King Jahaerys in 60 AC after the death of 'old' Tyran Reyne. Reyne had been in his sixty-fifth year when he died. Lyman had been a young man of two and twenty namedays and had served until Jahaerys' death and then stayed on the council long enough to see Viserys comfortable in his throne, before quietly requesting permission to return home. After forty four years of devotedly loyal and able service, Viserys had no right to refuse. The old man deserved to die in his own home, in his own bed surrounded by his family. Yet after fifteen years and three failures of replacements, Viserys had been forced to beg for the man to return. Lord Lyman had done so without question, and had since completed a fifth decade of serving in his position.

"It can, your grace," Lord Lyman croaked, giving the answer Viserys already knew "Taxes have all been met, trade has been better than we predicted; Braavos and Pentos was quite eager to acquire arms and armour, of which our own Blacksmith's make in finer quality than the Free Cities, as well as a large export of grain and other foods; and as long as now feast's are held until winter has passed, we should suffer no shortage of food, exempting us from having to buy import more. Even with the cost of a thousand more City Watch, we should be making profit,"

Viserys nodded, and stroked his chin thoughtfully "Tell Ser Luthor he is to recruit five hundred more men to help him keep the peace,"

Wylde flinched slightly, no doubt imagining Alicent's anger when she learned that she had been denied half the men she requested "I will send a page at once, sire. Hayford!" he barked, the first change from his monotone he had displayed since entering the room, and the twelve year old Jaime Hayford, serving as a page and cup bearer for the council, rushed over. Wylde hastily scribbled down the King's instructions on a sheet of parchment before sealing it using the King's seal, before passing it to the boy "Take this to Lord Commander Luthor Largent at the City Watch barracks,"

The boy nodded and with a mumbled 'Yes my Lord' he was gone.

"What a pity; it seems we are now missing a cup bearer," the arrogant and eloquent voice of Tyland Lannister drifted across the table, as the blonde leaned back on his chair and sipped his Arbor Gold. The man was dressed in rich red and gold colored clothes, complete with knee high black leather boots trimmed with gold fabric. His long hair was well below shoulder length and the golden locks glimmered in the light shining in through the window behind him, while his cheeks were perfectly clean shaven.

Looking at the man, one wouldn't assume he would be capable for the role of Master of Ships. He simply didn't look the part. But then appearance's could be deceiving, as Viserys well knew. While Tyland had never led a fleet in battle, he had made several adjustments to the trade ships at Lannisport that enabled extra space for storage and the brother of Lord Lannister had even designed his own complex system to make such storage more efficient. These adjustments allowed them to export a larger quantity of goods and supplies from Lannisport, and when he heard about it Viserys had made note. As such, when Garth Hightower died nine years previously, it was Tyland Lannister that Viserys had given the seat too, amid protests from his other advisers. He'd ignored them and was glad he had; Tyland had almost doubled the amount of ships they could have in dock at any time and made similar improvements on the King's Landing fleet as he had on the Lannisport ships, both of which benefited them in terms of trade.

That didn't mean that Tyland's attitude didn't infuriate Viserys at times.

"I'm sure you can manage to pour your own wine, Lord Tyland, you are, after all, a grown man and the pitcher is within your reach. Unless it is not cup bearing you want the boy for?" Grand Maester Orwyle was remarkably good at putting men like Tyland Lannister back in their places. His words were usually quite vicious and biting. In his robes and chains, with spotted hands and the balding head, he did not look intimidating. He could verbally spar with the best, though and oft won the debates he entered.

Lannister went red at the insinuation. His teeth ground together and his hand tightened around his cup. A silence fell over them as they sat in the aftermath of Lannister's humiliation.

Viserys coughed again and once more hid the evidence of his illness in his by this point stained handkerchief. He looked around, Wylde had been the last to have any issue's to raise. Plans had been made and any important information had been delivered and he had either already responded or would do so later, depending on urgency. With that in mind, the King rose from his seat at the head of the table, trying to speak as clearly as he could "My Lords, you have your task's. If we have no other business for the day, my Lords, I'm afraid must beg my leave,"

As though his word were some sort of prompt, all of the table's occupants began to rise.

Viserys could feel the eyes of his Hand on him as the men stood and gathered their reports and papers. He had known the man on his right had been watching him for the whole meeting, most specifically when he coughed.

Otto Hightower was Viserys good-father, the father of Alicent and the uncle of Lord Ormund. He was one of the older men in the room too, with his steel grey hair and thin frame. While he may not be someone Viserys would like as a person; there was a reason he'd been fired from his post once before; he was good at his job. He was greedy, manipulative and ambitious, there was no doubting that and while that made him someone Viserys felt uncomfortable being around, it also made him an ideal candidate for being the Hand of the King.

The other ideal trait was that he knew when to keep his mouth shut. Hightower mentioned nothing about the blood he'd been coughing up.

Leaving the council room, Viserys made his way back across to his personal chambers, flanked on either side by one of his white knights. It was Ser Criston and Ser Arryk today. Both capable and loyal knights; he knew they could not save him from death now, though. Upon reaching his chambers, he nearly growled in frustration when he caught sight of who was waiting for him. There stood his wife, beautiful as ever, with her two oldest sons standing around her. Ever since Aegon's birth, he had been pressured to name the boy his heir, and everytime they asked he always refused. He would do the same today, of course, but he would be grateful for the opportunity to just go to sleep. He felt so tired and heavy.

It was always a risk going to sleep, now, Viserys knew. He might simply not wake up. Those thought's led him to wish his daughter were here, his brother and youngest son too along with the rest of his family. But Rhaenyra and her family were on Dragonstone, waiting for Rhaenyra to give birth to a sixth child that Viserys knew Rhaenyra hoped was a girl. Her husband, children and cousins were with her. Daeron was stuck in Oldtown. Viserys could order them to come to him, he knew, but to do so without reason would arouse suspicion. Somehow, though, he could not bring himself to reveal his health problems to his family. Perhaps he still hadn't accepted it after all; he still wanted to meet his newest grandchild, see his descendants grow up, be there when his children finally make peace as he still believed they would.

Sighing dejectedly, Viserys prepared himself to reject their demands no matter reason they threw at him. It was always the same anyway; Rhaenyra is a woman, Rhaenyra is Maegor with teats, the Velaryon boys are bastards (he tended to grow wroth then and order them out). It wouldn't sway him this time.

Rhaenyra was his heir. She and then Jace after her would sit the Iron Throne. No matter what Alicent tried to do to stop her.

Chapter 5: Criston I

Chapter Text

129 AC

Criston

So it finally happened, mused Ser Criston Cole, the sable haired Lord Commander of King Viserys' Kingsguard.

King Viserys health had been declining for months now. That is to say, declining more quickly than it had been previously. The King had been in failing health for many years but one would have to be a lackwitted fool not to have noticed how fast his condition worsened in recent months. His death had not been unexpected to those who were in close proximity to him on a regular basis, such as the Small Council, the Kingsguard and his family. They had all been waiting with baited breath for the moment when Viserys of House Targaryen, first of his name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm would breathe his last.

That moment had finally come.

After an exceedingly tiresome meeting of the Small Council the day before, the King had been forced to once more listen to Alicent's complaints and protest's that Viserys should name Aegon his heir, and as usual the hot tempered Aegon and Aemond had been there to support her. It was a common occurrence, but no less annoying for that. He knew he should be thankful, though, that the King had ordered Ser Steffon to keep the trio away from the Small Council chambers. Had they attended the meeting and brought the issue up there, the argument would have been even longer due to the fact that most of the council members would have supported her. In truth Criston agreed with his King that Rhaenyra would make the better ruler, loathe though he was to admit it. The lad was a fool; he sat his dragon well enough, though nowhere near as naturally as Aemond, Daemon or Ryder did, but his swordwork was average at best and sloppy at worst despite Criston's best efforts. But whenever he was drawn into the debates, as he had been the day before, he spoke in support of Aegon and Alicent. Not only was it part of his people's customs that a male heir inherited before a female, and that it would be an insult to a great dynasty to allow some Strong bastard to sit the throne, but Rhaenyra had spurned him years before. He'd offered her everything; his body, his honour, his love; and she'd thrown it back in his face to marry the sword-swallowing sea horse. Any love he had for her died that day.

Following the exhausting argument, the King had withdrawn to his bedchambers, immediately collapsing onto his bed as fatigue caught up with him. Alicent had been sent away, and was staying in one of the spare, luxurious chambers next to her father's in the Tower of the Hand for the night. As he'd had the job of guarding the King during the day, Criston had known he would soon be relieved by one of his sworn brothers who would guard the King's door all night. As it was, Criston barely had to wait before Ser Rickard had arrived and silent took Criston's place, his face as unmoving as a stone. With that done, Criston had made his rounds of the Red Keep, checking up on the various Hightower and Targaryen men-at-arms that guarded the keep, before making his way back to his room in the White Sword tower, where he had quickly unfastened his armour and undressed. Though Criston was perfectly healthy and the peak of physical fitness, the day had been draining even for him and it was rather late already. He'd gratefully climbed into his bed in the much larger Lord Commander's quarters and tried to the pounding headache he had.

He felt like he'd barely been asleep for seconds when he was awoken to a frantic pounding on the door. Groaning as his stiff back cracked as he stood, the renowned knight made his way over to the door, glancing out the window as he did so. It was light, but barely so. The sky was a dull grey colour and some stars could still be seen here and there, the sun casting an orange glow over the city as it began it's ascent over the horizon. Very early morning then, meaning Criston had likely only gotten a few hours sleep. Growling to himself mentally, Criston pulled a robe on and yanked open his door with rather a bit more force than necessary, glaring at the Hayford boy who had woken him at such an ungodly hour.

"Yes?" he asked gruffly, not caring for the skittish lad's flinch.

"Ser, the Queen summons you to the royal chamber," he spoke hastily "It's the King..."

At the boy's words, something sparked in the Lord Commander's mind. He had been summoned him to the royal chamber for an issue about the King...but the King himself, who's authority surpassed all, had not been the one to summon him. The Queen had.

As quick as he could, Criston dressed, not caring for his armour or any of his nicer clothes. Within moments Criston was running after the boy, clad only is his breeches and a loose, plain white shirt, running as fast he could while still trying to fasten his sword belt around his waist. He was sure they made quite a sight for the courtiers and servants they passed.

It didn't take long to reach the King's chambers. Ser Rickard was still standing outside. The old man's body was unmoving, his sword hand gently resting on the pommel of his blade, the other lightly gripping the top of the sheath, ready to draw it in an instant. Despite being in his sixty-eighth year; an age that showed in the complete lack of colour in his hair and the prominent wrinkles that lay on his face; Criston knew that the older man was one of the most capable members of the Kingsguard, and that his broad frame still held surprising strength. Even after spending the whole night standing outside the King's door, Thorne showed no tiredness in his features. He merely nodded respectfully to his commander, shifted slightly to the side and tilted his head to allow Criston and the boy inside. He was the oldest knight currently serving on the Kingsguard and, if Criston remembered the White Book correctly, he'd been, at the time of his appointment, the oldest to ever gain the White Cloak. Seven and Thirty at the time, Thorne had spent his childhood squiring for some Knight from the Riverlands before returning home to his family's keep as a knight when he reached his seventeenth nameday to serve his elder brother. Half a decade passed and Thorne left for the east, where he became a sellsword. Only two years before returning to Westeros, Rickard fought in the disputed lands alongside the Lyseni forces and was there to see the formation of the Triarchy. Upon his return in 98 AC, he competed in and won the melee and joust of a tourney at Bronzegate and repeated it at the Twins only half a year later. When Ser Osmund Massey died later that year, King Jahaerys first choice to replace him had been Ser Rickard, to his council's disgust.

Criston could understand their resistance the Old King met in that decision. While Criston held no small amount of respect for the man, he despised being around him. He had a good control over his temper, but once it was set off it was hard to contain it and while he held his own sort of honour, the man cruel, harsh and ruthless. If it wasn't for his exceptional skill, he wouldn't deserve his cloak.

Entering the room, Criston found the Queen sitting on the edge of her husband's bed, holding his limp and pale looking hand in her own. Criston couldn't help but think she still looked beautiful even as she sat there in a rather plain, dark green gown. There were some tear tracks on her face and her eyes were puffy and red rimmed, but she held her composure as she looked from the King to the Lord Commander. Her brother stood beside her, gently rubbing her back in comfort. Like the Lord Commander and the Queen, Gwayne Hightower had clearly came in a hurry. His boots were not done properly, the breeches were clearly not his best and a brown leather coat was all he wore above the waist. Maester Orwyle had clearly been up late and up early, much like Criston. From his position near the door he could see that the Grand Maester had a tired droop to his shoulders and dark circles under his eyes.

The King himself lay on the large bed, his skin looked far too pale and wax like. There was no rise and fall of his chest and Criston could easily see that he wasn't breathing. Criston sighed and closed the door behind him, before moving further into the room. Orwyle, who had been kneeling next to the bed and examining the King's body, unsteadily pushed himself to his feet, wincing as his bones audibly creaked.

"It was natural," Orwyle told them "Of that I am fairly sure. There are no physical injuries and no trace of any poison that I know of. I will need a closer analysis to make sure, but it seems as though he simply died in his sleep," the man sighed and began to make his way to the door "I will need to send a raven to Dragonstone. As the heir, Princess Rhaenyra will need to be informed of her father passing,"

He started toward the door, only to stop in his tracks as a firm voice called out "No,"

He stared, confused and a little shocked, at the Queen "No? What do you mean, your grace?"

"I mean exactly what I said. No. Do not send a raven to Rhaenyra," Alicent spoke calmly, but there was a shakiness in her voice that she couldn't hide "By all the laws of Gods and Men, a son inherits before a daughter. Aegon is the rightful King and it is Aegon we shall crown,"

"His grace named Princess Rhaenyra as his chosen heir. The Lords of the realm swore to serve her," the old Maester argued, though there was a glint in his eyes. Criston struggled to identify it. He was a soldier, not a politician. He thought it might be pride, or perhaps relief or some odd mixture. It hit the knight that Orwyle, despite his words, agreed with Alicent. He was encouraging her.

"The Lords of the realm abide by the same laws we do; they will accept this. If not...if it comes to war, then it is one Rhaenyra and her bastards shall rue!" there was a fire in her eyes now, her words passionate and as she spoke she grew more and more confident "Jason and Tyland Lannister have always been friends of mine, and Grover Tully has always been very outspoken in his distaste for Rhaenyra. The Reach will stand by us as well, while the North and Iron Islands will do as they always have: nothing. The Lords of the Crownlands would not dare stand against us, not when we have Sunfyre, Dreamfyre and Vhagar all here in the city. What will Rhaenyra have? A few islands in the middle of the bay and the Vale; a region whose army is blocked in it's own land by the ice filled valley's that keep them so safe,"

"They have more dragons," Gwayne pointed out

"Only three that could challenge any of our own, and from what I hear Rhaenyra will not be riding any time soon," Alicent declared "The Strong bastards and their dragons would stand no chance against Vhagar,"

It was true, Criston realized. Aemond's dragon was the largest dragon alive, while Rhaenyra's brood flew small things that would be barely an annoyance to the huge beast.

Criston found himself nodding "With the Redwyne and Lannister fleet combined with whatever we have here at King's Landing we might be able to defeat the Velaryon fleet. That's where her strength will be. On land she won't have a chance," he told them.

Alicent clasped her hands in front of her, and her eyes showed that she was deep in thought "Can Ser Rickard be trusted with this?" she asked eventually

Criston thought for a few moments. The Thorne's had been one of the last house's to surrender to Aegon and the hardest to put down. They weren't known for their loyalty to the crown; Lord Thorne was an avid supporter of the Faith Militant during their wars against Maegor; and given a choice between two branches of the family, they would side with the faction that aligned most with their views. Given that Ser Rickard was an Andal and had some respect for the Seven, Criston thought he knew which side Thorne would fall on.

"I believe he can," Criston said aloud "If he can't...then I'm ready," he placed his hand on his sword. He would have preferred his morningstar, but the sword would do.

Alicent nodded sharply "Good. Ser Rickard! Enter!"

The door opened and the stone faced man entered the room, footsteps being much quieter than they had any right to be in his plated boots.

"Yes, my Queen?" he inquired impassively.

"I need you to go and find my sons, bring them to the Small Council chambers," Alicent told him and looked almost surprised when he simply nodded and left to do as he was bid "Maester, gather the Small Council. Gwayne, gather the Hightower men and secure the city. We cannot have news of this escape, not any of it; Viserys death or what we plan to do,"

When both men had left to complete their tasks, Criston was left alone with the grieving Queen. After a few moments of unbearable silence, Criston's resolve broke.

"And my instructions, your grace?" he asked

"Return to your quarters and don your armour. I will need your support on the council. I will meet you there. I simply...need a moment,"

He watched as she composed herself, gently dabbing at her eyes with a small handkerchief before placing a soft kiss to her husband's forehead. Shortly after, Criston found himself back in the White Sword Tower dressing properly this time. He pulled on his chain mail shirt, his doublet and his boiled leather jerkin, before fitting his gleaming white Kingsguard armour over the top and clasping the White Cloak on. Once more time passed in a blur; he wondered whether they were truly doing this. He knew that despite Alicent's confidence Rhaenyra would not bend. She would not allow such an insult to pass. There would be war, but as the Queen had rightly pointed out Aegon would undoubtedly have more support. He was the male heir after all, and Rhaenyra a female with bastard children for heirs. Her mother's family might fight for her and the Velaryon's surely would too. But no one else.

Before long he found himself standing in the Small Council chamber. The councilor's were filing in, one at a time. Gwayne, though not a member of the council was also stood off to the side of the table, much like Ser Rickard, Ser Arryk Cargyll; the youngest member of the seven, at the moment; Ser Steffon Darklyn and himself were. Aegon was sitting in the seat that Viserys once sat in, at the head of the table, his face a picture of shock and disbelief, his mother's supportive hand on his shoulder as she stood behind him. Aemond was sitting to Aegon's immediate left, where Beesbury usually sat. Otto Hightower was directly across from the young Prince, his grandson, looking decidedly uncomfortable whenever the sapphire eye passed over him. The Hand of the King had been the first council member to arrive, aside from Orwyle who had claimed his usual seat the the foot of the table, opposite the new King.

Surprisingly it had been Lannister that arrived next. The man had strolled in casually, his smug grin adorning his lips as it always did, and looked disappointed to see that he wasn't almost late. His arrogant expression vanished though and he seemed genuinely surprised to see Aegon sitting in the King's chair. It was gone a moment later as that same sly grin came back, a little smaller and more infuriating than ever, but there once more as realization crossed the man's sharp, pointed features. He dropped heavily into the seat on Aemond's left and taking on a slouched and relaxed position, sprawled in his chair almost lazily and proceeded to throw his feet up on the table and began to happily whistle "The Bear and the Maiden Fair", knowing that it would grate on Criston as the blonde simply loved to do. He took no notice that Aegon was near snarling at him for daring to smile at such a time, nor the distasteful sneer's Aemond was giving him. Or, Criston acknowledged mayhaps he did notice, and just doesn't care.

The Master of Laws, Lord Jasper, arrived next and silently took the offered seat next to Lannister. Predictably, Wylde looked the least tired off all of them. He hadn't even slept, most like. Caught up in his reports and plans, Wylde barely took the time to eat, sleep or bathe. The evidence was clear. He looked like a scarecrow with lank, greasy hair that had been covered in too much Essosi perfume. Lannister, of course, looked immaculate too, but the man had likely spent a long time getting ready both because he simply was that self absorbed and because he wanted to be annoyingly late.

Clubfoot Strong came shortly behind Wylde, limping horribly to the chair on the end of the right side of the table. Criston barely repressed a sneer and a grimace at the man. His deformity was, to Criston, rather gruesome and he wasn't very fond of the man's late brother Harwin Breakbones; or Brokenbones as some had called him after Criston shattered many of his bones in a tourney that celebrated Rhaenyra's wedding to Laenor Velaryon. The last seat, in between Ser Otto and Lord Larys, was occupied by the ancient Master of Coin, Lord Lyman Beesbury, a few moments later. Personally, Criston felt as though the man had served much longer than he should have. Perhaps even lived longer than he should have. Criston thought back to his childhood friend Selwyn Dondarrion, who'd died only eleven namedays old. It hardly seemed fair to him that Selwyn had gotten so little time while Beesbury had so much.

When the Small Council was assembled, Aegon took a breath before beginning "My Lords, I'm sure you're wondering why you've been gathered here...why I'm sitting in my father's seat," he trembled slightly, the new king was still quite young at two and twenty, and was in truth unready to rule "It is my regret to inform you that...that my father is..."

He trailed off and pain and grief filled his eyes. Alicent stepped forward "My husband, King Viserys, is dead," she let the news settle for a moment before she began "As I'm sure you are all aware, my husband has named Princess Rhaenyra his chosen heir. However; the law is clear. A daughter cannot inherit before a son. By right of birth and blood, Aegon is the true King. After some discussion, my son has decided to claim what is rightfully his. We have called you here so you may give your oaths of fealty,"

Discussion was a poor word to describe the most vexing conversation of Criston's life. Aegon had been reluctant at first. He'd wanted the throne, yes. He certainly hated Rhaenyra, of course he did, a blind man could see that. Yet when he had the chance he'd very nearly turned it down, arguing that his father had chosen Rhaenyra. That it wouldn't be right to steal it from her, whether she deserved it or not. It had taken Alicent, Aemond and Criston the better part of an hour to convince him, eventually having to bring up the fact that Rhaenyra would surely kill Aegon, Aemond and Daeron as well as both of Aegon's sons; she wouldn't abide having such a threat running around; before he'd accepted their point. The insinuation that Queen Rhaenyra would bring harm to his children had convinced him, especially as he couldn't disprove it in any way.

Surprisingly, the first words to be uttered came not from Tyland Lannister, Otto Hightower or Jasper Wylde. Instead, a shocked and incredulous cry of "What?" was the first response. Sure enough, Criston saw as he looked in disbelief, feeble old Lord Lyman was staring at the Queen and her sons with an expression of pure disbelief "Surely you jape, your grace. Crowning Aegon...it is madness. It is treason! King Viserys chosen heir is Princess Rhaenyra. The throne is hers by right!" His voice, croaked and weak, carried a surprising passion and strength.

"Don't be a fool, Lyman," Hightower scolded, as though speaking to a child, and not to a man thirty years his senior "Both the Faith and the laws of man are clear on this; the first son is rightfully the heir to the Throne,"

"We swore oaths of loyalty to Rhaenyra! All of us!" Beesbury shouted "We sword a vow to support her and serve her!"

"Is it worth keeping an oath like that even if it means putting my bastard nephew on the throne?" Strong asked, his voice soft and quiet "And please don't try to argue, my Lord. I think I know my brother's own face when I see it. Believe me; they are Harwin's,"

Beesbury blustered in fury "That hasn't been proven. Even if it were, Rhaenyra has two trueborn sons by Daemon. Unless you intend to claim they are bastards too?"

"A whore like Rhaenyra," Alicent mused "One never knows,"

Criston swore he saw Beesbury's hand flex for the small dagger he kept on his belt.

"Calm down, Lyman," Lannister mocked "We cannot have a man of your age get too angry; it's as like as not to kill you,"

"At least I would die with my honour intact! Though, I suppose you wouldn't know anything about honour, nor loyalty. Just like the rest of these traitors; a pack of honorless cowards!"

Criston saw the anger in Alicent's eye. The way Aegon's hand clenched the arms of his chair. The way Aemond's jaw tightened. It was Aegon who spoke "My father named Rhaenyra his heir, in clear contrast to the laws that govern the Faith, in contrast to centuries old Andal custom. He went against the very principle that made him King in the first place! The throne is mine by right. I am the rightful King; my sister will either learn that and bend the knee or die a traitor's death," his voice was cold as ice and hard as steel, and for a moment Criston saw Daemon in him.

"I will have no part in it," Beesbury boldly declared, and Criston decided that he'd said enough "You won't win this, boy, and you'll all burn in seven..."

In a few quick steps, Criston was behind the avaricious old skeleton. In a brutally quick and easy movement, Criston grabbed the man under the chin with his left hand, while his right swiftly drew his dirk and drew it ruthlessly across the old man's throat. With a single swipe, Beesbury's words were lost in a gargle of blood as the crimson liquid that kept the man alive sprayed across the table. The first spray of blood painted the table top red, but no small amount coated Aemond and Lannister. The former barely even blinked, and just watched dispassionately as Beesbury's body slumped forward. The old man gasped a few times, the blood flowing freely out of his throat and pooling around him on the table. Lannister on the other hand, looked rather disgusted at the blood that was staining his rich and expensive clothes.

Aegon, Criston noticed, had a small sneer adorning his features as he gazed at the body, while Hightower had jumped in shock and shuffled as far from the body as possible. Strong, similar to Aemond, didn't even blink. Orwyle grimaced a little, and Wylde sighed despondently. Looking at his brothers, Criston tried to gauge their reactions to the news and his actions. Thorne hadn't moved an inch while Cargyll was giving the now dead Lord of Honeyholt a look of pity. Darklyn looked rather like he didn't want to be here, though, which sparked Criston's interest. He wouldn't mind having to kill Darklyn though it would be a waste of a good swordsman. Looking closer, Criston observed that Darklyn showed no hostility to the rest of the council. He was shifting uncomfortably and kept looking at the dead Master of Coin. Of course, Criston realized and allowed himself to relax a little. Darklyn was the longest serving knight in the room. He had known Lyman Beesbury a lot better than Criston, Arryk or Rickard did. He didn't like seeing his old friend die. Criston could live with Darklyn hating him. All Criston cared about was that the man did not have sympathy's for Rhaenyra.

"A pity," Alicent said disdainfully "He was skilled at his job, despite his age. He would have been useful,"

"It would seem we need a new Master of Coin," Aegon hummed thoughtfully, before turning to his Master of Ships "I believe you will be more than capable of managing the position, Lord Tyland,"

Tyland smirked menacingly "A lifetime of managing my brother's outrageous wealth will surely help me along, your grace. I do believe I have the experience you need,"

"Whatever else he was Lord Lyman was a good record keeper. I'm sure he has other copies of those," Hightower said, looking slightly green as he nodded towards the ruined, blood covered papers Lyman had collapsed on "But that does leave us without a Master of Ships, which I'm sure we'll need if Rhaenyra decided to oppose us,"

Aemond grinned. It reminded Criston of a dragon, unsurprisingly "We have that solved,"

"We need the Redwyne fleet to fight the Velaryon's," Aegon explained, not that he need too. That was common knowledge "My mother assures me Desmond Redwyne will declare for us, however offering him the position on the council will be an irresistible offer. Grand Maester, prepare a raven to Lord Redwyne offering him the post of Master of Ships in return for his support against Rhaenyra,"

"It will be done, your grace,"

"A good strategy, your grace. The combination of the Lannister fleet, the Redwyne fleet and the warships docked in the port is an impressive array. It won't be easy though," Lannister commented, earning him a glare of Criston until he saw the somber and serious expression the blonde man had on his face "Our fleets will have to sail around Dorne, through the Stepstones and past Shipbreaker bay just to reach Dragonstone. If we lose too many ships along the way; whether to pirates or storms; then the Velaryon fleet will tear ours apart,"

Aemond's eye narrowed into a slit "What are you suggesting, Ser?" he asked dangerously, his tone full of suspicion.

Lannister, to his credit, met the look without flinching "That we may need to prepare to turn this into a ground war,"

Criston found himself a little impressed by the man's nerve. What Lannister had just said...he was essentially suggesting that Rhaenyra would not, in fact, be an easy victory should she decided to resist. But, Criston conceded, the man had a point. If their fleet failed then the only way to defeat Rhaenyra would be to ferry troops to Dragonstone and Driftmark with whatever they had left. Ferry them across a bay where their enemy would almost certainly have naval superiority. If they went about such an invasion without proper thought, without a real plan in place...then suddenly what should have been a slaughter suddenly becomes that much more difficult. Looking up, he can see that Alicent and Aegon are furious at the suggestion that defeating Rhaenyra would be difficult. If she came to them, or their fleet won, it wouldn't be but if she won the sea's, and forced them to go to her it would be a very different story.

"A ground war?" Gwayne scoffed "You give the whore too much credit Ser Tyland; she doesn't have the strength to match ours. It wouldn't be a war, it would be a massacre,"

"He's right," Criston told them, causing the the two Hightower's and the King to quieten rather quickly "Should our fleet be defeated, the Velaryon's will control the sea. If that happens then she controls the war. Once that happens we need proper supply lines set up and as many men as we can get in whatever time there is," he explained "After all, she could wait winter out, safe on Dragonstone and then take her troops to the Vale, force the fight to happen at the Bloody Gate. I'm sure you all understand how difficult this war becomes should she do that,"

Aemond nodded thoughtfully, but Alicent was not convinced.

"The Vale might stop an army but it cannot stop dragons! Ours are bigger, more powerful..."

"And less of them. Need I remind you that aside from Vhagar, Caraxes is the most battle experienced dragon and Daemon the most skilled rider. Meleys, Snowfyre and Syrax are all threats and whether the Strong bastards have small dragons or no, there are three of them! I don't imagine they would fail to defeat Sunfyre while working together," Aemond snapped back at his mother, whose lips pursed together but fortunately stayed closed "We have three dragons here ready for battle and two hatchlings. They have two young hatchlings and seven dragons on Dragonstone. Theirs are not as large as ours are, but those numbers will make a difference. Ser Criston and Ser Tyland are correct, mother, we will need the armies,"

Aegon frowned and drummed his fingers on the table in an annoying fashion.

Finally, the King spoke "Ser Criston, I need you to begin gathering our army here at King's Landing. Ser Gwayne, take command of the Hightower men in the city; the other councilor's will lend you their own household guards as well. You are to secure the city so that news of father's death cannot escape and arrest any who might support Rhaenyra. Start with the Beesbury men here in the Red Keep.

"Grand Maester, I'll need you to preserve my father's body. No one can know he is dead until my coronation, which means his funeral must wait. Send ravens to anyone who will support us; the Reach, the Riverlands, the Westerlands. Mother, Ser Tyland I trust that you will be able to make the arrangements for my coronation?"

"Of course, my son,""Yes, your grace!"

"Lord Jasper, while Ser Criston makes a valid point about Rhaenyra's strategy, I know my sister well. She is impatient, and may ignore uncle Daemon. If she attacks King's Landing we will need to be ready. Begin organizing the city's defense with Ser Luthor; I want the number of Gold Cloaks tripled, scorpions and catapults set up on the battlements and the gates reinforced as much possible,"

There was a resounding reply of positive answer's such as 'yes, your grace' or 'at once, my king' from all of those who'd been given a task.

"And me, brother?" Aemond questioned in the following silence.

"Once I have been crowned, I'm sending you to Storm's End to win the Stormlands for me. Remind Lord Borros of the last time Storm's End stood against an Aegon and his dragon,"

With a sharp, predatory grin, Aemond nodded once "I'll give either give you the Stag and his army or his army and the Stag's head, brother,"

"Speaking of brother's, your grace, I was wondering if I should send a raven recalling Prince Daeron from Oldtown? With the brewing war, I wondered whether you would prefer him here," Hightower, the King's grandfather, asked.

Aegon's face slipped into an expression of distaste at the mere mention of his youngest brother's name. Aemond frowned at the same time. Neither it seemed wanted to answer that question, or in fact even think about the person it concerned. It was Alicent that answered in the end.

"No," she said after a brief, contemplative silence "If we call him back it makes us look scared. Let him stay at Oldtown for now,"

"Of course, your grace," Hightower nodded

"Speaking of Oldtown and the young Prince, I have heard some news concerning him and his activities in the Reach," Strong interjected slyly, a knowing smile on his face.

"Such as?" Alicent prompted; she had gone rigid when Strong mentioned hearing rumors about her son.

Strong smiled slightly; his words had brought the whole room's attention onto him, and he was loving every minute of it, Criston suspected "Just that he received a visitor nearly a week ago, a visitor who hasn't left since. It would seem you counted wrong, a moment ago," he drawled, looking at Aemond, who's eye narrowed as glared suspiciously at Strong "You said Rhaenyra had nine dragons in total on dragonstone. There are only eight right now. The other is in the same place our sixth is,"

Aemond's teeth were clenched so hard it seemed they would break "Ryder!" he growled, coming to the same conclusion as everyone else had.

Alicent's eyes had lit up though "Send a raven to Daeron. Tell him to kill the Ryder boy and then help my cousin destroy any foolish minor lords that decide to join Rhaenyra!"

Aegon eyed her strangely "You believe he will do that?" he asked dubiously

"He will. For his family,"

Aegon still looked doubtful but nodded anyway "Send the message," he stood "If we have no other business, my Lords, I must see to my wife and children,"

With those words, the first small council meeting of King Aegon II was over. As he left to set about his tasks, Criston quickly instructed Thorne to dispose of Beesbury's body somehow, preferably in a way that made sure no one ever knew what happened. It had been a mistake to kill the old man in such a way. He didn't regret killing him, not in the slightest. It had been necessary, the foolish decrepit had been shouting treason. No, Criston had done his duty in killing him. But he had killed him from behind with a knife to the throat. It wasn't honorable and it would hurt his pride if people found out. Criston Cole they'd sneer such a great warrior he had to kill an old man from behind. It couldn't happen that way.

He didn't regret killing Beesbury. The twisting, gnawing feeling in his gut wasn't guilt. It was worry. Fear. He hadn't felt it in a long time. But he knew who is was for. For all he hated her now, he had loved her once and perhaps still did in a way. He'd always remember the little girl; little Rhae; who'd tied handkerchief's around his lance's and let him crown her with the victor's laurel whenever he won an event. The girl who'd grown up to break his heart. He worried for her, and despised her at the same time. He prayed she would have the sense to kneel.

Chapter 6: Rhaenyra I

Chapter Text

129 AC

Rhaenyra

There was a hollow, empty feeling in the Princess of Dragonstone's heart and a heavy weight in her stomach as she sat at the head of the painted table. The news had reached her only a day previously, nearly a week after it had happened. Her father was dead. The kind and jovial man that had fathered her, raised her and taught her how to rule had fallen into the Stranger's grasp while asleep one night nearly a week ago and his death had been kept secret from her by her half brother and his vile, deceitful and devious mother. Because of their actions she couldn't even go and visit her father's body to pay her respect's, to see him one last time. According to her loyal knights her father's body had already been given to Dragonfire and his ashes entombed in the Red Keep.

She had heard the news the day before, when Ser Steffon Darklyn and Ser Lorent Marbrand; decked head to heel in glimmering white armour and cloaks; had been delivered to Dragonstone aboard a smuggler's ship with the crown of her father and great grandfather; Jahaerys the Wise; in their possession. The pair had fled King's Landing in the night only the day after Aemond and Criston's purge of the city had taken place, stealing the crown along with them. To hear Ser Steffon tell it, the days after her father's death were the most frightening few days of his life; according to the knight, it was only his expert control over his emotions that stopped Cole from growing suspicious of his true loyalties.

If it hadn't been for pair of Kingsguard, the court of Dragonstone might not have heard of the King's death and Aegon's treason until it was too late. As it was, the new Lord Commander of her Kingsguard had told them everything; from the moment of her father's death, the plotting of the Hightower's, brave Lyman Beesbury's fate, the treason of the Small Council and their plans followed by the purging of the city by Hightower men. Wanting to serve the rightful Queen, Ser Steffon and Ser Lorent had, in the dead of night, stolen the crown and made their way to her. For that, they would be rewarded. Already, she had named Ser Steffon her Lord Commander. To Ser Lorent she would grant an honorary title of some sort when she took the Throne. And she would take the Throne. She had no intention of letting her coward of a brother steal what was rightfully hers.

Her hand clenched, imaging herself strangling the up jumped brat to death herself, squeezing the life out of him. It was doubtful that she would get such an opportunity or that she would be able to overpower her brother if it did, but it gave her such pleasure to imagine it. Implausible though strangling Aegon may be, his mother was not so impossible nor his overweight wife. She would make him pay. Nearly snarling, she looked down at the crumpled parchment in her hand. It had arrived by raven from King's Landing not an hour ago, announcing Aegon as King and demanding that the Lords of the Realm swear fealty to him; there was an extra message with the message to Dragonstone that she doubted the other Lords received; ordering her to give up her claim and support Aegon. She snorted. Aegon; or more accurately his mother and Ser Criston; clearly didn't know their lords. According to what she had heard, Lord Rosby and Darklyn had also fled the city and were currently raising their banners for her cause. That news had certainly come as a surprise. She might have counted on one of them, but never both. In recent months their rivalry had become similar to the Bracken-Blackwood feud in the Riverlands. For them to ally together in support of her...it was encouraging, to say the least.

"Your grace?" she heard, and she glanced up at her good-father's old weathered face where his lilac eyes showed unmistakable concern.

She knew she ought to pay more attention to the meeting going on around her. She knew, logically, that it was vitally important. But her heart, weighed down by grief, wouldn't let her. It wasn't just grief for her father either, though that was certainly part of it. The rest was for her baby girl, born and killed late the night before. It had been too early for childbirth, she had nearly two more moons to go before Elaena should have been born. The maester, Gerardys, who had served on Dragonstone for nigh on fifteen years now, said that the shock of so much ill news at one time had been too much and had forced an early birth; one that Elaena had not lived through. Rhaenyra's jaw clenched; her little daughter, who she'd been waiting to birth for so long, was now dead, dead before she even got a chance to live. And it was all Aegon's fault. Even if she couldn't kill him herself, he's wish for death before the end. So would the traitor Cole, the whore Alicent and her rotten family as well as the ill-born wretch that was named Aemond. Her rage cleared her mind, rather than cloud it. Eyes cold, hard and determined she brought her attention back to the room and glanced over her council.

Her husband and uncle Daemon sat to her left. Despite that no battles had yet to be fought, nor would there be for the moment, he was dressed for war and looked as though the Warrior had taken human form. His silver hair and neat beard was flecked with some areas of grey that belied his age, but despite that he stood tall and strong, the tallest in the room by half a head and his broad chest and shoulders made him look as strong as an ox. He was clad in his plate armour, a dark silver-grey coloured suit with a black surcoat over his breastplate. The red sigil of their house was elegantly embroidered onto the front of the surcoat and onto the shoulder braces of his armour, with a golden cloak billowing out behind him; richer and finer than that of the City Watch but cut in the same style. His horned half helm sat on the table in front of him and his Valyrian steel longsword; Dark Sister; sat on his hip, his left hand resting over the hilt. Looking at him now, Rhaenyra remembered why she married him. It wasn't for power; not wholly, at least, but because he'd intrigued her. Laenor had been a good rider and an average swordsman but he hadn't been a warrior. His passion was music and plays and art, not fighting and he preferred Joffrey Lonmouth and Qarl Correy's company to hers. She'd been fond of him, but not as a husband. More as a younger sibling; one that she wouldn't have married had she the choice. Daemon was wholly different, and it had piqued her interest as a widower.

After Daemon came her father's cousin and her husband. The elderly Sea Snake was past his seventieth year but one wouldn't know it by looking at him. His face was old one could tell at a glance; it was worn and a little tired, marked with wrinkles and topped with thinning snow white hair; yet it showed a hardness that few men of that age retained. Rather than make him look feeble, the weathered face had something in it's appearance that reminded the Queen of hard leather, strong and resistant. His posture wasn't slouched in the slightest and his jaw was set in grim determination. As he stood there in a light blue doublet and white jerkin, Rhaenyra knew that he would be invaluable in the coming weeks and found the that the his fire still being lit was a welcome relief. The woman next to him was the daughter of Rhaenyra's great uncle. King Jahaerys' first heir, Aemon, had died in battle against Myrish pirates on Tarth many years ago, leaving only a daughter by his Baratheon wife. Though Rhaenys had been considered at the Great Council for the position of heir, she was ultimately passed over in favor of Rhaenyra's grandfather, Baelon, and later for her father. Still, the Queen-Who-Never-Was; as she had become known to the smallfolk; held no resentment for Rhaenyra, though that may be because the Queen had married the fiery tempered woman's son.

Either way, Rhaenyra was glad to have her cousin on side. The woman flew one of their fiercest dragons and after Daemon had the most experience, having joined her husband for one of the battles in the Stepstones. She was as strong on land as she was on dragon back though. While not as naturally talented as Daemon or Lucos, Rhaenys was formidable in her own right. At that moment; as she stood next to her husband; Rhaenys looked every inch a fighter. Her silver hair was pulled back into a tight braid in a similar style as Visenya Targaryen was said to worn and her brown boots; though embroidered with red fabric in a pattern of flame; would look more suited to a soldier than a princess, and in place of a gown or dress she wore; almost always; leather riding trousers in a dark red shade and a black gambeson, trimmed with red, over her upper body.

On the other side of the table were her eldest sons. Jace was on her right, his younger brothers Luke and Joff beside him. Her boys looked so much like men as they stood there that it forced Rhaenyra to wonder where the years went. It seemed hardly any time since they were babes in arms. Now they were dragon riders, all three of them, and thinking themselves ready for wore. Jace and Luke, in particular, looked the role of warrior Prince's. Jace had taken his uncle's example and had donned a silver breastplate over his ringmail leather doublet. Black and red vambraces covered his wrists and from ankle to knee he wore pitch black greaves and sturdy boots of the same colour. Luke was less heavily armoured than his brother but if one looked closely you could see the chainmail hauberk beneath his shirt. Both wore their swords with them, making fear surge through their mother when the image of her boys in battle flashed into her mind. Shaking her head to clear it of such thoughts, Rhaenyra looked at her youngest son. Dressed to live up to his older brothers, the eleven year old was clad in a deep red leather coat and grey breeches. While Joff may not own his own blade, that hadn't stopped him from attaching his dagger to his belt.

Ser Steffon was present in the room too, a silent white shadow alongside his sworn brother, Ser Erryk and Ser Lorent. Grand Maester Gerardys sat opposite her, near the carving that represented Dorne. The other Lords of the Narrow Sea that had already pledged their support had sent representative's to Dragonstone; Lord Celtigar, Lord Sunglass' son and heir, Lady Massey's husband and Lord Bar Emmon's uncle; and out of courtesy they had been allowed to sit in on the council meeting. They crammed either between her children and the Maester, or between her husband, and good-parents and the Maester. She would listen to them but it was her family who's advice meant the most to her.

Glancing at the letter once more, she spoke "My half brother has claimed my throne and stolen my birthright. He demands we surrender, and acknowledge him as the true King," her tone held nothing but malice, making it clear to those present exactly what she thought of Aegon's words.

"It is the Prince's hand, and the King's seal, but the Dowager Queen's words," Corlys pointed out, unnecessarily. Rhaenyra knew very well who's words they were "It may yet be possible to convince Aegon to end this foolishness,"

"You would have me ignore his treason, Lord Corlys?"

"I would have it so you are not stained with the name Kinslayer," he placated, hands held up in surrender. A warrior, commander, soldier; Corlys Velaryon was all of those things but as a diplomat and administrator is where he truly shone.

Rhaenyra mused on the notion of convincing Aegon to surrender as opposed to forcing him to. It had some merit, in theory, but Rhaenyra knew her brothers nature. He was an ambitious brat with an ambitious mother and uncle advising him. He wouldn't surrender "Maester, send a raven to King's Landing. Inform my brother that I fully intend to take what is rightfully mine and that if he surrender's now I shall be merciful," she ordered. There was no need to appear tyrannical. Giving her wayward and misled brother a chance to repent would endear her to the Lords far more than Aegon's threatening and demanding letter did "But impress upon him that should he stand in my way, he will receive nothing but Fire and Blood,"

"At once, your grace," Gerardys nodded, and then hesitated "Such a promise may have more weight if her grace had more allies?"

The second Ser Steffon had told them of the events in King's Landing, Daemon had crowned her using her father's crown and had ravens sent to every house in Westeros, just as Aegon had, calling upon them for their support. As of right now, only the Lords of the Narrow Sea; those sworn directly to her; had responded, making quick time in sending small groups of knights and men at arms while their levies were raised.

"Have any other house's joined us?" Rhaenys asked, picking up on the insinuation in the Maester's voice.

"Indeed," he shuffled through some papers, pulling out nearly a dozen scrolls "As Ser Steffon had told us, I can now confirm that House's Darklyn and Rosby are raising their banners for us. I have also received ravens from Lords Staunton, Stokeworth, Chyttering and Follard and the various lords of Crakclaw Point, all pledging their support,"

Luke's brow was furrowed as he quickly tallied up the numbers. Rhaenyra was sure that Daemon could easily say how many men their combined support could raise without even trying, but a quick glance at the veteran warrior and the Queen knew that he was allowing Luke the chance to do so instead.

"That should bring our numbers to seventeen thousand," he said, barely a moment later

"Seventeen thousand if they each commit their full strength, including grey beards and green boys. Even then, we're scattered. The house's that have ignored us are those closest to King's Landing, meaning their armies could already be marching to rally at King's Landing," Lord Celtigar pointed out, rubbing his bushy white beard thoughtfully.

"Mayhaps they are, but their most experienced commander is a knight who thinks some tourney wins makes him a war hero," Corlys said dismissively "The Lords of the Narrow Sea are perhaps the most experienced in all of Westeros your grace and regardless of how many men Aegon musters, we have control of the sea,"

It was true, Rhaenyra acknowledged. Dragonstone alone had twenty war galley's and twice that number of galleys at anchor just off shore. Driftmark had even more, boasting twenty-five war ships, fifty galley's and fifteen cogs currently docked at High Tide. Combined, the other lords could between them raise five war ships, sixteen galley's and six cogs. A hundred and seventy-seven ships, all told plus whatever merchant ships Corlys managed to conscript from the area. Their naval situation had gotten even better when thirty-seven of the fifty war ships that had been docked at King's Landing sailed out of the bay under the cover of darkness and began flying her personal banner. With a total of two hundred and fourteen ships, of which eighty-seven were war galley's, meant that their naval power was nearly unmatched.

"Not if they manage to get the Ironborn and the Redwyne Fleet," Jace pointed out "Even just the Arbor will be difficult enough to contend with,"

"And that's only the root of our problem's. The Lannister's are almost certainly going to declare for Aegon, as will the Hightower's and Tully's," Daemon told her "The men we can raise in the Crownlands won't be enough. The Vale will join us, most like, but their forces will for the most part be trapped in the Vale. We need more men,"

"And where would you suggest, husband?"

"The North. Aegon has made his disdain for the region clear. He will not reach out to them, which means we can," the one time King said "I would also send more ravens and several offers to the Iron Islands and any potential supporters we may have in the Riverlands, Westerlands or Reach,"

Rhaenys chose that moment to speak up "The Stormlands are a strong possibility too. My mother was Lord Boremund's sister, and he swore to support both Laenor and myself at the Great Council. His son, Lord Borros, is my cousin. He will help us, if we ask,"

"Very well, have ravens sent to Storms End and Winterfell offering whatever it takes to..."

"Mother the Stormlands and North are too valuable to send nothing more than a mere raven. The Lords would feel insulted," Joffrey pointed out, licking his lips nervously.

"And what would you suggest instead?" Rhaenyra asked her son, but it was Luke that replied.

"Let me take Arrax and fly north to bring Winterfell into the fold," he offered.

Rhaenyra, despite knowing how important it was to win the North, hesitated. The flight from Dragonstone to Winterfell was fraught with danger and Arrax and Luke were both young and inexperienced. Anything could happen on the way, and some of the stories Rhaenyra had heard about the Northerners...If they decided to support Aegon instead then Rhaenyra feared for what her son would go through. He wasn't the strongest diplomat and he would struggle with the negotiations. But still; his idea had merit.

"No," she declared eventually and watched Luke's shoulders and eyes drop in disappointment "The journey is too long and Jace is a more experienced rider. He will go to the Eyrie and win us the Vale's support before going to treat with the Starks. You, Luke, will fly to Storms End and bring Lord Borros to our cause,"

Reluctant though she was, Rhaenyra knew that she would need to send emissary's to the North and Stormlands their support would be too valuable to send a mere raven. Jace was; harsh though it may sound; was the more charismatic of the two and the more talented at diplomacy, if for no other reason than that Jace was being raised to rule, whereas Luke was on the path most second sons walked; the path of the soldier. Jace would have a better chance of success in Winterfell than his younger sibling would, besides which Vermax was both bigger and Jace more experienced as a rider thus making the journey itself less of a risk. Still, it wouldn't do to make Luke feel distrusted, or neglected, so Rhaenyra opted to send him to the far closer Storm's End, whose Lord was almost certain to side with them if only they approached him.

The two boys replied simultaneously with a resounding "Yes, mother,"

The next to speak was Cedric Sunglass, the heir of the weak, elderly and infirm Lord Sunglass. The man was young enough, seeing as his father was over seventy. The young Lord must have only recently seen his thirtieth nameday, Rhaenyra was sure, and he clearly didn't have any prior experience in battle. His eyes, a bright, excited blue were more akin to her children's than the battle hardened and weary eyes of a warrior she saw every day in Corlys, Daemon and Crispian Celtigar. His hair was long, reached past his years and was a soft, strawberry blonde colour. The man was comely enough, she supposed. He was the sort of man she'd take to bed, but not one she'd trust with her life. By all acounts he was at best mediocre with a blade and utterly unsuited to life as a Lord. He was frivolous and wasteful, enjoying fine clothes, grand feasts and colorful tournaments to actual ruling. Not that such a preference was necessarily bad. It was only bad when one neglected one's duties to pursue such hobbies; which was exactly what he did. Unfortunately, house Sunglass was in a dire state. The heir was a fool, the second son and the only daughter as lack witted as each other and the third son was a mad man. By all acounts it was the youngest son, a man of twenty, that had all of the talent; he was a fine warrior and had reportedly worked tirelessly with the maester and steward of Sweetport Sound to keep his family afloat. Rhaenyra wished to all the Gods it was the youngest son here now.

"What about the Dornish?" The young heir suggested, and Rhaenyra restrained a flinch. This wouldn't likely end well "They could make a strong ally,"

She could already see the sharp narrowing of Corlys' eyes, the tightening of Daemon's jaw and the scarred hand of Lord Celtigar begin to clench the shaft of his Valyrian steel long axe from where it rested against the table next to him. Those three had bad history with Dorne. When Daemon led his invasion into the Stepstones, both Lord's had joined him; though Crispian had, at the time, been naught more than a squire of fifteen. The resistance of the recently formed Triarchy had been expected. Myr, Lys and Tyrosh profited greatly from the pirate activity in the Stepstones and wouldn't want that to come to an end. What hadn't been expected was the interference of the Dornish. Ulric Martell had led the Dornish Spears to defend the islands and had been the greatest threat to the invasion. The Velaryon fleet swept aside the pirate vessels like a knife through butter, and the pirates themselves fell due to their lack of armour and the use of it by the Westerosi knights. The Sellsword's hired by the Triarch broke easily or died easily. But the Dornish...Daemon feared to use Caraxes against them, as the Dornish were, and remain, the only people's to have ever felled a dragon before. Trying to break their spears as they defended the isle of Bloodstone, guarding the keep that would one day be repaired, expanded and renamed Daemon's Keep was incredibly difficult. Though victory was eventually achieved, for a time at least, it was to the Dornish that most casualties were taken.

Surprisingly, it was not Daemon who answered "The Dornish? HA! You'd be better off throwing yourself on your own sword, Ser. You're likely to end up the same way if you place your trust with a Dornishman," Jace scoffed, his nose wrinkled in disgust.

"Fucking snakes, all of them," Celtigar grunted "Mark my words, boy, if we march with Dorne we'll end with poison in our drinks and spears through our backs,"

"Mayhaps, but the lad has a point," Samwell Bar Emmon; the grizzled uncle and Master at Arms of the eight year old Lord Raelor; spoke gruffly, his tone low and rough. He was a decent swordsmen and loyal to a fault, Rhaenyra knew from having met him several times in the last three years, as he was the joint regent of Sharp Point alongside the widowed Lady Bar Emmon. But he wasn't a brilliant strategist. Still, his advice wasn't likely to be as useless as some others.

"Are you mad, Ser?" Corlys asked, his eyebrow raised "Trusting the Dornish would be madness,"

"Perhaps," Bar Emmon nodded "But Dorne can raise 30,000 men easily plus half again as many with horsemen and archers. If the Reach rises against us, then those snakes might be the only thing standing between the Green's and our defeat. That besides, having Dorne on our side might be the only way to stop the Redwyne's from contesting for control of the sea's,"

It was true, Rhaenyra understood. Her adviser's knew it too, though they loathed it.

"We would be fools to place our trust in the Dornish," she spoke "King Qoren is a manipulative, devious and greedy man. But Ser Samwell is correct; they may be our only chance," she stopped and considered her options for the moment. Her Lords waited patiently for her decision "Maester send a raven to Dalton Greyjoy offering wealth and plunder if he supports us by raiding our enemies, then prepare a letter offering an alliance with Dorne but do not send it. We will not go crawling to the desert rats like beggar's until we have no other choice. Send the letter only if we fail to gain the Greyjoy's allegiance or if the Reach calls it's banner's for Aegon,"

There was a moment of contemplative silence as Gerardys made a note on what he would have to do once the meeting ended, before Daemon stepped forward, his hands resting over his helm "By your leave, your grace, once the meeting is adjourned I will fly with Caraxes and capture Harrenhall in your name,"

Rhaenyra frowned. Harrenhall? It was a mighty fortress to be sure and simply by the number of lands in it's Lords dominion it produced no small revenue of gold and crop. And the Queen would love nothing more than to take Clubfoot's home from him; the home he stole by murdering Lord Lyonel and her beloved Harwin. But Rhaenyra was no fool. She knew that with a castle of that size, it would take far more men than they had to garrison it enough that it could withstand either a siege or an assault and still have a sizeable army in the field. The castle was too big. One would need a thousand men at least, mayhaps more, in order to cover every possible entry. Any less and there would be too many blind spots in the defences. Besides, Harrenhal wasn't invulnerable to dragons; the burned out state of the castle was testament to that. So she couldn't understand why exactly he would want to go there.

"Harrenhal, my husband?," she questioned, her voice curious "Whatever for?"

Smirking deviously, Daemon explained "Though old Grover Tully won't support our cause, there are many among his bannermen who would favor us above Aegon," her husband said, and she began to see where this was going "They'll need somewhere to rally, since Riverrun is no longer an option. Using Harrenhal allows us to both house our Riverlands allies until they are ready to march and to utilize the strategic value of Harrenhall,"

"What strategic value does an old ruin have?" Sunglass asked

It was Jace that replied to the knight's question "Harrenhal sits only a few miles west of the Kingsroad. With it in our control we can easily blockade the city from the north. Moreover, as long as we have a force at Harrenhal we control the map. From there we can strike in whatever direction we want; south at King's Landing or west to the Lannister's,"

Rhaenyra hummed thoughtfully before giving her husband a nod, granting permission, before standing and walking around the table so that she stood next to area that portrayed the Crownlands. They had been a part of the Storm Kingdom before the conquest, when the table was painted and carved, before being sworn directly to the Crown after Aegon had conquered and united the continent into under a single ruler. There were dragon heads to represent her own forces set up around the table and stone towers for her brothers. She glanced over the pieces, thinking and planning. She, Daemon, Corlys and Rhaenys had gone over the troop locations and sizes earlier, before the Lords had arrived and discussed what the best strategy would be. Rhaenyra already knew what she would say; she trusted her family and their counsel, knowing that war was not her area of expertise. But she had to give the appearance of someone who knew what they were doing; so she gave the Lords a show of their Queen planning on the spot, to give them that image.

Finally, she began "Ser Jon!" she called. Ser Jon Pyle was the youngest son of Lord Pyle, a vassal of the Massey's of Stonedance. Though to call Ser Jon young would be ridiculous. The man was older than her father had been. He had married Lady Eleanor Massey; the eldest of five daughters born to the previous Lord Massey; on the stipulation that his children would bare the Massey name, and now stood as her representative on Rhaenyra's council. He had come with two galley's and a single cog, along with a hundred Men at Arms and half again as many knights "Sail back to Stonedance with your men and take command of your wife's levies. I want you to move quickly and defeat Aegon's forces south of the Blackwater; I need Farring Cross taken,"

Farring Cross was the name of a small village and it's modest wooden holdfast that sat on a crossroads just on the southern bank of the Blackwater. It had minimal trade and only a small force of men. However, the northern road of that crossroad just so happened to be a bridge, a bridge that was the only way to cross the Blackwater before it branched off to join the God's Eye without needing to use rafts. Sitting five and a half league's to the west of King's Landing, it was; strategically; a vitally important location. If Ser Jon could capture the crossing then the no matter what allegiance's the Reachmen had, supplies would not be making it to King's Landing. To illustrate her point, Rhaenyra moved a dragon head from Massey's Hook to the rough location of the crossing, placing the carving down in front of a tower.

"It will be done, my Queen,"

"The rest of you will return to your lands and raise what men you can, then return," she commanded "I will need as many as I can get,"

With a collective grumble of 'yes, your grace', the assembled Lords made their way out of the keep and down to the dock, boarding their ships and returning home to complete the task's their Queen had given them, her family going with them. She was left with just her family.

Jace sighed "There is one other issue," he began "Our forces on the ground aren't our only concern,"

"Some among us are a little concerned about our dragon situation," Corlys stated, and by the rolling of Daemon's eyes, he wasn't among the 'some'.

Confused at his concern, Rhaenyra fixed her gaze on the man "Why would you be concerned, nuncle? We have more dragons than they do,"

"True as that is, they have Vhagar, the largest of all living dragons, as well as Dreamfyre and Sunfyre, both battle dragons, and both larger than any of our own, bar Caraxes. It is...," Rhaenys halted, seemingly trying to find the right word "Concerning," she eventually finished.

"The size of their dragons is a problem," Rhaenyra conceded, nodding slightly at her once good-mother "But not as much as you imagine. While the Green's may have larger mounts, they have only four; 'less they mean for the babes to ride their hatchlings. Of those four only two are notably large, with Sunfyre being barely bigger than Meleys or Syrax and Tessarion barely bigger than Vermax. We, on the other hand, have eight. Numbers will prevail in this fight, aunt,"

Daemon blinked "Eight?" he asked, and then his eyes widened "NO! Baela is too young. Moondancer too! She's barely bigger than a horse, Rhaenyra, any of the Green's dragons would tear them apart!"

Rhaenyra grumbled slightly but heard his point. Moondancer was only the size of the average stallion at the moment. She knew how her husband felt. She would feel the same if someone suggested counting Aegon and his pony sized dragon take part in the battles. Even still, Baela might need to take to the skies if the day demanded it. Seven Hells, her own boys were barely older than Daemon's girls (and in Joff's case, younger) and all three of them were insisting on fighting in the coming war. Granted, their dragons had been alive for longer and had thus grown a lot more. The largest was Vermax, Jace's dragon, who was also the eldest and the dragon was young and thriving, growing larger every day. Tyraxes was the smallest, but only by a little. They were, all three, roughly four or five times the size of a particularly large warhorse.

"That brings me to the other matter," Jace said gravely "Lucos is in Oldtown. He won't have heard yet and that means he's in danger,"

Rhaenyra's head had snapped up the second Jace mentioned his friend (brother, really, though not in blood) was in their enemies home. Over the years that boy had become like a sixth son to her. Of course, she had been appreciative when he first saved Jace from the shipwreck and storm near the Merling Spears; and she had taken Lucos in the second Jace requested it; but their relationship had grown to the point where she loved him as though he was one of her own, and she knew Daemon felt the same, in his own gruff manner. Hearing that he was in Oldtown was concerning and slightly confusing; Rhaenyra had no idea what he could possible be doing in that cesspool of vipers until she recalled that Daeron was there too. She scowled. Though she supposed that of all her siblings, at least her children had befriended the best of a bad bunch.

"Grand Maester, send a raven to Oldtown. Warn Lucos of what has happened and the danger he is in, but do so discreetly. We don't need Lord Ormund getting suspicious," she caught the look Jace was giving her and sighed "We can't send anyone Jace. It would just put more of our family in danger. We have to trust that Lucos can look after himself,"

She saw the conflict raging in Jace's eyes. Luke and Joff's as well. Corlys was quite passive about the situation, though Rhaenyra could see worry in his eyes. Worry about the potential loss of a rider so early, as opposed to worry for Lucos himself, like as not, Rhaenyra thought bitterly. Rhaenyra glanced to Daemon and gave him a significant look. He caught the look and the underlying message and stepped in, placing a hand on Jace's shoulder as he rounder the table, helm now tucked under his other arm.

"Lucos wields a blade as well as the Conqueror himself did, and sits his dragon better than any other rider I've ever seen," he paused, and then grinned roguishly "Excepting myself, of course," it was a weak jape, but it made Jace smile slightly and roll his eyes fondly at his great-uncle's boast "Those flowery bastards in Oldtown won't know what's happening. Most likely is the they'll shit themselves thinking it's the Stranger come to strike them down, and that's before he gets to his dragon,"

She saw some of the tension seep out of Jace's shoulder's as he nodded before excusing himself, citing that he needed to go and prepare for the journey to Winterfell. Luke and Daemon followed him for the same reason, though they were traveling to vastly different locations, while Gerardys headed off to his tower to send the messages he had been assigned to write and Joffrey; at the urging of his mother; went to see his brothers off, as they would leave later that day. Corlys and Rhaenys needed to leave for Driftmark, to finish raising their troops, leaving Rhaenyra alone. She rubbed a hand over her face in exhaustion and frustration, before hastily composing herself. It wouldn't do for any guests to see their Queen so weak.

Pouring a goblet of wine, Rhaenyra stood by one of the four tall windows, watching the various ships depart the island for their wide range of destinations. Sighing heavily, she took a long gulp of the sweet Arbor Gold; mayhaps the last she'd have for a while, if the Redwyne's declared for her half-brother. A war was brewing, she knew. She knew she wouldn't back down and knew that Aegon wouldn't either. It would come to war. And her children would be at the heart of it.

That night, Rhaenyra did not sleep well. Jace, Luke and Daemon had all departed earlier in the day; sometime in mid afternoon; leaving Rhaenyra to sleep in the overly large bed alone, and the castle feeling more emptier than it had ever been, regardless of the fact that it was actually fuller than ever with knights and men at arms from her vassal's crammed in wherever they could be fit in alongside her family, their guards and their courtiers. Despite the wine from the meeting as well as what she'd drank at the evening meal only a few hours earlier, her sleep was plagued with horrifying nightmare's. She dreamed of Jace flying above the Blackwater in battle, crying out in anger and gut wrenching grief as his dragon was brought down, the beast crashing into the sea. She saw her eldest son, her first born, being filled with arrows and sinking beneath the waves. She was granted an image of Luke desperately trying to fly Arrax away from first Vhagar in the middle of a fierce storm and then above Dragonstone, on what must be a much larger and older Arrax; though the coloring was more than a little different; as he narrowly evaded Sunfyre. She saw her little Aegon, pale as the dead and unmoving as the clanging of swords rang out around her and then of Tyraxes being stuck by a scorpion bolt as he rose above the Dragonpit on Rhaenys' Hill. No shades of Viserys bothered her that night but her husband she did see, atop Caraxes as the Blood Wyrm and Vhagar were locked in a stalemate as they plummeted towards a lake. She dreamed of Lucos, too; an older Lucos, wearing a beard and marked by several scars she knew he didn't have; crumpling to the sandy ground with a sword stuck through his chest.

She awoke covered in a cold sweat and bolted into a sitting position the second her eyes opened, her heart beating wildly and loud enough that she was sure her guards would hear it and come running. Shaking ever so slightly, still terrified and devastated at the images her mind had conjured, she slowed her breathing and slipped a gown on, making her way into the corridor. Her guard for the knight, Ser Lorent Marbrand, looked slightly surprised to see her awake at such an early hour, but dutifully and silently he followed her nonetheless. She walked the freezing corridor's, ignoring the cold seeping through her slippers from the stone floor. She stopped first at Joffrey's room. Her thirdborn; already looking to be taller and broader than his older brothers, was sleeping soundly, collapsed over his desk where a map of westeros lay open, toy soldiers standing in for the carved piece's of the painted table. Smiling a weak smile, she pressed a kiss to his forehead and called his sworn sword, Ser Harold Darke to enter and put him into his bed.

From there she visited her two youngest. Both of her youngest boys, silver haired like their parents and with unmistakable valyrian features, the eight and seven year old Prince's each slept soundly in their own rooms, not stirring in the slightest. Satisfied that her children were all safe, she began making her way back to her lonely chambers. Glancing at her copper haired white shadow, she considered asking him to join her. But she decided against it. He was too honorable, he would refuse. He couldn't refuse a command of course, but what sort of companionship was that. Maegor had done that several times, she knew, and oft wondered how he ever felt happy knowing that none of those women were with him freely; some forced, some coerced with only Tyanna of the Tower being neither and even she was only there for the power he could give her.

She sighed again. She wasn't particularly religious or devout but just this once she offered a silent prayer to each of the Seven. 'Please let my children live. Please keep them safe'.

Chapter 7: Lucos I

Chapter Text

129 AC

Lucos

The soft orange glow of early morning sunlight filtered in through the east facing window of their rich and extravagant room. Despite the personal preference of both it's current owner and his frequent guest; the latter of whom much preferred his own rather stark and bare room at Dragonstone, with it's dull grey look, and the former, despite being more used to such finery, found the room to be a little too extravagant even for him and missed the black's and red's he was used to from home; the room was coloured in bright greens and silvers and golds. A massive bed sat to one side of the room, nearest the east facing window, with four polished copper post's at each corner and covered by thick, deep green, velvet blankets and with dozens of small silver dragons and golden roses carefully stitched into the fabric. The other half of the room was taken up by a sturdy desk; it's frame lined with steel that had been gilded to give of a gold appearance; set up against the wall opposite the door, a wooden model with the vague shape of a body, designed to wear a full suit of armour; currently only adorned by gauntlet's, shoulder braces, a breastplate and a helm; until the owner had need was standing in the far corner. There was a cabinet beside the bed, a chest of drawers against the wall to the right and a chest at the foot, all of which were made of the finest ironwood from the North.

There were two windows in the room. One sat above the desk, facing south over the vast city, the harbor and the bay. Directly below was the training yard and the walls that surrounded the High Tower, the stone keep and beacon house of Oldtown, which stood half again as tall and twice as thick as the walls of the city. The incredibly impressive structure's of the Citadel, the home of the Maesters, could be seen from this window, as could the blindingly white marble structure that was the Starry Sept. The Sept was easily three times the size of even the largest manse in the city but the Citadel; a series of tall towers and great domed buildings, all connected by a series of bridge's; that sat on the edge of the Honeywine river, just south of the city itself, dwarfed even that. Only the Hightower could match the set of buildings in size and even then the seat of House Hightower was not as impressive. The rest of the city could barely measure up; though that was not to say it was poor by any means. Though there were rundown, wooden buildings near the dock that had been turned into homes for several families at a time or brothel's and inns, there was no sign of the mass overcrowding that was beginning to affect King's Landing. Unlike the capital, Oldtown had a much more functional sewage system, and there were streets of luxurious whorehouses, twice as many as the Street of Silk and oft more enticing. Small business set up everywhere. Fisher's and baker's and butcher's just like King's Landing but more organized, along with blacksmith's; some of whom made only weapons, others armour and some other items like cooking pots or horse-shoe's. Craftsmen, jewelers trader's, money lenders and a host of other ventures found profit in Oldtown, unlike the relatively limited merchants of King's Landing.

The other, east facing window gave a stunning view of the Reach's countryside. Plains of bright green grass spanned as far as the mind could see, dew glittering in the light as winter began to come to an end. Some of the fields, an acre or two just outside the city, were fenced off from the rest and used to grow a host of flowers, many of which would be unrecognizable to any Northman. Beyond that was miles of land, half unused. It was winter now, and most of the produce was either stored or had been traded with less productive Kingdoms, but unlike the North, the Vale and the Riverlands the men of the Reach worked year round. It was easy to tell the farmed land from the unused land. Those tracts of land being used to grow grain had a yellow colour to it from a distance; where only the tops of the wheat and grain could be seen, while the unused land was either a covered by regrown grass. Even grazing animals could be identified sometimes, if one looked closely enough. Far off in the distance, the Red Mountains of Dorne could be seen and it was above these distant peak's that the sun was currently rising over.

Over the course of the night, their fire had died down little by little reduced to little more than smouldering embers and the sun alone wasn't enough to warm their room. While the Reach was much warmer than any other Kingdom; excluding the ever scorching deserts of Dorne; this winter, though not particularly long or harsh, brought very low temperature's with it even as far south as Oldtown, and on that day it was worse than ever before. The boy who'd been granted the room by their hosts was very much not inclined to remove himself from the blankets as a result, and seemed content to simply lie in the warmth that surrounded him. Rolling his eyes at the dramatics of southerners; by the gods it's only a little cold; Lucos began to extract himself from the tomb of fabric, preparing to light the fire and get some warmth into the room in an attempt to lure Daeron out of his velvet cocoon. Lucos; from years of experience; knew that Daeron hated the cold with a passion often reserved for the Seven Hells and it would be impossible to force him to rise for the day until the chill had been removed, or at least lessened. It was the dragon in him, Lucos supposed. Jace would be doing the exact same; and it always amused him how similar Jace and Daeron were, given their past feuds; as would Joff. Aegon, Viserys and Luke would get up though, regardless of the cold.

Lucas extracted himself from the tangle of limbs he'd found himself in, which led to a groan of disappointment from Daeron, which rapidly changed to a sharp hiss as the cold air crept beneath the covers and hit his body when Lucos moved the blankets. As the Northman made to stand, a pair of slender, pale skinned arms caught him around the waist, preventing him from moving. Sighing resignedly, Lucos allowed the him back into the bed.

"Daeron," he growled at the taller boy, as the silver haired prince buried his face into the crook as Lucos' neck "Let me go. You have duties to attend to and I know you won't leave the bed until the fire is lit,"

Daeron grumbled "Let me be late for once, I didn't ask to be Ormund's squire nor did I want to. If you recall I asked to squire for Ser Erryk on Dragonstone," he muttered, lifting his head and with pleading lilac eyes met Lucos' gaze "So, since that was denies to me, let me have this. Stay here with me?"

At the look that Daeron knew how to use entirely too well, Lucos felt his resolve weaken. It had been a year. near enough, since he and Daeron had shared that first kiss in the armory of King's Landing and ever since they'd been sneaking around behind the back's of their family and friends, stealing kisses and affectionate words whenever they could. It had become increasingly difficult to concentrate in lessons, as Daeron and Lucos would sit beside each other every other lesson and gentlely brush hands when Orwyle, Jace, Luke, Joff and Daemon's daughters weren't looking. Training was hard, too, as both ended up holding back far too much, unwilling to hurt the other. Luckily, it soon reached the point where Daeron had to face Jace or Luke in training bouts, because Lucos had been deemed ready to start one on one training with the Kingsguard. If swordplay lessons had been hell before, they were even worse now. After a spar, he could barely move. They expected the best. Ser Willis often went a little lighter, as did the Cargyll brothers. Thorne had no such qualms, and Cole seemed to even take pleasure in leaving him with a myriad of bruises and cuts each session. Lucos didn't mind though; he had to be the best, to protect Daeron and Jace. He couldn't lose another family because of his own weakness. Daeron and Jace hated those two though, couldn't understand why he didn't ask for the lessons to stop.

Over a year now they'd been together, and they'd only gotten better at keeping the secret; though several knowing glance's and smiles from Daemon, Jace and, most shockingly, the King had given Lucos the impression that they hadn't been all that successful at all. The downside was that Daeron had mastered the ability to get Lucos to do whatever he wanted, even without using his royal status. The fact that the night before was the first time they'd ever been together intimately only made Daeron's request for Lucos to remain abed with him for a while longer all the more tempting.

"You could get in trouble," the dark haired youth warned his partner, noncommittally. He'd already given in, and given the way Daeron's eyes lit up, his resignation must have been easy to hear in his tone

"Then so be it," the Prince grinned, tugging Lucos further back beneath the covers and wrapping himself around the slightly shorter but significantly broader body next to him. Lucos, for his part, didn't mind all that much. Though he had northern blood and felt the effects of the cold less than the rest of the southerners did, Lucos knew that his life in the warm lands of Essos and then the Crownlands meant he was nowhere near as unaffected as other Northmen would be, and Daeron's particularly warm body was much more comfortable than the frigid room "It would be worth it. You're worth it,"

Lucos frowned. There was a particular emphasis on those last words that made him rather uncomfortable. When he opened his mouth to speak, however, he was swiftly cut off.

"Don't pretend you don't sometimes start thinking that you aren't," his lover scolded "I'm not blind. Jace isn't either and even though he's half as intelligent as a bird, he can see that look you sometimes have just as well as I can,"

"What look?"

"The one you get whenever we look after you when you're finished letting those so-called 'knights' beat you half to death. The one you get when we change our plans to include you. The one you get when I tell you I love you," Daeron said sharply "The one that says you don't believe us,"

Lucos hesitated and that hesitation seemed to be all that Daeron had needed to confirm his suspicions. Truthfully, Lucos couldn't deny Daeron's words. They were true: his family was dead and he had survived by running away. While he knew that Jace would have died had he not been there, he sometimes couldn't help but think that he should have tried to fight. He would have died, to be sure, but he would have died fighting, avenging his murdered family. It was times like those that made him wonder why he; a craven; had been blessed with survival and not his strong and honorable father or his charming and bold brother. His kind and gentle mother certainly deserved life more than he did, as had his beautiful baby sister. So Daeron had the right of it; oftentimes he did find himself wondering if he was truly worth the effort the Targaryen's and Velaryon's put into making him happy. Less often, but often enough, he wondered if Daeron really loved him and found himself asking if he could blame the boy for finding another. Those thoughts faded quickly and he never dwelt on them nor gave them serious thought; but they were there nonetheless.

Looking up at the boy he had fallen in love with Lucos saw anger in his features mixed in with the love and adoration that the younger boy; though only by a few moons; often had in his eyes when he was around Lucos. Such a contradicting expression had crossed Daeron's face before; several moons previous, when Daeron had first seen the scar on his leg caused by a crossbow bolt he'd been hit by when escaping Essos; and Lucos had initially been confused as to what he'd done to earn Daeron's anger. It hadn't been until later that Daeron explained he'd been angry at the men who attacked him, rather than Lucos himself. Expression softening, Daeron leaned in and pressed a much more tender and loving kiss to lips than the brief and chaste one they'd shared moments earlier. Breaking the kiss seconds later, Daeron pressed his forehead against Lucos', and when he spoke his breath brushed gently over Lucos's lips, tantalizingly close.

"I love you," he whispered "I wish you believed that,"

"I do," Lucos said back just as gently "I believe you. And I love you too,"

Daeron smirked "Good," he grinned "That means I won't have to command you to stay with me,"

"Command me?" Lucos questioned, a questioning tilt to his voice "When have I ever done what I'm told? I'm not even supposed to be here; in your rooms or even Oldtown at all,"

"I seem to recall you doing exactly what I told you to last night," came the teasing reply.

"Now for those things, I don't mind following orders,"

"Then I order you to do them again,"

Growling, but grinning nonetheless as he recalled the events of the night, Lucos gripped Daeron by his hips and flipped them so that their positions were reversed, with Lucos now hovering above Daeron. Giving the silver-blonde a grin, he leaned down and once more they met in a kiss, more passionate than those they had already shared and Lucos resigned himself to the fact that he wouldn't be leaving the room for a few hours yet, meaning it would be late morning before they joined the Hightower's. Though when he pulled out of the kiss; eliciting a moan from his lover; and looked down at Daeron's flushed body, Lucos found he didn't much care about that. Though he did still have one concern.

"What if someone comes in?" he asked, glancing over at the door. Him sneaking in to join Daeron of a night was one thing. After the castle had retired, the odds of someone entering Daeron's rooms were minimal and Lucos was able to get back to his own guest room before anyone else was even awake. A morning was another matter entirely. Maids or servants could and often did at any time, going about their duties. And given that Daeron was actually avoiding his duties as Lord Ormund's squire so as to remain in bed with Lucos only increased the chance of someone coming looking for the King's youngest child, probably Ormund himself. If that happened then word would almost certainly reach Alicent and Viserys, not to mention Rhaenyra, and they'd definitely be forbidden from seeing each other. That was something Lucos would very much like to avoid. He may not say it often, but he thought that he truly loved Daeron. He'd been fascinated by the other boy since they first met and according to Daeron, that was mutual. If leaving Daeron for the morning meant they could continue with their relationship, then Lucos was willing to make that sacrifice.

"The door is locked, and no one would dare enter without permission," Daeron assured him, calming the worst of his worries "I think they're scared I'll set Tessarion on them,"

"Would you?"

"Mayhaps if they interupted us. Now I thought I gave you an order,"

Grinning, Lucos replied with a mocking "At once, my Prince," and made to kiss the other boy again, when a loud knock echoed throughout the room. Both boys froze for half a second before worriedly glancing at each other. Daeron hurriedly made to leave the bed only to hesitate as a soft, briskly cold breeze blew through the room, making the younger shiver and glance at Lucos, imploring him to be the one to go to the door. Lucos snorted at that. He wasn't even supposed to be in the room. Him being the one to open the door would be incredibly stupid. Besides, Daeron was the one who wouldn't let him light the fire. If he was cold then it was no one's fault save for his own, and the dark haired youth had no issues with telling his lover as much. Daeron huffed and quickly pulled on a pair of breeches and his boots, before wrapping a thin, thigh length black shirt around his upper body and crossing to the door, with Lucos lounging on the bed, drinking from a half full skin of ale he'd put on they'd drank from the night before, enjoying the view.

Thankfully the door opened inwards, and half open the only thing a person outside could see was the half of the room that the bed was not on. Daeron opened it enough that it didn't seem suspicious yet not so much that Lucos could be seen. Unfortunately, from his position he couldn't see who it was that had interupted them and both Daeron and the uninvited and unwanted guest spoke in low, quiet tones. He saw Daeron accept something from the other person and then watched as confusion frittered across his valyrian features before he started to close the door, whoever it was evidently leaving. The door clicked closed and Daeron made his way back to the bed. Daeron sat down on the edge of the feather mattress and Lucos sat up, pulling on some clothes as he did so, before sitting next to him.

Looking at the item held in the other boys hand, Lucos saw it was a letter bearing the seal of the King. That wasn't all that unusual in Lucos' mind, as Daeron received messages from his father on a fairly regular basis. This one was a little sooner after the last one, perhaps, but that couldn't be the reason for the utter disbelief that was currently adorning Daeron's face, surely.

"What is it?" he asked, and upon failing to get a response his voice grew more concerned "Daeron?"

"A letter from King's Landing," he said finally "Ser Jon brought it to me," Ser Jon Hightower was the first cousin of Lord Ormund and the steward and castellan of Oldtown, forcing Lucos to wonder why such a man was delegated the task of delivering a letter even if it was addressed to a prince "He...it was...he gave me his condolence's,"

Oh, Lucos realized. Without further prompting he gently placed his arm around Daeron's should, offering him silent support, knowing that after a message like that it would be incredibly frightening to open such a letter, knowing what information it might contain but not wanting to find out. Lucos could only guess, but he imagined that Daeron was fighting with his desire to open the letter and get it over with, and his wish to ignore it and pretend that the message it inevitably contained simply wasn't true. Once he saw it, it became true, which Lucos was astute enough to realize Daeron wanted to put off.

Drawing in a deep breath and seeming to take comfort from Lucos' presence, Daeron broke the wax seal and unfurled the scroll, his eyes flicking from left to right as he read the carefully written, and no doubt carefully chosen, words. He reached the end of the letter, paused and then read it again, several times, his face growing paler and paler each time, his eyes widening in complete disbelief. Lucos thought this reaction a little odd, but didn't comment; he didn't really know how people dealt with the loss of their family. He hadn't really been given a chance to cope after his own had been murdered as he was too busy trying to survive to process the loss, and when he did he clung to the first person he found; Jace. He was fairly certain that wasn't how it was supposed to be done. But what did he know? He was a soldier not a poet or a scholar.

"What have they done!" the scream of outrage from Daeron snapped Lucos back into the present. His lover was trembling, his jaw was clenched; his teeth grinding together audibly; and his hands had balled into tight fists, crumpling the letter until it was almost completely ruined. Without warning, the silver-blonde shot up off the bed and began pacing up and down the room in agitation "My father is dead," his voice was cold, cut off from the gut wrenching sadness he was sure to be feeling. Daeron had loved his father "My mother and the Small Council have crowned...they've crowned Aegon as his successor," It took a moment for Daeron's words to register. When they did, confusion reigned for a few moments before a single thought forced it's way into the forefront of Lucos' mind; What? What!

"What?" Lucos shouted "Aegon? What do you mean they've crowned Aegon?"

"I mean exactly what I said. They say that as the first son, Aegon is father's rightful heir. They're sending ravens to all the house's asking for oaths of fealty and calling up men to fight Rhaenyra, and..." Daeron hesitated, something vulnerable and scared appearing in his lilac eyes. He clearly didn't want to say what else had been included in the note sent by; Lucos presumed; either Aegon or Alicent.

"And what, Daeron? What else did they say?" he asked, placing his hands comfortingly on Daeron's shoulders, trying not to be hurt when Daeron shook his hands off and moved away "What aren't you telling me?"

Daeron swallowed nervously "They...my mother, she...she wants me to...I've been ordered, I have to kill you," tears appeared, then and Daeron made a half hearted attempt to brush them away.

Lucos was quiet for a moment, molding his features into a blank mask and resting his weight on his back foot. He loved Daeron, but he wasn't going to allow himself to be killed. Dark grey eyes flickered around the room, looking for anything Daeron might think of to use as a weapon. His sword was across the room, with his armour but Lucos' was back in his own chambers. Daeron's dagger was behind Lucos on the cabinet and there was a dirk beneath the pillow. There were other objects that could potentially be used as a weapon but Lucos was willing to gamble that Daeron would move for a blade, and as such began planning an escape route for whichever weapons Daeron made a move towards.

But when after a moment, Daeron failed to move, Lucos; voice stoic; asked "Are you going to do it?"

This time the anger was directed at him "Of course I'm not! How in seven hells could you even ask that? I love you! I thought you believed me, or were you lying to me about that?"

"Love me enough to defy your family?"

"Yes," Daeron said, his voice still angry and full of conviction. Somehow, Lucos believed him, and allowed some; but not yet all; of the tension to seep from his body, relaxing his posture. Daeron sighed, chewing his lip anxiously. Lucos smiled slightly; it was a habit the boy had picked up from Lucos, one that drove his mother to near madness and was as yet undefeated, despite Alicent's attempts to make Daeron stop doing it. The smile dropped from his face at the taller boys words though "You need to leave, Lucos. I have no doubt that mother had told Lord Ormund to kill you should I fail in my 'duty'," the word duty was sneered in such a distasteful way that there was no question as to Daeron's opinion on that duty.

Lucos nodded slightly, pulling the rest of his clothes on and moving to the window, preparing to climb back to his own room and collect his sword before sneaking down to where Tessarion and Snowfyre were probably lazing, curled around each other under the winter sun that was shining over the city. Before he climbed out though, a thought struck him, one that made him pause and turn back to Daeron, who was stood over his desk on he far side of the room with tears running down his face.

"Come with me," he said, causing Daeron to snap around to face him "If you stay you'll have to fight for Aegon, you'll have no other choice. We'll be fighting each other and I can't do that. But I can't stay out of it, either. Even if I wished to, Aemond and Aegon would never let me; they'd force a fight no matter what I did,"

"Lucos," Daeron sighed "They're my family. I can't just abandon them,"

"Rhaenyra is your sister, too, and your father's named heir," the stocky boy argued back, and saw the conflict raging inside his friend and lover "You know what they've done is wrong, and Jace has been more of a brother to you these last years than Aemond or Aegon have. Daeron, I can't abandon Jace but I couldn't bring myself to face you on the field. Please don't make me choose,"

Almost as hesitantly as when they'd first kissed, Lucos leaned in once more and joined their lips together in a soft, tender kiss that he hoped to use as a way of bringing the love and affection Daeron oft claimed to hold for Lucos to the forefront of his mind. Despite how much he loved the other boy, Lucos wasn't above manipulating him to get what he wanted, just the same as Daeron held no such reservations for him, especially not when the success of that manipulation might just save him from the heartache of having to fight Daeron in battle.

When the kiss broke, Lucos looked into Daeron's eyes and waited for him to make his decision.

Chapter 8: Aemond I

Chapter Text

129 AC

Aemond

It had taken nearly a whole day of hard flight and would have taken even longer but for Vhagar's massive wingspan, but as the sun began to make it's descent behind the vast array of mountains to the west Aemond found himself approaching the formidable fortress of Storm's End, home of House Baratheon. Aemond had, on orders from his elder brother, set off from King's Landing at first light that morning in order to bring the Stormlords into the fold. It would be a difficult task, the one eyed man knew. The Baratheon's were close to the Velaryon's who would almost certainly declare for the Whore of Dragonstone, on account of their foolish belief that the bastard Jacaerys was the trueborn son of Laenor the sword-swallower. On the other hand, Aemond and Borros had met before, and the bulky and wrathful Lord of Storm's End didn't strike Aemond as the sort of man to care much about familial relationships. He was attracted to power and was desperate to marry off his four daughters to the highest ranking suitor's he could find. Already each of his vassal's had been denied the right to betroth their sons to one of Borros' girls. Convincing Borros shouldn't be too much of an issue; the issue was whether the Lords would follow their liege. In Aemond's mind he knew they should, it was their obligation, but Borros had offended them all in the past, and several were fond of the rogue, Daemon. It would be consistent with their previous luck if they managed to win over Borros, only for the Stormlords to depose House Baratheon.

Aemond still snarled over the treason of Darklyn and Marbrand. While the purge of the city and keep had gone well enough, with all of the men likely to support Rhaenyra either dead or locked in the black cells awaiting execution. It had seemed perfect. With no supporters within the city, Rhaenyra would have no way of knowing what was happening until it was too late and Aegon was crowned. But that night, as they were waiting on the Septon and their mother to arrange the coronation and for Ser Criston to gather an army, the two members of the Kingsguard had stolen King Viserys' crown and snuck out of the city under the cover of darkness, using a smuggler contact of Daemon's to set sail for Dragonstone. By the time anyone realized what had happened it was too late, and the traitors were out of reach. Matters were only made worse later that same day, when Lord Rosby and Lord Darklyn had put aside their fued and escaped the city together and were even now raising their levies and flying the Whore's banner, and a significant portion of the War Ships docked at King's Landing had sailed after Darklyn and Marbrand only to switch their allegiance mid voyage and join their power to Rhaenyra's

Despite those setbacks, their plans were progressing well. Rhaenyra was now gathering her forces together on Dragonstone, which presented a problem given her massive naval advantage, but Lord Redwyne had been given an offer he couldn't resist; the position of Master of Ships, a position of the Kingsguard for his younger son and a marriage to Daeron for one his niece's of sister's; and Dalton Greyjoy had been sent a raven asking for support. The Lannister's were already mobilizing for Aegon, Lord Tyland assured them, and Ser Criston had raised a strong force at King's Landing. The force that Aegon had taken to calling the 'Royal Army' was camped outside the city and burning through their food stuffs, and was currently standing at three thousand men raised from either the city itself or the surrounding area and supplemented by a further two thousand levies and men at arms from House's Chelsted, Edgerton, Cargyll and Hayford. When Aemond left they had been waiting only for the soldiers from house Byrch to arrive before they would march and join Lord's Gaunt and Thorne on the road. The Tyrell's, Tully's and Stark's had also been sent word as to the developments in the Crownlands and their support had been requested in exchange for lowered taxes for the next ten years. Finally, the High Septon had legitimized Aegon's rule by crowning him not a few days past with the Conqueror's crown and Ser Criston had knighted the young King with the sword Blackfyre, lent to him specially for that occasion.

Furthermore, Aemond had been informed that his grandfather Otto Hightower, Hand of the King, had reached out to the Triarchy of Lys, Myr and Tyrosh in an attempt to further resolve their problematic naval situation. While Aemond had his doubts about putting his trust in the alliance that held a burning hatred for all Targaryen's and dragons, he knew logically that they needed the sellsails and sellswords that the Triarch could provide. Not that they couldn't afford it themselves; Lannisport, King's Landing and Oldtown were the three largest city's in Westeros and all were supporting Aegon. Money wasn't much of an issue. However Lord Tyland had deemed it necessary to split the crown's treasury into four different parts; one sent to Casterly Rock, one to Oldtown, one to be stored by the Iron Bank and one remaining in King's Landing to be used for the war effort; in order to ensure Rhaenyra wouldn't control all of the their funding even if she managed to capture one of those locations. While they still had more than enough to hire whatever Sellsword they needed, they had yet to do so in earnest.

The last embers of sunlight were barely visible beyond the mountain peak's when Aegon had Vhagar land in front of the famous fortress. By all accounts, Storms End had never fallen to force of arms in all of it's long history. During the conquest, the garrison had surrendered rather than face Meraxes flame and turned over their Queen; naked and bound; to Orys Baratheon. Baratheon had married her instead of killing or raping her, and taken her families arms and seat as his own. Looking at the fortress, Aemond couldn't help but be impressed. The castle stood on the edge of a sheer cliff, over the edge of which there was a high fall into the jagged rocks of Ship Breaker Bay. There was a massive, circular curtain wall standing at a hundred feet tall and at least half a score thick on it's thinnest, land facing side. On the seaward side it must have been twice that. The curving shape of the sleet grey wall was so perfect, so flawless that Aemond marveled at it's construction. No man could scale these walls and as the legends told it no storm could break them either. Beyond the wall stood a single massive drum tower, reaching up into the sky and topped with formidable battlements. From a distance it had looked that a statue of a spiked, plated fist striking at the sky.

For all it's might, though, the castle was still vulnerable to dragonfire. It seemed the guards knew that as they hurried to open the gates for him. Vhagar was, after all, much bigger now than Meraxes had been then.

Before long, Aemond found himself being escorted inside the massive tower by Ser Davos Baratheon, the younger brother of Lord Borros and the Master at Arms of the castle. Ser Davos cut an impressive figure. He stood at a foot and a taller than Aemond, who was a fairly tall man himself. The man's arms were as thick as tree trunks and his chest and shoulders seemed to be a solid mass of broad muscle. He had dark lanky hair, a thin beard of the same color and deep blue eyes. The way his sword hand never moved off the pommel of his sword told Aemond that the man wasn't in charge of training the Baratheon troops for no reason, and that fighting him would likely be a considerable challenge. Aemond kept his sly grin to himself. Tough though Baratheon looked, Aemond got the impression that like his brother he wasn't the quickest person in the world. As a fighter he'd likely rely on brute force and wouldn't be able to match Aemond for speed. Still; he wasn't here to practice his swordplay.

It seemed he'd arrived just in time, as the minute he stepped inside there was a flash of light followed shortly by the boom of thunder, as rain began falling. Just a miserable drizzle at first but within minutes it had picked up to the point were the rain was lashing violently against the window's of the feast hall and bouncing of the dirt ground outside. The wind howled throughout the yard of the castle and the sound of waves crashing against the cliffs could be heard even over everything else. Aemond winced as he heard Vhagar release a disgruntled roar that had the nearby Baratheon guardsmen stiffening and paling in fear, their hands flying to the hilt of their swords.

Aemond was led to the far end of the feast hall where Lord Borros sat in the elegant and ornate Lord's seat in the center of the head table, garbed in finely tailored clothing in his house's colours. Borros hadn't changed all that much since the last time he and Aemond had met. He was still wearing a thick and bushy black beard and long black hair. While not as large as his brother, the Lord was still formidable in appearance even if some of his muscles did seem to be going lax. The Lord of the Stormlands was flanked by a number of others; there was a rather young Maester standing to the right of the antlered chair on Borros' left and to the right stood an older man with a turtle on his surcoat. He wasn't an Estermont though, but Aemond's knowledge of Stormlands house's failed him in this case. There was also a rather beautiful red headed woman sitting to Borros' left in a red and white dress; a Connington, no doubt. Crowded around the head table, four young girls; all of them black haired and ranging from the age of eleven namedays to seventeen; and two young boys stared at him in curiosity. The girls must have been Lord Baratheon's daughters and the boys, Aemond guessed, were Ser Davos' brood.

"Prince Aemond," Lord Borros boomed, his face and tone serious, his eyes lit with excitement "We are honoured to welcome the King's second son into our home. May I ask what purpose you have come here for?"

"Your allegiance, my Lord," he said simply, his tone neutral "My father is dead. He passed in his sleep a week past,"

"My condolence's, my Prince. You mentioned my allegiance? I was unaware that you and your sister are on good enough terms for you to be trusted with collecting oaths of fealty,"

"My relationship with my family is none of your concern, my Lord," Aemond stomped down on the spark of anger that Borros' words stirred up "And it is my brother, King Aegon the Second, to whom you owe fealty. Upon his deathbed, my father named Aegon his heir and now we seek aid in defeating the usurper Rhaenyra Targaryen,"

"I see. Sleeping men are often in the habit of changing their wills moments before death," Borros sneered and Aemond tensed, cursing the terrible story his mother and brother had constructed. He doubted any justification or story would be needed. Those who would support them would do so whether Aegon was Viserys official heir or not "However much it grieves me, I must deny your request, my Prince,"

"You realize to deny King Aegon your support would be treason?" Aemond hissed, and tightened his grip on his sword when Davos began to unsheathe his blade and the Baratheon guards in the hall subtly prepared for a fight.

"Peace, brother," Borros waved a hand at the larger man, and the tall knight placed his sword back in it's sheath "And is it now common courtesy to name a man 'Traitor' in his own home?" Aemond felt very unnerved suddenly and he remembered where he was. He wasn't safe and protected inside the Red Keep; if Borros sided with Rhaenyra, he could kill him easily and without reprimand. He hadn't been given bread or salt yet.

"My apologies, my Lord, it has been a long flight and I yet grieve for my late father. Perhaps a glass a wine and something to eat would calm my nerves,"

Borros looked amused but signaled for one of his servants to bring out a tray with a small bowl of salt and some pieces of bread. Gratefully, and trying to hide the edge of desperation that spurred his actions, Aemond took one of the pieces and, after dipping it in the salt a little, brought the food to his mouth. It was dry and a few days stale, likely some deliberate slight for his accusations of treason, but it made him safe. Washing the bread down with some wine, Aemond focussed his mind on the discussion he was about to have with Lord Baratheon, hoping he could keep his temper under control for once in his life.

"I confess, I was surprised you did not request guest right as soon as you walked through those doors, Prince Aemond," Borros told him, almost mocking "These are dangerous times we live in,"

"As I said, I am not myself these last days,"

"Of course. Family is such an important thing. I have long believed it to be a man's first priority," Borros said slowly, emphasizing every word. What does he mean to say? Aemond wondered, knowing he would likely be told soon. His family were tied to the Velaryon's, Aemond knew. Could that be his meaning? "I have four unwed daughters. Until they are married, I couldn't possibly distract myself with thoughts of war,"

Suddenly, Aemond knew what Borros was looking for and grinned a rakish grin "But my Lord, were you not informed? I am yet to marry and the beauty of your daughters is legendary," flattery was the best road here, Aemond decided "Why, I would be most honoured if you would bless me with the hand of one of your daughters,"

"How could I refuse such a fabulous offer," Borros beamed, as though it was all Aemond's idea and not something he'd desperately wanted "Of course, should you marry into my family, then by blood I am obligated to fight for your brother,"

Just as Aemond was about to open his mouth to agree to the offer, the doors opened once again and the name announced by the steward sent rage flowing through Aemond's veins.

"Prince Lucerys Velaryon, to treat with Lord Borros Baratheon,"

The accursed boy looked just like that fool of a knight the Whore had lain with, Harwin Brokenbones. If the brown hair and eyes were not enough evidence of their bastard heritage, then surely the pug nose the Strong's were so famous for must be. With a tall and stocky frame, Lucerys looked almost the spitting image of Harwin Strong, with barely a trace of Valyrian heritage to be found in his face. It infuriated Aemond to see the boy standing there, so arrogant and proud despite his sopping wet traveling clothes and most annoyingly with two damned eyes. The bastard had attacked a prince and the punishment for such was usually the loss of the hand that had been used to do the attacking. By all rights, Lucerys should be short a hand right now as punishment for when he had knifed out Aemond's eye. Personally though, Aemond agreed with his mother's desire to have the boy's eye carved out in retribution. But father had always favourited Rhaenyra's second son, something that irked both Alicent and her sons endlessly. Even as Aemond watched, Lucerys caught sight of the older Prince and blanched, something that brought a viscous smile to Aemond's face.

"Prince Lucerys, we in Storm's End are most honoured to welcome you into our home. What do we owe the pleasure of this visit?" Borros asked politely, and Aemond gritted his teeth, trying to will himself to relax. He's already agreed; he's just respecting courtesy.

Lucerys glanced at him and swallowed nervously "Lord Baratheon, the honour is all mine. My thanks for seeing me so promptly," he began "May I request some refreshments, my Lord? It was a hard flight,"

"Of course, my Prince,"

After eating the bread and salt and drinking from the goblet of wine much like Aemond had, and successfully placing himself under the protection of Lord Borrow, the Strong bastard began "As you are no doubt aware, my grandfather the King is dead and the traitor Aegon Targaryen has usurped my mother's rightful throne,"

"According to Prince Aemond, King Viserys named Aegon is his heir before his death," Lord Baratheon began.

"Aemond is deceiving you, then," Lucerys glared at him "For all his reign Grandfather declared Rhaenyra to be his heir, and had his Lords and bannermen swear oaths of fealty to her. Why would he now change his mind without telling anyone but the Hightower brood,"

"Mayhaps because by all the laws of men a son inherits before a woman," the Maester said, and Aemond found enjoyment in watching Lucerys flounder for a response and found he couldn't resist commenting.

"Aren't you brave, little Luke Strong, coming here with nothing more than a traitor's claim and a hatchling dragon. Where's your brother? Too craven to face me?"

"My brother is not craven," Lucerys growled in anger, before closing his eyes and breathing deeply. When he opened his eyed again, his brown orbs; though still clouded by anger; were much more composed "I'm not here to fight you, uncle. I have a task and it's completion is all I mean to do here,"

"I dare say you won't be. What could a runt like you offer Lord Baratheon," the bastard hesitated "Run back to your mother and hide behind her skirts, boy, and let the Ryder bastard fight for you, as you always have,"

Lucerys snapped back at that "I don't need anyone else to fight for me nor anyone to hide behind. I'm man enough to fight you Aemond and I'll gladly take your other eye to prove it,"

Aemond's control shattered at that comment and the knowledge that rather than provoke Lucerys into a fight; as he'd been intending to do, to try and discredit him in front of the Baratheon's; the opposite had happened only further fueled his fury. In one swift and fluid movement Aemond had drawn his sword and began advancing on the smaller Prince. Lucerys in response started backing away and drawing his own blade at the same time. The thought that Lucerys could defeat Aemond in a fight was ludicrous and the sapphire eyed Prince relished in the chance to show the bastard just how outmatched he was. He wouldn't kill him, of course. A sword fight offered so many possibilities that weren't guaranteed in a dragon battle. Capturing the boy and then carving pieces out of him; starting with the eyes; to make his whore sister and her brood of bastards suffer would be far more enjoyable.

He was about to make the first move when he suddenly found a pair of spears hovering at his throat and Davos Baratheon's hand-and-a-half sword resting on his shoulder, half an inch from his throat. There were a pair of Baratheon guardsmen standing near Lucerys too, their weapons lowered and ready but not actually threatening him. Lord Borros had pushed his chair back and stood furiously "I will not allow any guest beneath my roof to kill another, now both of you put away your blades!" he roared, and while Lucerys offered him a look of apology and did as asked, Aemond harshly shoved his blade back into the scabbard "Prince Lucerys, Prince Aemond raises a valid point. What can you offer us in exchange for our support? Why should we fight?"

"My father's grandmother was Jocelyn Baratheon, your own aunt. Your father, Lord Boremund swore to support my mother's claim and to aid my grandmother, Princess Rhaenys if she ever called. She has; she calls for the aid of the Stormlands,"

"My father made such oaths, but I was a child when he did and swore no such oaths myself," Aemond watched with glee as Lucerys' face fell from where he had been surrounded by Baratheon guards "Prince Aemond has offered to wed one of my daughters. How many will you wed?"

Lucerys went still and his eyes fluttered around nervously "I...I can't, it's...None. I can wed none, for I am already betrothed to Princess Rhaena,"

"You think your mother's cousin is worth more than one of my daughters and all of the Stormlands?" Lord Borros sneered

"No, my Lord, but it would be a slight against both the gods and mine own family to break such a betrothal; especially mere weeks before we are to marry,"

Borros grunted in dissatisfaction "It seems my allegiance isn't worth much to Lady Rhaenyra after all," he turned to his servants "Escort our royal guests to some guest chambers. Draw them baths and have food sent to them; they will be our honoured guests as I make my decision. Make sure their chambers are guarded against each other and as far from each other as possible,"

"At once, my Lord," was the chorused response.

Aemond found himself escorted to a modest set of rooms that he would spend the next few nights in. Rather bare and with a plain, yet large and comfortable bed and a small hearth in the room. The only window was a narrow slit in the wall that was paned with glass from the Sweetport Sound, one of Rhaenyra's bannermen. Aemond wasn't confined to the room, far from it. He was free to wander the castle and he did so liberally; exploring the halls of the impressively large and spacious tower keep of Storm's End. The fortress' single tower was so large that the Lord's chamber, family apartments, guest rooms, barracks, armory, Maester's study, feast hall, kitchens and granary were all to be found within. Kept safe behind the curtain wall but not within the keep were the practice yard, archery range, forge, stables and kennels. When he wasn't exploring, he was outside in the yard, testing his arm against the Baratheon household guard or the unlanded knights currently in Lord Borros' service. Despite many requests, Ser Davos had refused his offer of a match. Aemond took him for a craven, but he'd heard whispers from the other guards about how the Master at Arms was the greatest warrior in the Seven Kingdoms; better than Aemond himself, the Kingsguard, Daemon or any other swordsman that could be named. Aemond found himself curious about the other man.

Every night for three days, Borros held a lavish feast in his hall. All of his family, household and guardsmen (barring those on watch duty) were present as were Lucerys and Aemond. However each day the hall got a little more full. On the first night several minor Lords and a dozen or more landed knights arrived with a few courtiers and guardsmen each. On the second day they were joined by more minor Lords and landed knights, but on that night Aemond had been shocked to see the arrival of Lord Arlan Connington, identifiable because of the red and white breastplate he wore, who marched proudly up to Lord Borros and after the standard courtesy had passed, the man had embraced Lord Baratheon in a strong hug. On the third night Lord Bryan Buckler, Lord Raynard Staedmon and Lumus Fell; the heir of Fellwood; arrived. For the entirety of the fourth day, all the Lords met in Lord Baratheon's solar for a discussion Aemond was not made privy to, though he could easily guess the topic. Why Borros was calling only nearby Lords was a mystery, but if it made the man's task of making a decision pass quicker Aemond wasn't going to complain.

At about noon of the fifth day, Aemond and Lucerys were once more standing in front of Lord Baratheon and his family in the main room, though this time they were also being closely observed by several dozen Lord and knights of varying rank and importance. It was raining again. The storm had been on and off since his arrival, often stopping and starting as many as half a dozen times a day. Sometime were worse than others, but never before had it reached it's worst levels. When the Storm's got too bad, the doors to the tower and the main gate were sealed shut and everyone in the castle were called back into the tower keep. Today was one of those days. The storm raged worse than Aemond had ever heard it, or in fact ever heard any storm.

"My Prince's, after consulting with my Lords I have reached my decision," Baratheon paused, and Aemond was acutely aware of his hammering heart "It is my pleasure to announce the betrothal of Prince Aemond of House Targaryen to my second daughter, Aelix of House Baratheon!"

The assembled courtiers and Lords applauded at this, and Aemond let a smug smile appear on his face as he turned to look at the rapidly paling Lucerys.

"Prince Lucerys it has been an honour to host you during your stay, however I fear this is the end of your visit," Lord Borros said with faux sadness "As I am now Prince Aemond's good father, I am obligated to fight for him in this war; making you my enemy,"

Lucerys' hand flew to his sword and his eyes flew to the barred doors, before glancing around at the arrayed mass of armed Stormlanders. Aemond believed snow to be less pale than the boy at that moment.

"Be at ease my Prince, for none may harm you while you are under my protection," Borros assured, causing Aemond's furious gaze to snap onto him "But I believe it is time for you to leave. Fly back to Dragonstone, little Prince and give your mother my answer.

The second the doors were opened Lucerys bolted, paying no heed to the gale that nearly lifted him off his feet and instead focused on running for his dragon, the cerulean blue beast he'd named Arrax. As the guardsmen were once more closing the large wooden doors to the keep, Aemond turned back to the Lord of the castle and opened his mouth to yell, scream, shout and unleash his rage at the man for letting his chance at revenge escape. However before he could do so, Borros caught his eye and subtly motioned for the door. It took but a moment for Aemond to realize what he was telling him and when he did he was also running. He ignored the mutterings of the guards as they were forced to open the doors once more and ignored the rain that drenched him from head to heel as he made for Vhagar. None may harm you while you are under my protection, Borros had said and none would. Stupid boy, he thought with a malicious grin, if he'd stayed he would have been safe. The second the boy had left Storm's End he'd left the safety guest right offered.

It didn't take long to mount Vhagar, fasten his riding chains and take flight. Nor did it take too much time before he caught up to Arrax. Though the howling winds were slowing Vhagar somewhat, the flapping of the mount's massive wings was powerful enough to propel him through the storm without many problems. The significantly smaller Arrax was not having as much success. The small dragon was being tossed this way and that in the winds and Lucerys was struggling to keep control. Before long, Aemond had had his fun with stalking the boy, and above Shipbreaker Bay he urged Vhagar to rise through the mist and clouds to reveal himself to his quarry. Even from the back of Vhagar Aemond could nearly taste the fear in the boy as he realized what had happened. Tugging sharply on the reigns, Lucerys tried to swerve to the side to avoid Vhagar but he had tried to move into the wind, and didn't move nearly as much as he'd wanted to if the frantic motions he was making served as any indication. Instead, due to the failure of his evasion, Vhagar was able to tear her claws down the smaller dragons side, raking massive gashed that stretched from back to belly.

He could finish it easily, but Aemond wanted to relish this. Arrax tried to swerve again and this time managed to avoid Vhagar's attack. The problem was that the storm threw the dragon and it's young rider of course and out of control. By the time Lucerys regained control, it was too late and Vhagar was on them again, this time crashing her whole body into Arrax's smaller one, sending the smaller one into another uncontrollable spin. From his position atop Vhagar's back, Aemond could see Lucerys struggling to hold on. It seemed as though the younger rider hadn't taken the time to fasten his chains correctly. It was a mistake that would cost him, Aemond knew, not that Vhagar was ever in a position to lose.

After several more moments of toying with the Strong bastard and his dragon, slowly and steadily inflicting a variety of small wounds upon the young blue dragons body, Aemond decided it was time to finish the fight. Aemond had Vhagar turn into a steep dive and crashed into Arrax once more. Using a combination of teeth and claws, Vhagar ripped at Arrax's wing, tearing it to shreds. Crippled and injured, Vhagar approached once more and clamped his jaws around Arrax's neck, the larger dragon plunging her claws deep into the belly of the smaller one. Vhagar's jaws tightened and he began pulling and tearing, seemingly trying to take Arrax's head off. A fall into the sea from this height would crush every bone in the bastards body and Aemond couldn't wait to see it.

It might have been some sort of sixth sense that urged him to move his head when he did; it might have been pure chance; or it may have been that he actually heard or saw some indicator and responded without thinking. Aemond was unsure. What he was sure of was that he heard the sound of rushing wings and then suddenly a sword was flashing out from his flank. If he hadn't moved his head when he did, he'd be struggling to continue living without it. As it was, the familiar stinging pain of a live blade slicing across his skin made itself known to him. The pain stretch from just below his remaining eye, across his cheek and round to his ear and was clearly no mere scratch as he felt blood start flowing freely down his face. As he turned to see who it was that had attacked him, a heavy weight crashed into Vhagar's side, dislodging her from Arrax's neck. Aemond glared at the icy blue dragon that had dived at them. Only one person flew a dragon that colour and it meant that Daeron had been too weak to complete his mission.

Snowfyre was only about a third of Vhagar's size, but despite that was large enough to resist the winds of the storm and beyond that, Ryder was a frustratingly skilled rider. He wouldn't make the mistakes Lucerys had made. Still, Aemond had faith that his own mount's size advantage would be enough to defeat Ryder and his blasted dragon. That faith lasted right up until he wheeled around to fly at Snowfyre only to be set upon by another blue dragon, this one an azure shade. As his vision started to cloud with red, Aemond's eyes found the rider of this new opponent and when he did his rage rose to unparallelled levels.

It was Daeron; his weakling little brother had betrayed them for the Whore, the bastards and the Northerner. But even in his rage, Aemond was aware enough to notice the calming of the storm, and he knew that in a fight against three dragons; and it was three, as Arrax (though heavily injured) would still be able to attack when Vhagar was distracted fighting Tessarion and Snowfyre; in a situation where they'd be able to utilize their speed and maneuverability, there was a chance that Vhagar could lose. Given how badly outnumbered they were by the rebels in terms of dragons, Aemond knew it was a risk he couldn't afford to take. No matter how much he yearned to take all three of their heads.

So, ignoring his gut instinct, Aemond turned and began to retreat back to Storms End, where the scorpions and catapults atop the battlements of the tower and the wall would deter his brother and his attack dog from following. Aemond was revealed to be correct only a moment later, when he heard Daeron yelling for Ryder not to pursue. Aemond shook his head. Much as he would have liked to fight the traitors, they couldn't afford to lose Vhagar so early in the war, even if it was only a slim chance.

Besides, Aemond remembered, someone had to deliver the news to Aegon. The one eyed man sighed as Storm's End came back into view. His elder brother had never been as good at handling his emotions; most specifically his anger; as well as Aemond. The Prince wasn't looking forward to telling Aegon of their youngest brothers treason. Mother and Helaena would be bad enough; it would break their hearts; but Aegon...it would likely be explosive, to say the least.

Chapter 9: Jacaerys II

Chapter Text

129 AC

Jacaerys

Jacaerys Velaryon had grown up around intimidating men. The most prominent among them was his Great Uncle Daemon, of course. There wasn't a man in the world who could deny that the legendary Rogue Prince was a man to be feared. Jace had spent his early childhood in fear of the sharp and stern gaze the man would turn on you if you displeased him. His physical stature, Daemon being taller than most and rather broad across the chest and shoulders, and famous swordsmanship only served to make him even more of an imposing figure, one that was quickly feared and respected by any who stood in his presence. Jace supposed Caraxes might have something to do with it as sight of Daemon, clad head to toe in black plate, sat atop the blood wyrm was an awe inspiring sight.

Each of the Kingsguard, with the exception of the kind-faced Ser Willis and the soft spoken Ser Lorent, were similarly intimidating though to a far lesser extent. The tall and lean Cargyll brothers, though young, had proven themselves more than capable and Jace found their unsettling quietness unnerving. Ser Criston was rather the opposite. He was nothing short of a hulking giant, in the Prince's estimation, and far louder than any of the others. Taller than even Uncle Daemon and half again as broad, Jace had always likened him to a bellowing bull. Ser Steffon was curt and his gaze always hard and disapproving but it was Ser Rickards collection of brutal scars and his barely suppressed cruelty that had left Jace terrified when he was younger.

Larys Strong had always been among the worst though. Despite the fact that the man's body was thin and weak and his deformed legs meant that fighting was impossible for him; even little Aegon could take the man in a square fight, Jace thought; there was an air of danger that surrounded him. His velvety smooth voice had never failed to set Jace on edge, his words always carried a hint of a threat and his eyes seemed to stare straight into your heart to dig out all your secrets. Everytime he spoke, he gave the impression that he knew something that he shouldn't know.

Jacaerys Velaryon had grown up surrounded by fearsome men. But as he stared into the cold, hard eyes of Cregan Stark, Jace had never felt more intimidated.

"Your mother wants my support," Stark said after a few moments of tense silence, his voice even but every bit as cold and hard as his eyes were "Why should I give it?"

The man was blunt, Jacaerys realized. There had been no exchange of pleasantries or courtesies. He hadn't even been offered bread and salt and truthfully that worried him more than anything else about the whole situation.

He had arrived in Winterfell a mere few minutes before hand, landing outside the ancient castle and instantly being escorted to the Great Hall by a long faced, dark haired man clad in furs, leather and a mail hauberk that, after meeting Lord Cregan, Jace knew could only be another Stark. Unlike every southern castle and holdfast he had stopped at on his flight north, the guards of Winterfell barely flinched when Vermax passed overhead or landed beyond their walls. They were tense, Jace had been able to tell as he was led into the castle, but they didn't falter from their posts and hid their fear well. White Harbor had been the same when he landed there, forced to a stop due to a heavy snowfall that Vermax would not fly through.

Stark had been seated in the Lords seat when he had arrived at the Great Hall. The table that; presumably; usually sat upon the dais had been removed as had the long tables that Jace suspected usually spanned the length of the room, leaving Stark's throne like chair to be the only furniture in the room. The hall itself was a dreary place. Barely a fraction of the brackets on the walls held torches and even on those the flame was small and weak. The hall was left grey and gloomy and most of all cold. A dozen guardsmen lined each of the walls. Their armour was minimal, wearing only boiled leather and a mail hauberk, and a helmet made of thick hide and framed by bronze. All of them had their hands resting over hilt of their swords. Jace had made the long walk from the large oaken doors of the hall with another half a dozen men behind him, arranged into two lines of three on his left and right, and another three in front of him, including the Stark that had greeted him outside the gates. With every step, the intense urge to flee had gotten stronger until he was left standing in front of the Warden of the North, who sat with a greatsword nearly as tall as the man himself laying across his lap, blade bare. The dark rippling effect told Jace it was Valyrian Steel.

Jace had felt vulnerable. He was wearing riding leathers and had only a dagger on his belt for protection. That had been meant as a gesture of good will, though Jace now felt as if it was a foolish mistake.

"She does," Jace replied after a brief moment to pull himself together, deciding that being equally blunt with Stark. All of his charm and diplomacy would be no use here "The traitor Aegon has crowned himself King and declared war on us. My mother, Queen Rhaenyra, calls upon the Starks for aid,"

"The traitor Aegon? Some would claim your mother is the traitor,"

"Some fools. Mother has been my Grandfather's heir since she was ten years old. That didn't change when Aegon was born, nor Aemond or Daeron. Why would it change on his death bed?"

Stark considered that for a moment "A compelling argument. One could of course say that the late King decided to adhere to Andal traditions as he lay on his death bed. The truth of it will never be known by me and matters not anyway. Your mother wants to sit her arse on that ugly iron chair you call a throne, whether Viserys wanted her to have it or no, and she needs my help to do it," he said "Have I got the right of it, boy?"

Jace bristled "My mother is your rightful Queen, my Lord," he said, pouring as much scorn into title as he could muster "It would not be wise to disrespect her,"

Stark snorted "One young boy and his dagger, standing in my home, begging for my help, surrounded by my men thinks he has the power to lecture me on my manners," the other Stark, the older one that had escorted him in, smiled at that "Very well then, My Prince, allow me to ask you a question. Why should I send good Northmen to die in some southron's war? Why should we concern ourselves with who sits the Iron Throne? What difference will it make to my people whether Aegon or Rhaenyra win this war of theirs? The North has never been involved in the affairs of the south and they have never impacted on us. Why should we start now?"

Jace said nothing for a moment "You could have denied me entry," he said finally, "You could have turned me away at the gates and kept the North out of the war. Why didn't you? Or else you could have seized me and turned me over to Aegon, winning his favor without ever having to send a single Northman south of Moat Cailin. Why haven't you?"

"Perhaps I should," Stark said lowly and several guards shifted their weight, loosening their swords in their scabbards, "As you say, by giving you to him I could ensure that the new King holds us in good favour without having to march my armies south. With the strength of the Reach, Riverlands and the Westerlands behind them; and the Vale's forces trapped by the ice in their valley's, your mother can't hope to match her brother in the field,"

"Then why have you not already declared for Aegon, if his victory is so assured?" Jace asked, lifting an eyebrow, suspecting that Stark had already made his mind up and was simply holding back in order to gain something.

Stark was silent and then his lips quirked ever so slightly. It wasn't a smile, nor even a smirk. But it showed a sort of dry amusement. He held his hand out and the Maester who had seamlessly blended into the shadows in the back of the room stepped forward, withdrawing a scroll from his sleeve and placing it into the outstretched hand.

"A raven from King's Landing arrived two days ago, bearing this letter," the Lord of Winterfell said before he read aloud from the parchment "'Lord Stark, My Father, King Viserys of House Targaryen has died and I have been crowned as his rightful heir. My treacherous sister, the whore Rhaenyra Targaryen, seeks what is mine by right and has begun a rebellion against my rule. She has begun gathering forces on Dragonstone and has made clear her intent to unlawfully seize the throne. I hereby command you to marshall the armies of the North and march them to the aid of your lawful king, Signed King Aegon of House Targaryen, Second of his Name, King of the Andals and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm'", he stopped "This boy is even more impertinent than you are Velaryon. What victories has he won that gives him the right to command me to do anything. What battles has he fought in?

Jacaerys saw a chance and seized on it "Neither my mother or I are commanding anything, Lord Stark," he explained "We are asking. And those who answer will not be forgotten nor will they go unrewarded,"

Stark turned his gaze back to Jace "You still haven't answered my question, boy,"

"You want to know why you should send Northmen to fight for us? To die for us?" he asked and when Stark nodded he smirked, the same one he'd learned from watching his his great uncle "Why don't you tell me? You already know what you want or you wouldn't have granted me an audience. Name your price, Lord Stark, and I will pay it,"

There was a long pause. Jace waited with bated breath to see if his gamble paid off. After a moment Stark smiled viciously "Very well. We will discuss terms for an alliance between House's Stark and Targaryen. But later," when Jace made to protest, Stark cut across him "Your journey has been long and I'm sure you are tired. We have chambers prepared for you in the guest house. Bread and salt will be provided and I would be honoured for you to eat with my family here in the great hall tonight. Until then you are free to explore Winterfell to your hearts content,"

After Stark left the hall with his brother, the Maester and most of the guards, Jace found himself being led out of the great hall and across the courtyard to the guest house by a shy young maid, only a year or two older than he himself was. The yard was filled with sound. On the far side, the song of a hammer hitting steel rang out of the smithy while raw recruits clumsily ran through drills with sword and spear under the watchful eye of a bear of a man. Winterfell's Master at Arms, Jace supposed. Age had turned the man gaunt in the face but his body was still stout and strong. A long grey beard fell to mid chest and all but a few tufts of white hair on his head was gone. As Jace watched, the man barked out orders and insults in a powerful booming voice, his words viciously tearing into one of the recruits as he badly fumbled the maneuver they were practicing.

"As soon as the False King's letter arrived, Lord Stark sent his cousins out into the lands around Winterfell with orders to recruit 40 young men to serve as half of Winterfell's new household guard, while most of the current men ride south," someone told him, and Jace turned to see one of the guards who had been present in the hall standing a pace and a half behind him "My apologies, my Prince. My name is Keyryn. Lord Stark has bid me be your escort and sworn sword for the time you are here,"

Jace accepted this with a nod. No alliance had been formalized yet and he was a potential enemy in Stark's home. Even so, Keyryn's words rung inside his head and struck at something within him.

"He began preparations when he received Aegon's declaration?" he questioned.

"Yes my Prince,"

His suspicions confirmed, Jace nodded and turned away from the training recruits, continuing to follow the young servant girl; who had stopped and waited a little ways ahead of him, hearing his guard follow behind him. Stark, it seemed had indeed always intended to become involved in the war in the south and Jace suspected he had already planned to support his mother. The question of what exactly Stark wanted in exchange remained but the Prince nonetheless felt the threat to his safety was far lower than he had feared.

The guest house was a large structure, larger than the great hall and First Keep but smaller than the Great Keep. It sat on the edge of the main courtyard, overlooking the sparring area and archery range. The armoury was directly the building while a tall and thick section of the inner wall rose up against the far side of the structure, beyond which, Jace could see, was the Winterfell Godswood. It was said to be the largest in the world, spanning more than 2 acres of land and with trees taller than the walls themselves. The latter Jace could now attest to as he could see the tops of some sentinels and oaks reaching further than even the tallest tower of the castle. On the inside, he was led to some of the best chambers Winterfell had available for guests, kept ready by the Starks in case they were ever visited by royalty, as they had been in the days of Jahaerys and Alysanne. According to Betha, the servant, he had been granted use of the same quarters. They were quite luxurious, by Northern Standards, though still far more plain than any Jace had ever used in the south.

After a warm bath and changing into a pair of fine cloth clothes, if rather drab in colour and material, that had been provided by Lord Stark, Jace ventured out into the castle, Keyryn beside him the whole time. In truth, Winterfell was unlike any other castle he had been to. The outer wall was eighty feet high, the inner wall a hundred and the two of them were separated by a wide moat of near freezing water. The only way across, other than swimming, was by crossing one of the drawbridge's that connected the four inner gates to their outermost counterparts. The gates on both walls were massive things, with large crenelated bulwarks on either side and a portcullis that could be raised and lowered at will. It was a formidable castle. Taking it by storm would be near impossible.

The Godswood, according to Keyryn, was not two acres of land. It was three. Jace had been shocked to hear it, believing that giving up three acres of land for a small forest to be far too much. It would have been, to his mind, far more useful to use most of that land for buildings or farmland. All of his reasoning was discarded when he walked through the Godswood though. It had been dark, only faint slivers of light managing to break through the dense foliage overhead to illuminate the area. Yet there was a beauty to it, of sorts. A sort of wild beauty that he'd gotten only the vaguest sense of as he flew over the land on his way to Winterfell. More than that, there was a certain presence in the wood that Jace could not place; a powerful one. The young Prince, being a follower of the Seven (though not a particularly devout one), had not felt welcome there. He'd stayed only long enough to see the ancient Heart Tree, a wierwood that was taller and thicker than any other Jace had ever seen, before hastily retreating from the area.

When the sun began its descent, Jace began making his way back towards the Great Hall where Lord Stark had invited him to dine with his family. As he trudged through the snow covered ground, Jace wondered whether this would be an easy negotiation or a difficult one. At Gulltown, the first place he visited, it had been easy; the gate had been opened as soon as Vermax's shadow had passed over the city. Lord Gulian Grafton was a red faced and portly man, with a love of food, wine, women and tourney's, in that order. The mention of Uncle Daemon's close friendship with Braavos and Pentos and the possibility of a significant boost in trade had brought the man to their side rather quickly. Lord Kyle Royce; the nine year old Lord of Runestone; had been even easier.

"We Remember," he had said, their house's words "I will not forget the oath my house made to yours. House Royce is yours,"

Already, Willum Royce was raising his nephew's banners. Unfortunately not all of the Vale had been as easy to convince. Similarly to Lord Royce, Lady Jeyne had instantly reaffirmed her house's fealty to his mother upon his arrival at the Bloody Gate and she had managed to bring most of the Vale to their cause along with her. The Cobray's had declared for Aegon, as would the Belmoore's. The Redforts, whose Lord was good-brother to Lord Cobray, would follow shortly behind and Lady Arryn suspected a number of others; less significant but a threat when combined; would follow. Ser Raymun Templeton, the loyal and dependable Knight of Ninestars, had already been dispatched to raise a force and crush these rebellious houses and bring them back into the fold.

After the Eyrie he had flown to the Sisters and from there to White Harbour. The men of the Sisters had been pirates, reavers and slavers for a long time and while they were now officially sworn to House Arryn, and had been for nearly two centuries, they were still largely independent. Lord Sunderland had been true to his people's nature and tricky to win but after hours of haggling they had reached an agreement. In exchange for being allowed to keep one tenth of the cargo carried by any Westerosi ship that was wrecked upon their shores and unrestricted access to the hold of any shipwrecked pirate vessel they found the armies and fleets of the Sisters would fight against Aegon for them.

Lord Manderly was the exact opposite. In contrast the cold rooms, measly portions of food and overly sour wines he had been treated to at Sisterton, Lord Manderly had spared no expense on his comfort. He had been met by two score of men to serve as his honour guard through the city. He had ended up staying there for three days and three nights whereas he had left the Sisters as soon as he could, though his lengthier stay in the North's only port city was perhaps more to do with the snowstorm that blew over and grounded Vermax. Every meal was of the highest quality, an old and very expensive Arbor gold was brought up from the cellars specially for his visit and his chambers opulent and warm. Where Lord Sunderland's hall was drab and plain the Merman's court; Lord Manderly's great hall in the New Castle; was bright and opulent with its wooden walls beautifully decorated by a stunning painting of all the creatures of the sea. He was allowed to wander the city at will and though smaller than King's Landing and Gulltown it was far more impressive. The harbour defence's were genius and, if the war was won and he oneday became King, he had every intention of building an outer harbour and a high curtain wall to offer extra protection to the inner harbour. Offering a place in the smaller inner harbour for a small tariff would bring more coin in and give more protection to the Royal Fleet as well.

However Lord Sunderland was open to negotiation. Lord Manderly was not.

"No man of White Harbour will march until Lord Stark does," he had been told. The Lord of White Harbour had apologized and Jace could tell he meant it. Were it not for his immense loyalty to Winterfell, Jace suspected the generous Lord would have already raised his mother's banner above his castle.

Jace shook his head to clear it of thought of past negotiations and alliances. He would need his focus tonight. He arrived at the Great Hall and after a moment of hesitation he steeled his resolve and pushed open the doors. He was met with a wall of sound that caused him to wince slightly as he stepped inside. Two long wooden tables had been set up spanning the length of the hall. It seemed everyone from Winterfell was here tonight. Two thirds of the Stark household guard were in attendance drinking and eating and dicing and laughing. The two score of fresh recruits were present too, being regaled with stories from some of the more experienced men. The Master at Arms, a man who must of been the blacksmith, the man he saw working in the kennels earlier that day and what looked to be his family and a host of others crowded the benches.

There was no herald to announce his presence, which Jace found was in keeping with Lord Stark's blunt attitude, so he began to walk towards the dais. Lord Stark sat on his wierwood throne, though his greatsword was no longer present. A young boy of about three sat on his immediate right followed by a young girl who looked remarkably similar to Stark. She seemed younger than the Lord but a little older than Jace himself. Lord Stark's sister perhaps? Or a cousin? It didn't truly matter; regardless of who she was Jace had trouble turning away. While she lacked the exotic beauty of a girl with Valyrian descent; such as his betrothed, Baela; or the obvious radiance of someone like Alicent Hightower; much as he hated her; or Jonis Baratheon, who he had met once before. The girl was pretty in a much more simple way, that caught and held his attention like a snare. The only empty seat along the table was next to the girl.

The other Stark; the guardsmen who met him outside the castle, was on Stark's left followed by a pair of boys who seemed to be a similar age as the Prince himself. Long faced and lean of body both boys had thick dark hair falling about their shoulders. The younger of the two had the beginnings of a beard growing while the elder's face was covered with thick and coarse dark hair. They would be Lord Stark's cousin's, he supposed, the ones who rode out into the lands around Winterfell.

Lord Stark noticed his presence first "Prince Jacaerys," he called "I'm glad you could join us. Please have a seat,"

Slowly, Jace walked around the table and sat beside the girl, feeling a little awkward and nervous once again.

"You were late," the other Stark pointed out gruffly.

"My apologies," he said in return, even though Stark had not stated a time "I was simply caught up in admiring your home's beauty. It is very impressive,"

Stark smiled slightly "I am rather proud of it. Have you seen our glass garden's? I think they may turn out to be the best investment my family ever made." He had indeed seen the gardens. Stark was correct in that they were impressive. Half an acre of land on ground level surrounded by stone walls on all sides and covered with a slanted glass roof, the gardens allowed crops to grow in even the harshest of winters. Keyryn had told him the plans had been started by Lord Cregan's great-great-grandfather; Lord Beren; after a particularly long and hard winter. Lord Beren's son had been the one to start the construction after his father's death and the gardens completion had been the last success of Lord Starks grandfather, Lord Benjen, before his death.

"I saw them, My Lord. They were most impressive," Jace said

"The Winter roses are my favourite. They don't grow anywhere else in Westeros, only the North," the girl next to him said as a leg of spiced lamb was placed on the table in front of the Prince

"Prince Jacaerys, I would like you to meet my sister, Lady Kyra Stark," The Lord of Winterfell gestured at the girl, and Jace bowed his head in respect. Gesturing at the boy at his side; who shyly smiled at him before ducking his head; Stark continued "My young son, Rickon. This is Bennard, my unlce and captain of the guard, and his two younger sons Brandon and Elric."

Stark's icy exterior had thawed a little as he introduced his family, a glimmer of affection glinting in his steel eyes and a touch of fondness in his normally frigid tone.

"An honour to meet all of you, my Lord's," Jacaerys replied.

He had barely finished speaking when the youngest among them, Elric, suddenly burst out talking "Is it true you have a Northman as a companion? That he's a Ryder? Does he really have a dragon?"

"Elric!" Stark snapped "Now is not the time to hound our guest with pointless questions."

"Truly Lord Stark, it is no issue. I would be delighted to tell you of my family." Jace smiled and so it was that he spent the remainder of the evening enjoying a fine if sparse meal with Lord Stark's family. He told young Elric; and Brandon who was trying so hard not to seem interested; about Lucos and how the other man and his dragon had saved his life when they were both just small boys. He told them about his adventures in the South; about his brothers and his uncle Daemon. When Stark's sister, Kyra, expressed an interest in seeing a dragon up close he was quick to offer her a ride on Vermax.

Once the food was cleared away a small band of musicians Stark had on retainer for feasts such as these started to play. There were no songs of hero's and fair maiden's to be found here though. These were bawdy soldiers songs. Jace didn't care about the songs; he danced three dances with Kyra.

Hours later, after the feast had winded down, Jace followed Stark back to his private solar. Like the rest of the castle, the room was sparsely decorated. A white banner hung from one wall, the grey, leaping direwolf proudly on display. Other than that the room was rather empty. The chair's around the room were plain and wooden, with Stark's being a little bigger than the others. The desk itself was equally plain, with neat stacks of parchment carefully arranged on it.

Stark sat. Jace sat opposite. After a moment, the Lord pulled a piece of parchment from the top of one of the stacks and placed it on the desk in front of Jace.

Reading from the parchment "'The Pact of Ice and Fire'" Jace quirked an eyebrow and Stark smirked.

"My sister's idea," he said "She was always so much more poetic than I,"

"I presume this is..."

"A contract for a formal alliance between House's Stark and Targaryen? Yes, it is."

Jace continued to read through the terms. 'Lowered taxation for all lands north of the Neck'. Jace winced at that. His grandfather wouldn't be pleased about that one. Or the one after he realized upon reading onwards 'Abolishment of tariff's on White Harbour goods at Kings Landing. A Small Council position for a Northman of Lord Stark's choice when the war is over. A position at court for one of Lord Stark's cousin's. Additional support will be granted to the Nights Watch from the South including more money, food stuffs, weapons and recruits'. Those three shouldn't be hard to arrange. He wondered if Lord Stark would be open to him recommending one of the Manderly's. Elric or Brandon could become a lieutenant in the City Watch, he supposed.

The last term was the most significant "A daughter of House Targaryen shall marry a son of House Stark?" he read out.

"My son shall need a wife one day," Stark said simply "What better way to cement our alliance than this?"

Jace frowned "The only girls in my family at this moment are already betrothed and at least a decade older than Rickon. Unless you include the traitor's daughter."

"I heard your mother was with child once more," the young Lord probed.

In an instant, Jace turned cold at the memory of the sister that never got to live "My mothers grief for my grandfather and her shock at Aegon's treason forced an early delivery. The child did not live."

Stark frowned "My condolence's for your loss, My Prince," he said "In that case, the first daughter born to you or one of your brothers in the next ten years shall marry Rickon. If ten years pass without a daughter being born, then the first time a Stark son and Targaryen daughter are born within a decade of each other they shall be betrothed."

Jace considered for a moment "So be it," he nodded finally before drawing Stark's attention to the other terms. They talked for over an hour. After haggling over just how much Stark wanted the taxes lowered, Jace had offered a lower tariff on White Harbour goods instead of none at all. Stark had agreed on the condition that the same then apply to goods going to Driftmark and Dragonstone. That discussion led to a debate on how much lower the tariff would go, with Stark wishing for one third of the current rate and Jace for three quarters. They had settled at half. Stark had also accepted his proposition for a Manderly to join the Small Council as an adviser. He offered to send the heir to White Harbour, Torrhen Manderly, as he wished for the Lord to remain in White Harbour.

Eventually they had come to a final agreement. Stark added the amendments to the original contract before having a guard deliver it to the Maester to copy out more neatly on a separate parchment. After two hours of heavy silence; broken only by a smattering of meaningless conversation every now and then, two copies of the Pact were returned to them. Stark and Jace each signed both.

Stark looked down at the parchment with what seemed to be pride "It is done," he said simply "Prince Jacaerys, the armies of the North are yours. Ser Torrhen Manderly will sail for Dragonstone with a force of infantry from White Harbour with all haste and I will have my cousin, Lord Roderick lead a small advance force of knights and heavy lancers into the Riverlands. I will follow with the infantry once they have assembled,"

"We eagerly await your arrival, My Lord," Jace's copy of the pact was rolled and sealed and with that he withdrew from the solar and returned to his chambers. He fully intended to leave the next morning. Once again though, his plans were foiled by the extreme Northern weather. The storm from earlier in the week was merely a prelude to what was to come. The winds and snows were simply to wild for him to risk a flight and they ended up lasting nearly a week this time which left Jace anxious and on edge. Every moment he wasted in Winterfell was another moment something awful could be happening in the south. He needed to get back to them; to help fight and to give his mother the good news from the North so she could account for the North in her plans.

Kyra and her cousin's, by contrast, did not seem at all put out by this. Lord Cregan and his uncle aside, the Stark's seemed thrilled that he was staying for longer than the single day he had originally planned for. Brandon and Elric both dragged him to the training yard for a spar on one of the days when the snow let up a little. Even so it was bitterly cold and left his skin stinging at even the slightest brush of wind. The practice swords were even more painful that day, though he was able to defeat Elric with ease. Brandon offered a greater challenge but that spar ended with him flat on his back as well. He had then made the mistake of challenging Keyryn to a spar and found himself soundly trounced. That stung worse than the cold did, if he was honest with himself.

Elric also made sure to pester him for stories and tales from the south. He asked about Harrenhal, King's Landing and the Eyrie. He requested grand descriptions of every part of Dragonstone and each dragon residing on the island and about the knights of the Kingsguard. Brandon pretended not to be interested. Kyra didn't bother to hide her fascination when he recounted this tournament or that. The subject of his betrothed came up once as well; Jace recalled Kyra had quite obviously started ignoring the conversation at that point while Brandon did not try to hide his own interest for once. Lord Stark's son, little Rickon, eventually warmed up to him and began trailing after him everywhere he went. He too demanded tales but the boy was more interested in tales of old; of fabled knights and glorious battles. Jace obliged him, being reminded of his younger brothers at that age. Lord Cregan asked for stories from the south too; every night when they met in his solar to pour over maps and records. But Lord Cregan wasn't interested in the splendid armour Ser Robar Swann wore at Daeron's twelfth nameday or the dragon Sunfyre's magnificent golden scales. He asked about the City Watch and the Small Council and the skill of the Kingsguard sworn to Aegon. He asked about their allies in the south. He asked about the Royal Fleet and the Crownlanders loyalty. The raven's had flown. Those closest to Winterfell may have already begun marshalling. His armies would soon be coming together and the Lord of Winterfell wanted to know exactly what he was marching against.

On her part, Kyra had led him to a different area of Winterfell every day. She introduced him to the blacksmith, the stablemaster and his helpers, some of the other guardsmen, the cook and the kennelmaster. She knew all of them by name and didn't seem the slightest bit too proud to speak to them as though they were dear friends and although there was always a degree of politeness to their words they were friendly in return; until they realized exactly who trailed behind their Lords sister. Then they were all fumbled bows and stuttered 'Your Grace's'. She didn't mind, simply took him to see the glass gardens or the Godswood or some shortcut tunnels built into the very walls. The crypts beneath the castle were the only place she didn't show him and the only place he dare not venture on his own.

"It's our place," she told him solemnly "A Stark place." And that had been all that was said on the matter.

He had made good on his promise as well. While the storm was too fierce to attempt a long flight in, he was able to take Kyra on her first ever flight during an hour for which the gale's had died down some. Vermax had protested a little at her presence on his back but calmed easily enough. He'd been more irritable at the snow than he was at her, Jace knew. He'd made sure to have Vermax make a number of circles around the castle and it's nearby town in a slow and gentle flight, making sure to never go too high. They only flew a little above the highest tower, nowhere near as high as he was normally inclined to go. It was Kyra's first flight of course. He didn't want to frighten her. He needn't have worried it seemed. The girl was thrilled with the flight. Jace himself barely remembered it. He was too caught up in remembering the feel of her body pressed against his as the shared Vermax's saddle.

On the sixth night, he dined with the Stark's once more. He had done for every meal since that first, bar the time Kyra had sweet-talked the cook into giving them a bag of food and the two of them had eaten lunch by the pool in the Godswood, the cold be damned. The food had never been as lavish or plentiful as it was on that first night but it wasn't niggardly either. Every night, Lord Stark's musicians would play; Jace had often wondered why a man as somber and practical as Stark would keep bards on retinue and had them play so regularly; and every night he would inevitably ask the wild Stark girl for a dance.

It was after his sixth supper in Winterfell that it happened, as he should have known it eventually would. Kyra had left early that night and he found himself doing the same not long after. The brisk wind chilled him to the bone as he crossed the courtyard and he was more than happy to enter his chambers to find a fire already burning brightly. He was also pleased; in a completely different way; and also highly unnerved by finding Kyra there too.

"You leave on the morrow?" she asked

He hesitated briefly "I do," he said eventually "Maester Colwin says the storm has abated. If the calm keeps then I will leave before noon,"

"Do you have to?"

He steeled himself "Yes. Yes I do. My mother needs me. My brother's too,"

She smiled sadly "Then tomorrow shall be farewell. You will go south and fight your war and marry your betrothed; and I will remain here, to be married to one of my brothers bannermen,"

"I'm sorry," he said, looking down and closing his eyes.

He felt her approach and glanced up at her when she took his hands in hers. With a warm but mournful smile, she leaned forward and bestowed a soft kiss to his cheek. He hesitated only briefly before gently pressing his lips to hers. It took all his willpower and self-restraint to keep their kiss chaste, to prevent himself from taking this encounter any further and dishonouring both Kyra and his betrothed back on Dragonstone.

After a brief moment, that to Jacaerys felt as though it lasted a lifetime, they pulled apart. Cheeks flushed and feeling a combination of guilt and pleasure, Jace put half a step of distance between them.

Her eyes, full of warmth and kindness met his "Did I ever have a chance?" she sounded resigned.

He sighed "Had the choice been mine I wouldn't have ever hesitated before asking for your hand in marriage," he told her "I don't want to marry Baela. But she is my betrothed and I have a duty to her. I cannot dishonour her. I'm sorry,"

"Then I will bid you farewell now," she said "I don't think I will have the strength to see you leave on the morrow. I will only ask one final thing of you,"

"Anything,"

She smiled and kissed his cheek once more "Don't forget me?"

He held her hand tightly and gave her a small smile "Never,"

With one last sweet smile directed at him, she left. When the door closed behind her, Jace sat heavily on his bed and held his head in his hands. He knew he'd done the right thing. He just hated that it hurt so much to do so.

He left early the next morning. He hadn't slept easily that night and woke shortly after first light. He spent the early morning walking through Winterfell one last time. It truly was impressive. It wasn't as large or foreboding as Harrenhal or as beautiful as the Eyrie or as grand and impressive as White Harbour but the young Prince felt that Winterfell had it's own wild beauty to it. He was surprised to find that he felt like he'd miss the place once he returned south. He broke his fast that morning with Lord Stark and his uncle before preparing Vermax for the journey. By the time he was ready the rest of the Stark family had gathered to see him off. All except Kyra.

He stopped at White Harbour once more on his way south, though he spent only a single night there. He gave Lord Stark's orders to Lord Manderly and within hours the man had sent ravens to all his vassal's calling them to arms and had his son assembling a small, professional force to sail to Dragonstone with haste under the command of his second son, Torrhen, who Lord Stark had nominated for the Small Council. He stopped at the Bloody Gate and found near three thousand men already gathered under the Knight of Ninestars to march on Hearts Home. Lady Jeyne had been wrong it seemed. The Redforts had declared for Jacaerys and his mother, abandoning their Corbray relations. Much as he would have liked to stay and help the honourable knight in his fight to put down the rebellious factions in the Vale, Jace needed to get home. He was confident that the Arryn's would be capable of defeating Aegon's supporters there. Only two of the principal house's had declared for him out of a possible twenty. Of the remaining house's, only the Hunter's and Coldwater's had not yet chosen their side and they had all raised his mother's red dragon. Templeton; Lady Jeyne's chosen commander; should have no trouble dealing with two troublesome Lords.

Jace himself could barely pay attention to the journey. Instead of awe at the snow covered mountains that bordered the Vale all he thought of was dancing with Kyra. At the brief war council he attended at the Bloody Gate his thoughts constantly strayed to the time he spent being dragged around Winterfell by a laughing and smiling Kyra. While he flew back towards Dragonstone, instead of looking forward to seeing his family once more he spent the trip looking back at the time he and Kyra had circled Winterfell on Vermax's back, the way her body felt pressed against his own, the way she laughed in joy as they rose from the ground and the exhilarated grin she had worn when they had landed. Thoughts of her kind eyes and soft smiles, ones that seemed just a touch more intimate than those she gave anyone else, plagued his mind all the way from Winterfell to Dragonstone and he vowed that he would never, ever forget her.

Chapter 10: Aemond II

Chapter Text

Aemond

After suffering humiliation at Storm's End, Aemond had tarried there only long enough to formalise their alliance and accept his betrothal to Maris, Lord Boremund's visciously sharp tongued second daughter, who had held no qualms about questioning his manhood when he failed to kill the Strong bastard outside Storm's End. He had wanted to rip her tongue out at that. Only the knowing that her father's swords were needed for the war stayed his hand.

He had left at sunrise the following morning and had pushed Vhagar hard. He had flown all day, through the night and the next morning. He stopped only briefly to break his fast in the Kingswood near Bronzegate before continuing on his way back to King's Landing. Time was short and his brother needed to be informed of his own success at Storm's End as well as Daeron's treason. If the Whore and her Bastards hadn't had enough of an advantage before, they certainly did now. He wouldn't be suprised if they were already mobilising their dragons for a frontal assault on the capital at that very moment. It's what he would be doing.

It had been nearing midday on his second day of travel when he saw the City in the distance. The blood red walls of the Red Keep were impossible to miss from his vantage on Vhagar's back. Privately, Aemond thought that the only way one could see King's Landing before they smelt it was from the back of a dragon. An hour later and he was flying over the Blackwater rush, looking down at the reinforced walls of the city. Trebuchet's and scorpions had been set up all along the walls and Aemond could see workers adding extra fortifications to the gates. Their pitiful fleet was arrayed in the bay around the mouth of the river. His thoughts were tainted red at the reminder of the treason of the ships that had stolen away in the night with the traitors Marbrand and Darklyn.

Beneath the western wall a camp had been erected. Armoured knights and men at arms gathered in around a dozen pavillion's, each a different colour. His house's banner flew above them. Though he was too far above to make out any details, he knew them to be men levied from either the city itself or the lesser nobles sworn to the King directly. King's Landing boasted only a modest amount of land under its direct control and it came with 5 petty lords; Lords Harte, Bourney, Clyne, Bywater and Cargyll; and only a score of landed knights, the most prominent being the Hall's, Bell's and Deem's. Aemond was under no illusions that they would all support his brother. While he doubted any would dare to openly declare for Rhaenyra with King's Landing so close, Aemond guessed half would send only token forces if they sent any at all. Looking over the camp, Aemond guessed they numbered less than 3000.

Aemond had Vhagar descend in slow circles over the city, lowering the beheamoth slowly until they settled just outside the walls of the city, not a mile away from the sentry line around the camp. He dug his heels into his mounts flank and Vhagar obetiently but petulantly lowered himself flat and allowed the Prince to clamber down. The moment she was free from her burden, she let loose a ground-shaking roar and pushed off back into the sky, sweeping over the plains, looking for food to hunt. Aemond didn't worry. She'd return when he needed her.

Without hesitation and ignoring the aches and pains of a long flight, Aemond set off toward the nearest gate. On his way past the camp he noticed Ser Criston in the midst of the chaos, overseeing the soldiers training with spears. They looked solid enough to form the backbone of an army, Aemond thought, though he knew he was no expert of the subject. Still, in contrast to how it was before the conquest, most lords didn't bother raising peasant levies anymore. There was no point in depleting a workforce to build an army when a dragon could decimate five thousand men as easily as one of two. Now their bannermen sent only smaller, more professional armies. Knights and men at arms with a contingent of semi-professional spearmen and archers.

As he approached the Lion Gate, it swung open before him and Ser Willis Fell was waiting beyond it with a pair of horses.

"Prince Aemond!" He began cheerfully. "Welcome back. I hope your journey was worthwhile. The King has requested your presence in the Small Council chamber immediately."

Part of Aemond wanted to strangle the man. Partly for his overly joyous tone and partly for daring to demand anything from a Dragon. Still...he forced himself to cool. It was Aegon who had demanded his presence, not Fell, and Aegon was King. That meant obeying him. With a short nod, he stole the reins from the Kingsguard's hand and pulled himself onto the horse's back. Without waiting for the knight, Aemond tugged sharply and the horse turned. Jabbing his heels into its flank, the horse set off at a trot. Behind him, he heard Bors Upps, the new Captain of the Lion Gate, commanding the gate be closed.

Aemond felt the beginings of a smile tug at his lips. After killing Beesbury, they had moved quickly to kill or arrest any who would entertain thoughts of treason against Aegon. The thirty strong Beesbury guard had been slaughtered to a man, as had more than half of the Targaryen sworn swords. They had had to make without the aid of the City Watch during their purge of the Red Keep, as the loyalty of the Captain's was suspect. But between the Strong, Hightower, Wylde, Lannister and remaining Targaryen men their force had numbered nearly two hundred and fifty. More than enough to seize control of the Red Keep and overwhelm any who resisted.

By the end of that first day Lord's Stokeworth, Butterwell, Gaunt, Buckwell, Buckler, Caswell, Merryweather and Lady Fell had been arrested and imprisoned with their retinues slaughtered. They were joined by eight landed knights, three petty lords (including Lord Harte) and half a hundred servents and retainers Aemond's mother had felt too sypathetic to Rhaenyra's cause. They ranged from cooks to stable boys to maids. Only once they were all locked away in the Black Cells had they turned their attention to the City Watch.

It would have taken far too much time to go through every goldcloack or even every officer. There were two hundred serjeants in the Watch along with forty lieutenents. Instead, the had cleansed the highest ranking positions. Five of the seven captains had been executed on the spot, including Commander Largents second in command. A sixth had been discovered trying to warn Rhaenyra and had met his end decidedly slower. Not that it had mattered in the end, Aemond thought bitterly. She found out anyway. His jaw clenched as he once again thought of the two treacherous White Cloaks.

He noticed the smallfolk giving him sullen glares from their doorways as he passed by. He turned to Fell.

"What has happened since I was away?"

Fell grimaced.

"When word got out about King Viserys' death and King Aegon's coronation, as well as all the arrests, the smallfolk started fleeing the city by the thousands. Your Lord Grandfather had to order the gates sealed. The merchents aren't happy either. Every day they attend court and heckle His Grace about when their ships will be aloud to leave port."

"Anything else?"

"Lord Hayford has called his banners in your brothers name. He marches with nine hundred men to join his force to ours. Lord Strong has delivered reports of Massey's gathering forces at Stonedance under Rhaenyra's banner so Ser Criston commanded Lords Pyle, Farring and Edgerton to prepare to meet them, should it come to battle. Lord's Rosby and Darklyn..."

"I know about Rosby and Darklyn," Aemond growled. Another pair of traitors.

Fell nodded. "As you say. His Grace has sent Grand Maester Orwyle to Dragonstone to try and treat with Princess Rhaenyra in person."

Aemond nodded his understanding and silence resumed until they arrived back at the Red Keep. With barely a glance around, Aemond pulled his horse to a stop near the stables and climbed down, striding off to the council chambers with nary a look around. The Red Keep seemed particuarly empty with so many people missing. Aemond honestly preferred it.

Aegon was sitting at the head of the table when he arrived, slouched in his seat in a way that highlighted his slightly prominent gut and took away any semblence of regality he may have had. Small beady eyes were narrowed in annoyed concentration and he rubbed at the thin, wiry moustache on his upper lip with one trembling hand. Their mother stood to his side. Looking stern and composed in her grey and gold dress. She was bedecked in just enough jewellery to appear wealthy but not arrogant. She appeared as much the perfect Queen Regent and Aegon did the weak King. But Aemond could see the way her hands played with the hem of her sleeves and her strained smile that all was not well.

His grandfather was staring vacantly out the window, occasionally taking long gulps of wine from a golden chalice that he held in a tight grip. He was pale and his shoulders were drooped.

"Brother. Mother. Grandfather." He greeted them calmly.

Aegon looked up at that and smiled. Their mother turned pleading eyes on him, doubtlessly begging him to deliver good news on his mission. Anger swirled again at the betrayal he had to report. The Hand of the King glanced around very briefly at his greeting before turning to stare listlessly across the yard again.

"Brother!" Aegon said. "It is good you have returned. Much and more has happened since you left and I felt you should be brought up to speed before we meet with the Council."

"Ser Willis told me..." Aemond began, but was interupted.

"Ser Willis isn't privy to the information we received not an hour ago," Hightower said. Aemond narrowed his eye at the man's back in annoyance before he turned back to Aegon and raised his eyebrow.

Aegon grimaced.

"Lord Larys is attempting to confirm this as we speak but all reports indicate that Daemon Targaryen has captured Harrenhal," Aegon told him.

For a moment, Aemond thought he'd misheard his brother. Then, once the words had registered, he thought it a poor jape. Only when he looked around at the faces of his family again did he understand. His fists clenched in anger.

"How?" He demanded.

Harrenhal had a garrison of three hundred he knew and while that wasn't really enough to fight of a full on assault on a castle that big, he also knew that Daemon shoudln't have had time to gather a force big enough to capture it so quickly. Not to mention Harrenhal was miles inland. The only way to get ships there would be to sail up the Rush and they had that well secured.

His mother picked up a letter from the desk.

"Apparently, Lord Larys' castellen; his great-uncle, Simon Strong; yeidled the castle without a fight when Caraxes descended and landed on the roof of the keep," she said delicately.

Otto snorted into his cup. "It surprises me little. He's spent his life growing up inside a monument to the dangers of dragonfire. We underestimated Daemon though. Not even I thought he'd be so bold."

Aemond didn't care for Strong's excuses. As far as he was concerned, Strong had just added his name to the list of traitors he'd have to kill. Ser Simon might be the uncle of their loyal Lord Larys, but he was also Harwin Brokenbones' kin. Yiedling the castle without a fight was the mark of either a coward or a traitor and Aemond despised both. Aegon needed neither.

"Then we must call upon the Riverlords to take it back..." he trailed off as he saw their expressions. Otto looked pained. Aegon looked unsure. There was a spark of rage in his mothers eye.

They were silent a moment. They looked at each other for a while, until Otto sighed. He stepped away from the window and turned to face them properly.

"Not all of our raven's have received answers yet. But the one's that have are not...encouraging." He took a drink. "You know by know what we face our own garden. Most of it at least. Darklyn, Massey and Rosby have declared for your sister. Staunton as well. Stokeworth would have as well if he wasn't sitting in our dungeon. Of the major houses in the Crownlands only Hayford has taken up arms for us.

"What's worse is the news from the Riverlands. We know Grover Tully has commanded his banners called for Aegon yet no such ravens have flown from Riverrun. Already Lord's Mooton and Darry are gathering forces and we suspect they will make for Harrenhal. We've had little word from anywhere else as of yet, but the Blackwood's and Bracken's have both been gathering troops."

"And if one of them calls the sky blue, the other claims red," sighed Aemond, irratably. Those house's would clash, soon.

Hightower nodded in agreement. "Which is why the news you bring will doubtless come as a relief?" There was an almost commanding note to his voice, as though saying he had better have brought nothing but good news back. Aemond scratched at his clean shaven cheeks.

"Lord Borros has agreed to support our cause. His price was my betrothal to one of his daughters." He said shortly. Aegon's face was morphed by the nasty grin that broke across his face at the news. Their mother's eyes lit up with triumph. Hightower though...he was watching Aemond with baited breath, knowing he was holding something back. Aemond took a breath. "The bastard Luke Strong arrived shortly after I did, for the same purpose. Lord Borros would not allow me to kill him while he was under guest right, but I went after him the moment he left. I caught up to him in a storm, had his life in my grasp."

"He's dead!" Aegon exclaimed gleefully.

"No." Aemond growled. "I was interupted. The Ryder boy was there and he fought me off. So was Daeron. He flew with them."

He heard a despondent sigh from Lord Hightower and saw shock on his mothers face. But it was Aegon that Aemond watched. His brothers face transformed from glee, to confusion, to disbelief and then finally settled on what he quite easily recognized as rage. His lips thinned and whitened, brows furrowed into a hard line, mouth pulled back in a silent snarl. His hands trembled even as he fisted them closed. He trembled in silence for a moment. Then, with a cry of rage he slammed his fist on the table, hurled a glass chalice against the wall. He kicked out at his chair, sending it to the floor with a bang and flipped the table sideways, parchments and quills flying everywhere. The Hand cringed away slightly. Aemond watched impassively.

Aegon glared around at them all.

"Leave," he said in a hoarse whisper. Their mother reached out to touch his shoulder and he turned his glare directly onto her. She shrank back and hurried towards the door. Their grandfather bowed deeply and followed. Aemond inclined his head in a shallow imitation of a bow and left as well.

The following days and weeks proved taxing in the extreme. Aemond's mother had been inconsolable, alternately sobbing about losing her little boy and ranting about how the Whore's lies had stolen him. Helaena had wept all day when she heard as well. Aegon for his part had developed a twitch in his eye whenever the boys name was mentioned and was prone to sending servents to the dungeons if he caught word of them speaking about Daeron and Ryder in the same sentence. Aemond had seen no evidence, but rumours around the castle and the cities tavern's suggested he was taking his anger out of their sister. Aemond had started watching Larys Strong much more closely after that. His uncle had turned traitor and that made him suspect, despite the blood pact he'd made all those involved in planning the purge swear. Rumours got nowhere without the Master of Whispers knowing about it.

Strong didn't do anything in that time to indicate a betrayal however. He received reports from his spies and duly relayed the information first to the King and then to the council. More official confirmation usally arrived a day or two later. He'd given them no false information yet, though several remained uncorroborated, such as the rumours that the Knight of Ninestars had fallen on Heart's Home to find old Gelford Corbray bound in chains and handed over by his two sons Leowyn and Corwyn. According to Strong's source, Lord Corbray had been granted a Trial by Combat and was slain by Lord Templeton himself. Templeton had added Corbray strength to his own and marched on Strongsong, the seat of House Belmoore and Aegon's last supporter in the Vale, putting the castle under siege.

But while word from the Vale was nought more than rumour for now, they received even worse reports from elsewhere and it did nothing good for Aegon's already fraying temper. Skirmishes were breaking out all across the Crownlands with the loyal Green House's Mallery and Byrch fighting the traitors Chyttering, Manning and Rollingford in the northern Crownlands while their loyalist's south of the Blackwater were locked in a stalemate against the Massey's.

Ormund had returned in the midst of all this to report that his offer of a peace had been thrown back in their face. Rhaenyra had even ripped the chain of the Grand Maesters office from the man's robes and pinned them on her own Maester instead. The indignity of it had Aegon and Alicent seething at the disrespect Rhaenyra had shown their loyal man.

Word from the Riverlands only worsened the situation. Aemond had been right. Blackwood and Bracken had been the first to truly turn this into an open conflict. The heir to Stone Hedge, Ser Amos Bracken, had led a thousand men into the Blackwood lands in response to raids carried out in his own. While setting camp near a mill on the Red Fork, the Blackwood's had descended, volleying them with arrows at a near impossible range. Bracken had managed to position the mill in between his army and the archers, granting some relief. When the Blackwood's charged their position, Ser Amos had slain Lord Samwell Blackwood in single combat, forcing the Blackwoods to pull back and reorganise. But the casualties inflicted on the Bracken's were severe and they lacked the numbers to find victory. As the Blackwood's pulled back to reorganise, Ser Amos had ordered the mill to be set aflame and use the smoke as cover for their retreat. It had almost worked, but Ser Amos had taken a wierwood arrow through the throat during the retreat.

His bastard brother, Ser Raylon Rivers, led the survivors back to Stone Hedge to find Daemon had forced Lord Humphrey to yield while the army was away. With the Vance's of Atranta and the Piper's of Pinkmaiden descending on Wayfarer's Rest and subduing the other Vance branch, Aegon had lost all of his support in the Riverlands.

His anger was now matched only by his fear and those fears worsened as word came from the Reach, where Aemond's mother and Grandfather had thought themselves the strongest, that House's Tarly, Rowan, Oakheart, Caswell, Footly, Merryweather and Meadows had all declared for Rhaenyra. In response, the regent for the infant Lord Tyrell had bared Highgarden's gates and refused to support either claimant and allowing her bannermen to do as she pleased. With their overtures to Dalton Greyjoy ignored and the North shockingly coming out of its isolation to support Rhaenyra (According to Larys Strong, Jacaerys had been spotted in White Harbour at some point), it suddenly seemed as though the only regions they could count on was the Westerlands and Stormlands, and even they had their rebellious lords who had either refused to answer the call or raised Rhaenyra's banners.

Half a moon's turn had passed since Aemond's return and every day it seemed brought worse and worse news. The only success they'd had was the arrival or more men to bolster their army outside the City. Lord Morros Hayford had arrived with his weak chin, wobbly cheeks and nine hundred men. A few days later and large nosed and overweight Lord Thorne had come with seven hundred more and the barrel chested Owen Chelsted marched with six hundred of his brother's men. But even those two had come only because of riders dispatched by Ser Otto and twice as many houses had ignored them, paying lip service and sending half a dozen men at arms without actually doing anything.

"We need to split the treaury up," Tyland Lannister had suggested to the Small Council when they heard a force of Grafton's and Royce's were gathering at the port of Gulltown. For once, the man was completely straight faced and serious. "If we leave it here, it will become Rhaenyra's if she ever takes the city."

Left unsaid was the fact it was a much more likely outcome than it ever had been before.

"A good idea but quite unfeasable," Hightower countered. "Rhaenyra controls the sea. The Footly's have blockaded the Roseroad to the south and the Rosby's to the north and they control the Riverlands. There is no way to move the treaury that doesn't put it at risk."

But Lannister had just smiled. "Leave it to me," he'd said and the next day down the treasury had been down to one fourth of the size it had been. When they asked what he had done and where he had sent it he had refused to answer. He told them it was best they not know, lest they ever be tempted to sell the secret.

At the very least, Aemond thought, at least Lannister had been making himself useful. Along with his dubious attempt to keep the treasury away from Rhaenyra, he'd somehow managed to get the merchants of their back about their ships and he'd managed to get the coin flowing in the city again with a dozen or more little schemes. He'd somehow managed to esnure the treasury stayed level despite their expenses and the sudden drop in income. Incentives were offered to ensure trades and business stayed open and in fact made some extra proft, without raising the tax. Wylde was proving himself capable as well. Every morning you could see him in the yard with the City Watch, drilling the gold cloaks. In the afternoon he walked the walls to inspect the cities defence's. In the evening he presided over smaller scale trials and dished out harsh sentences in order to discourage further crime. He stayed up late into the night by Lord Lannister, drafting new temporary financial laws to appease the smallfolk and take the sting out of the harsher discipline.

Even Strong, as untrustworthy as Aemond found him, was completing his role. As best Aemond could tell anyway.

But throughout it all, Otto Hightower was writing his letters, begging this lord and that to support Aegon. Chelsted and Thorne were his doing, but the inaction of Wendwater and Blount and their ilk was likewise his failure. He pleaded with the lords of the Dornish marches, who cited a rising Vulture King for their refusal. He'd sent word to his nephew, Lord Ormund, to march out and destroy the rebellious Reach lords and requested the Redwyne fleet to sail around Dorne to face the Velaryon's. But most of his other attempts tobring the undecided Reacher lords to their cause had failed. He had even reached out to Dorne, only to receive a scathing reply.

His latest effort, to which they had just received a reply, had been to the Triarchy.

"...convening to meet to discuss proposal...gratitude for your offer...response when consenus reached." Aegon muttered as he read the letter. He clenched his fist and crumpled it into a ball. He turned eerily calm eyes on his grandfather.

The whole of the Small Council were in attendence. Each sitting in their seat, bar Ser Criston; stood at the King's right hand; and Ser Otto. The aged Hand was standing stiffly in front of the King, his expression guarded. Aemond understood why. Over the last fortnight, Aegon had been anything but calm. He'd been angry and brooding and erratic. His calm face was unnerving.

The whole of the Council knew what the letter had said. Aegon had read it silently first and then passed it around for each of them. When it got back to him, he'd started reading it again, mumbling the words as he went and with every word of it Ser Otto's back got stiffer. The Triarchy was interested in their alliance. All they'd had to do was formally cede the Stepstones; which the Iron Throne itself had never claimed anyway, regardless of what Daemon said; and in return they would have a fleet of warships nearly a hundred strong, plus sellswords with them. But they wouldn't commit. Not yet, not without convening their whole High Council (Three Magisters, the Prince and a High Admiral from each city in the Triarch) had gathered, discussed it and reached a consensus. While Aemond suspected they would accept, he knew the High Council was slow to think and slower to act. It could take weeks, months. And Aegon's patience was at its limit.

"This is all you have to show for half a hundred letters in the last fortnight? A 'mayhaps'?" Aegon nearly whispered into the silence of the room. Though his expression was even, there were two dark red splotches on his cheeks. Aemond thought he looked tired. Laxen silver hair fell messily to his neck and there were dark shadows under his eyes.

"Your Grace the Triarchy can be slow to act yes but..." Ser Otto began.

"A mayhaps!" Aegon roared, surging to his feet. Lannister flinched slightly in his seat and Wylde was looking at his papers. Hightower remained still though.

"Your Grace we simply need more time." His attempt at placation was weak.

Aegon gazed at him contemptuously. He closed the distance between them and stood chest to chest with their grandfather. Aegon stared into Ser Otto's eyes and then slowly reached up and placed his fingers on the badge of office worn by the Hand. With a viscious grin, Aegon ripped it off their grandfather's doublet.

"You've had your time. My patience is worn thin," Aegon sneered. "All your wise council has done is allow more lords to fall for my sister's seductions. It's time for action." He rounded the table and for a moment Aemond allowed himself to hope. But Aegon stood in front of Ser Criston and dropped the badge into his hand. Through the haze of fury at being passed over, he appreciated Aegon's choice. Aegon continued, "Ser Criston. A finer warrior there isn't. I need not talk of diplomacy and peace. I need words of war. What counsel have you for me?"

With a smug smile, Cole pinned the badge to his surcoat. The gold did accent the white nicely, Aemond noticed. When Cole stepped forward and began his suggestions to Aegon, Aemond began to grin too. He had felt stifled sitting in the Red Keep while there were traitors out there that needed to be brought to heel. He couldn't wait.

Chapter 11: Criston II

Chapter Text

Criston

The Lord Commander of the Kingsguard wrinkled his nose as the smell of burning flesh assaulted his nostrils. When one had dragons available it would be the height of idiocy to not use them but it was a messy business. The smell wasn't even the worst of it. Rather, it was what the smell did to a man that disgusted him so. Instead of burned men he was remembering the smell of boar being roasted above a fire in some feast or another in the Great Hall of King's Landing. He could feel himself salivating at the thought, in spite of his discomfort at where the smell truly came from. He hadn't had boar in many moons and even then only salted and preserved from the cellars.

Food was rapidly becoming a problem. With the Footly blockade on the Roseroad and the open rebellions in the Crownlands, supplies for both the City and the army were stretched thin. The fields around King's Landing had not yet even begun to plant their first spring harvests. They still had some foodstuffs left over from Winter but feeding an army and a city was proving difficult. They had sent fishermen out into Blackwater Bay to try and find some supplies only for many of those fishermen to never return, having smuggled their families out and rowed north to Duskendale and Rook's Rest.

Prey was scarce in the Kingswood too. Many were still holed up for the remainder of winter and those that weren't had been scared further south by the fighting and fires raging between the Massey's and the loyalist Green houses there.

But the King didn't care, so focussed was he at the thought of eradicating his sister's support in the Crownlands. Between his brother's betrayal, their losses in the Riverlands and Hightower's failure to bring them allies, the King had flown into a rage, tempered only by Criston's own flatteries and more violent solutions to their problems. Aegon was still in a dark temper though at least he was channeling it towards something productive.

Mostly productive, he ammended to himself as he gazed at the charred forms of what were once SerBenfrey Stokeworth and a dozen of his guardsmen. They were standing in the courtyard of Castle Stokeworth, a modest stone castle with four squat, round towers and thick walls. Sunfyre had originally perched himself atop one of those towers but had climbed down to the roof of what Criston thought was the armoury in order to carry out his masters commands.

Aegon himself was standing proudly in front of the smouldering corpses, oblivious to the unrest of the castle's populace around them. Admittedly, the King looked resplendent, clad head to toe in black plate, highlighted with golden trim. He had a red surcoat bearing a golden three headed dragon over his heart and Blackfyre sat on his hip. But the jubilant smile at the now dead noble was doing nothing to endear the King to his newly recovered subjects.

Still, it was not a Kingsguards place to judge. Only to protect. Criston hammered down the thoughts that pointed out his own hypocrisy.

One of the first things Criston had advised upon being appointed Hand of the King was to clear out the dungeons. While Aegon and Aemond had been eager to simply kill all of them, the Small Council had convinced the King to offer forgiveness to any of the nobles who would repent their treason and bend the knee. The imprisoned retainers hadn't been given any such chance and most of the foolish nobles had refused. They'd been sent to the headsman instead. Lady Fell had spat at Aegon's feet, while Lord Buckler had solemnly repeated his vow to Rhaenyra. Lord Caswell went cursing and hissing while Lord Merryweather had spent his final moments making japes at Aegon's expense. All three of the minor lords had been executed along with five of the eight landed knights. Lord's Gaunt, Buckwell and Butterwell had bent the knee though.

Ser Criston might have hoped for more but it was no true loss and Aegon was satisifed that there were less Black's in the world. The new Lord's Fell and Buckler had been quick to reiterate their fealty to their liege and their King, though it seemed Caswell and Merryweather had no such intentions. When the new Lord Olyvar Stokeworth, a boy of nine, had sent an answer to their demand for fealty that not only denied them but denounced them as murderers and usurpers, Criston knew it was time to march.

Their army had marched out out of King's Landing the next morning. Criston had donned his white Kingsguard armour and rode out at the head of an army of fifty-five hundred men as they marched from the capital. They counted twelve hundred heavy horse; knights in gleaming plate and coloured surcoats, mounted men-at-arms and unknighted freeriders in leather and mail; while the rest were a mix of afoot men-at-arms, spears and archers. They marched under the green fretty of Hayford, the three lances of Gaunt whose Lord had joined them with three hundred men after being pardoned his original treason, the dagger and morningstar of Chelsted and Lord Thorne's flail and flames along with a dozen others from lesser houses. High above them all and twice as numerous were the dragon banners, depicting King Aegon's golden three headed dragon on black.

Criston himself had command of the Vanguard while aging Morros Hayford had the rear. Criston wasn't impressed by that. Hayford had only been afforded such a high ranking command because he was the first Lord to swear himself for Aegon. But the man was old and cautious and no man's first choice of leader. Ser Owen Chelsted would have been a much better choice. Though the lasting peace of King Jaeherys and Viserys' reign's meant he lacked true experience, the heir to Griefhollow Hall had a natural aptitude for command to go alongside his imposing figure and loud voice. But he had kept his objections to himself, as befit a good Kingsguard, and Ser Owen had been relegated to the baggage train instead.

The King himself spent his days flying ahead on Sunfyre. He had laughed when Criston had asked him who should command the outriders. He'd had his own ideas, but the decision was the King's. But Aegon had only laughed and patted Sunfyre's flank.

"Here stands your outrider, Ser," he had said with an ugly smile. Ser Criston had accepted but was using a small force of freeriders as scouts anyway with Cedric of the Long Bells in command.

They had arrived at Stokeworth that morning, intent on answering the new lords bold proclaimant. But only moments after their army had begun to encircle the castle for the siege had the gates been opened and Rhaenyra's banner had been struck from where it had been flying over the keep. Ser Criston had led his knights into the castle and allowed the garrison there to surrender their weapons and bend the knee while Aegon landed on the tower. It was Ser Benfrey who had ordered their submission and Aegon had at first been pleased to receive his fealty.

Until he asked after the child lord and his sister. Ser Benfrey had, rather reluctantly, confessed their escape. He span a good story, Criston admitted, but in the end a single roar from Sunfyre had a young guard soiling himself and throwing himself to Aegon's feet begging mercy and confessing all. Ser Benfrey and a dozen of his men had not only failed to capture his niece and nephew but planned and executed their escape from the castle upon hearing of Aegon's approach. Aegon's black temper had flared and as a red flush crept up his face he'd unthinkingly barked out an order and Sunfyre had descended.

The guardsman's confession hadn't saved him nor had Ser Benfrey's stone-faced courage protected him from Sunfyre's flames when the King had commanded their deaths.

Glaring at the smoking remains for a moment longer, Aegon cast his gaze over the gathered household standing arrayed around the courtyard. For the first time he seemed to grasp the difficult position his rage induced orders had put them in. The remaining guards were grinding their teeth and glaring, seemingly ready to try and kill the King with their bare hands, but for the threat of Sunfyre. The smallfolk looked no less angry.

After a brief moments hesitation, Aegon squared his shoulders and strode confidently over to where the Maester was stood, head bowed.

"Maester."

"Your Grace."

"It was my understanding that ravens were rarely sent without the Maester's knowledge and approval?" There was a dangerous note in his voice.

"Our knowledge perhaps, but less so our approval. If the Lord of our castle commands a raven sent, it is our duty to obey. Anything His Grace received from Stokeworth reflects only the views of Lord Olyvar." The Maester explained, face and tone as neautral as their order proclaimed them to be. But Aegon snorted disdainfully.

"A Lord you all allowed to disappear. How am I to know that the Stablemaster did not provide the traitor a horse to escape upon? Or the cook supply food for their journey?"

The Maester was silent for a moment. "Are we to meet the fate of House Rosby, Your Grace?"

Criston could feel the tension rise around the castle at that. He himself tensed. If the men of Stokeworth believed themselves sentenced to death already, they would lose all restraint. A man with nothing to lose is more dangerous than any other.

It had taken them only three days to march on Rosby and find some fifteen hundred men gathering beneath the castle. That had only been four days before they arrived at Stokeworth.

"No mercy," had been the King's only command before the battle had begun, before he took flight and climbed high into sky to prepare to begin his own assault.

With no orders from his King, Criston had been able to set the battle lines as he wanted. While the Rosby army was still trying to form ranks to face the threat that appeared overnight, Criston had formed his heavy horse into an armoured fist and charge them headfirst into the enemy lines. Ser Owen had command of the the left and Lord Thorne led the right. On his orders they encircled the Rosby force on both flanks as Criston withdrew his knights and allowed Hayford's reserve to be the hammer to the anvil. Trapped on three sides, many of the Rosby men had attempted to turn and flee into the castle, trampling hundreds of their own in the process.

Aegon and Sunfyre had put an end to that, swooping down and unleashing torrents of flame upon the gate house destroying it completely and engulfing hundreds of men in flames. Criston had withdrawn his army after that, unwilling to let them be caught in the dragons flames as they spread, instead employing his archers to pick of survivors as they fled. By the time the flames had died down two thirds of Rosby's army had were dead. Some two hundred had managed to flee back into the castle and set up a defence and the remaining three hundred had thrown down their weapons and scattered. They had only lost one hundred and fifty-six of their own men.

Lord Manfred himself had been among those slain in the battle, along with several of his kin. Rosby had been struck down by an arrow to the neck as he sat atop his horse in the middle of the camp trying to rally the troops. His nephew Ryam, serving as the Lord's squire, had attempted to take charge of the troops only to be thrown from his horse and trampled by his own men as they tried to flee. Ryam's father, Ser Petyr, had been serving as Captain of the Guard and by all acounts had been commanding the gate when Sunfyre descended. Criston thought there may have been an uncle and mayhaps some distant cousins slain in the fighting too. But Manfred's widow had locked herself and her four young children in the keep with what remained of their forces. The Master at Arms and Lord Manfred's uncle Ser Martyn Rosby had commanded the troops.

Criston had been preparing his men to make an assault on the keep. Though difficult, the defenders numbered only two hundred while Criston's army numbered nearly twenty times that. But before they could make either an assault or an offer of peace Aegon had swept down on the keep and had Sunfyre unleash long blasts of dragon flame until the stone walls were melting and the roof collapsing in. On Criston's orders his spears struck down any who managed to escape the flames. Neither the widow or her children made an appearance outside the walls and since all that was left of the keep afterward was a malshapen mound of stone on the ground, he was fairly certain the King had just extinguished an ancient line.

It hadn't gotten better after that. The Rosby bannermen bent the knee but it mattered not to Aegon. Sunfyre turned the fields of Rosby afire for miles in every direction. Livestock were slaughtered, villages butchered and holdfasts burned down. Criston had known at the time that such actions did not lend themselves well to winning the war and maintaining a piece afterwards but Aegon was still wroth over his Lords refusal to do him homage and his brothers decision to join Rhaenyra. Criston himself was still unsure what had led to the level-headed boy to throwing his lot against his brothers but suspected it had something to do with the unnatural influence the northern savage Ryder had over the Prince.

He and the Lords had managed to convince Aegon to be more merciful when dealing with Stokeworth and for a brief time in seemed he would follow through. Then he learned of Lord Olyvar's escape and it was all for naught.

Aegon smiled; and inside the privacy of his mind Criston was screaming no you fool, they'll think you Maegor come again; before he replied to the Maester. Thankfully, this time he seemed satisified to simply see the people of Stokeworth on their knees.

"Not if you remain loyal from this day forth," he said at last and Criston could see several breaths being released at that. The Maester's frame relaxed slightly.

"Your mercy becomes you, Your Grace," the Maester said. "Will you be staying with us for long, my King?"

"It is not my intent to tarry long. But a soft bed would be most welcome for the night and a hall to feed my men in?"

"Certainly, Your Grace."

Criston noted to himself to ensure the King's loaned chambers had either himself or Ser Arryk outside at all times.

"I do have a task for you though Maester," the King said. "I need you to send a raven to my brother, Prince Aemond. He should be east of here, near the God's Eye helping my leal lords to subdue the Whore's pathetic upstarts."

Even while noting the slight distaste in the face of many of their hosts, Criston felt suprise. Aemond had indeed been dispatched to help put down the smaller skirmishes that had broken out across the Crownlands. What reason Aegon had for recalling him, Criston could not tell.

"Of course, Your Grace." The Maester bowed and left to send his messages while maids appeared to lead the King and his Lords to their new chambers for the night. Criston followed behind them and not for a moment did he leave the King unguarded. Not from the moment the King entered his chambers to 'freshen himself' to the moment the Lords were sat in the great hall debating their next move.

"We must press on and strike north, Your Grace," Lord Thorne offered, his chest puffed out proudly in front of him, his large nose particlarly red. He was acting as though he'd won some great victory, when in truth Criston had seen him after Rosby with a suspiciously clean sword. "Lord Darklyn has gathered his army and is marching along the coast as we speak. Once we crush him the road to Rook's Rest is open before us and we can remove the last of Rhaenyra's support in the Crownlands."

Criston did not entirely disagree and from the excited gleam in the King's eye neither did he. The idea of dealing such heavy hits to Rhaenyra's cause clearly appealed to him but even so...

"Darklyn will not be another Rosby and certainly not another Stokeworth," Hayford said carefully. The widow's of both Lord Hubert and Ser Benfrey were in attendence along with their castle's Maester and both had gone pale at the mention of their husbands' fates. "He has more men, is already on the march and is no doubt expecting us. He will have already picked his place of engagement. We may be able to take him but the losses..."

"BAH!" Thorne spat. "Crawl home and collect your balls, Morros. We have Darklyn badly outnumbered. He won't stand against us."

Glowering, Hayford mumbled "Not by that much."

Criston rolled his eyes. Hayford was every kind of man Criston hated. They have Darklyn two-to-one and unless you were talking numbers in their low hundreds, that was more than enough.

"There is also the issue of Rhaenyra herself," said the muscular Owen Chelsted, stroking his chin. Unlike Thorne he'd come out of the battle at Rosby in armour more red than silver and had needed to replace his axe from where it had broken off in some spearman's head. "If we should press too far north we leave King's Landing itself vulnerable. If word from the Vale is true some two thousand men are sailing south to Dragonstone on the Gulltown fleet. While I agree we can't leave Darklyn unchecked, it may be that we should deal with him and then fall back. Staunton's forces are few in number and no true threat alone."

"You would have us slink back with a castle in the King's homeland still flying a traitor's banner?" Scoffed Lord Bywater. "Mayhaps you're not as loyal as you profess, Ser!"

Tanton Deem, a landed knight sworn directly to King's Landing with a single village and a wooden tower to his name, took it further. "I heard it said that the reason Ser Owen is here with us is because his Lordly brother is too busy lapping at Rhaenyra's cunt!"

Ser Owen growled at that and hand went straight for his brand new axe at his belt. Deem continued sneering, though he did lay a hand on his dirk, even as two knights held Chelsted back. Lord Gaunt had gone a waxen colour and slinked back slightly. He was still tenuous in his loyalties, Criston knew, and while such an insult smarted he dared not react less he land himself once again marked as a traitor. For his part, Criston thought the jape ill-done. Cheslted had commanded well and fought better at Rosby and everyone knew his brother had been born with mangled legs that prevented him from fighting. But house Chelsted was not one that was greatly respected by their peers. A poor and relatively new house that lacked the wealth and prestige of others.

"Enough!" Aegon roared. There was dead silence. "Ser Criston. You are my Hand. Advise me."

Criston stepped forward. "Cedric." He called upon the commander of his scouts. "What news?"

"Lord Darklyn marched this morning with two thousand men. Only four hundred mounted but a lot of pikes and longbows. He marched half a day and stopped atop a set of hills a few days march to north and east from here. He had begun setting up fortifications last we saw."

Criston nodded. So he had chosen his battleground and intended to fight defensively. It made sense. With the high ground, their backs to the sea, time to prepare and the army compostion of longbows and pikes it would bleed Aegon's army badly if they gave battle there. So they had to make sure not to. He knew Gunthor Darklyn. He was a strong man and not one to care overmuch for the smallfolk. His bannermen though...

"We shouldn't march on Darklyn. We should force him to come a place of our choosing. If Ser Owen would lead half our heavy horse and pillage and raid the lands of Darklyn's bannermen, he'll be forced to march or risk his men abandoning him to defend their homes. I'll have the rest of the army in the way and his grace can use Sunsfyre to cut off their retreat."

There were grumblings of agreement. Some begrungingly like Hayford and Thorne, though both for vastly different reasons, while others were much more eager. But Criston kept his eyes set on the King. He was nodding slightly but there was a slight hint of something on his face that set Criston's nerves on edge. Before he could speak though, Hayford spoke up again.

"Aemond!" He exclaimed gleefully. "His grace summoned Prince Aemond! Why else but to use Vhagar against the Darklyn forces?"

But the man's joy wilted and died at Aegon's glare.

"Aemond is not coming for the battle," he hissed through gritted teeth. Criston saw the flash of envy and knew instantly why Aemond was being kept from the battlefield. The King was jealous of how men looked to his younger brother as a warrior and leader. He wants that for himself. "Aemond is coming here to search for the trecherous Lord and his sister."

There was a vindictive note in his voice and Criston wasn't the only one to notice. The mother of said Lord had clenched her hands tightly into her dress and her good-sister was rubbing circles onto her back. Neither had really been allowed to speak and were invited out of courtesy. Owen Chelsted looked uncomfortable and Lord Gaunt looked almost green. The Maester cleared his throat.

"And what is to be done with the young Lord, should he be found?" The Maester had claimed no knowledge of where Lord Olyvar had fled and the rest of the castle had claimed the same. Criston didn't truly believe it but that was a job for Lord Larys, not him.

Aegon waved a dismissive hand. "He won't hold these lands again, if that's your meaning. But if he surrenders peacefully I'll allow the boy to join the Citadel, the Watch or the Faith. The girl too, if you like."

"Most merciful, Your Grace." Lord Hayford simpered pathetically.

"Yes. Quite. But if your intent is to attaint Lord Olyvar and his sister, then I would hope to enquire about how His Grace would rule on the succession of Stokeworth. There will be a number of candidates to be sure but by my reckoning the true heir would be..."

Aegon had been growing redder and redder. He finally snapped. "I care not who the rightful heir is! Stokeworth will go to whoever I say it will go to!" There was a beat of tense silence, the numerous Lords and Knights glancing at their fellows, previous emnity forgotten. Criston could make out one clear thought in each of them. Doubt. Damn the boy for saying such a stupid thing. Looking at the King, he flushed as he realised the same mistake. He cleared his throat and sat straighter. "Until the war in over, my brother will have full command in these lands and may act as he see's fit to capture Lord Olyvar. We'll be leaving a fifty man garrison under Lord Bywater to ensure there is no unpleasantness.

"The rest of us march tomorrow. We'll follow Ser Criston's plan, but for one detail."

Criston frowned. "What detail would that be, my King?"

There was a glimmer of madness in Aegon's eyes as he grinned sharkishly. "It will be Sunfyre and I luring Darklyn out, not Ser Owen."

Criston was unsure as he thought over the implications. Aegon clearly intended to leave Darklyn's lands a blackened ruin. Between that, Aemond undoubtedly doing the same in Stokeworth to 'aid' his search and what had happened to Rosby, Aegon was going to leave half the Crownlands field dead and ashen and useless come spring. It was foolish. It was shortsighted. But Aegon was King. So Criston held his tongue.

It was as the King commanded. The meeting broke up after a few minor details had been gone over so much that Criston had been tempted to spark a fight between Deem and Chelsted just for the sake of breaking the tedious conversation up. It seemed Ser Tanton's barbed words and shameless flattery had appealed to the King's vanity and cruel streak for he had taken Criston aside as the rest of the knights and lords had scattered either to their chambers for rest or to the camp below to find a camp follower or two to request an honourable command for the man. Criston was loath to do so but he had his orders. Hopefully he could find something suitably dangerous for the little snake.

They set out early the next morning. The sky was covered by low, grey clouds and there was a thin mist hanging over the fields as they marched out of Stokeworth. Criston had sent Cedric and the freeriders out again the night before to ride ahead of the column and screen their movements by slaughtering any scouts Darklyn had sent out while also looking for a suitable place to set their own force up. Every night when they made camp, Criston made sure to set more than double the amount of sentry's they really needed. He refused to allow Darklyn to catch him off guard. But his daily reports all said the same thing. Darklyn had made camp a days march south of Duskendale on the coast road and he wasn't moving. Wooden stakes and pallisades had been set up in a ring around the hills the Darklyn army was camped upon and deep trenches had been dug further as well as small pot holes designed to trip and cripple horses in a charge.

They were eleven days removed from Stokeworth and still another seven from Darklyn's camp when Cedric reporting back in personally. According to what they'd seen, Aegon had already begun laying waste to Lord Gunthor's lands. Sunfyre had been seen several times flying down low and reducing villages and holdfasts to naught but ash. The fields were ablaze from the Chyttering Brook to the Hollard Hills north of Duskendale. There were reports of unrest from the Darklyn camp as his minor vassals begged leave to return and defend their homes, just as Criston had predicted. It wouldn't be long before Darklyn had to abandon his defensive position and march against them. Which meant it was time to choose their own battleground.

"Cedric and his men have found a place. Eight and twenty league's north of here," he told his commanders that night, in his command tent. "If we set up facing east, there'd be a stream on our right. If we spread caltrops beneath the water we can ensure he can't turn our flank with a cavalry charge. Wooden stakes on the left would do the same."

It would be vital not to appear too strongly entrenched elsewise Darklyn would be able to convince his Lords of the folly of attacking. It that sense, it helped that they wouldn't have much time to prepare. They had tree days, four at most, from the moment Darklyn marched. The scouts reported that they had begun dismantling their camp and would likely be on the move by the following morning. If their defensive fortifications looked incomplete; such as they would if they were only complete on the left, half done in the centre and non-existent on the right; the lords, in their desperation, would press for an attack and Lord Gunthor couldn't afford to look week.

"Lord Hayford, you'll need to remain here when the infantry marches. I'll leave Cedric and his freeriders with you. Use them to make sure Darklyn is unaware of your seperation from us and once he is close to our camp, circle behind him and cut off his retreat." Hayford sneered imperiously but did not complain.

Since Aegon had taken the role of razing Darklyn lands, the heavy horse, or most of it at least, had the task of preventing Darklyn from retreating. In this, Criston had once again been overruled as to his own choice of commander. The King wanted to continue rewarding Lord Hayford's loyalty and when the man had publicly requested the honour of leading the horse, Aegon had granted it him without a thought. Ser Owen, who had been expecting the command, had not been happy. Moreso when he discovered that because Ser Criston had already drawn up his plans for the infantry he had no command at all for the coming battle.

Over the next few days the men worked and trained hard. From the second he heard news of Darklyn's army being on the move, the time seened to breeze by. It seemed no time at all since he was in his tent planning for the battle and then all of a sudden it had snuck up on him. He had awoken to the sound of warhorns and his eyes had snapped open instantly. He was quick and efficient in donning his armour. He had no time to spare.

Before long he was sat atop his horse, commanding the relatively small reserve. His hundred knights and four hundred men-at-arms were arrayed around him, ready to plunge into battle and turn their tide wherever they were most needed. A thousand archers were arrayed into two long lines, string their bows and shifting nervously. Per Aegon's orders, Set Tanton Deem had been granted an important command. He held command in the centre. It was smallest contingent of Criston's army but the strongest. Six hundred Men-at-Arms clad in mail hauberk's, steel breasplates and half helms carrying swords, warhammer's, maces, axes and morningstar's. The right and the left both held about a thousand spearmen. Thorne had the right while Ser Criston's sworn brother Ser Arryk Cargyll commanded on the left.

Criston watched with baited breath as Darklyn's forces moved forward. Even with the cavalry away, he had more than twice the men as Lord Darklyn. It should be an easy victory. But preparing to enter battle was still nerve wracking. He'd never had to fight a pitched battle before. Few who were alive had. He could feel the nerves amongst his men. To Criston, it seemed the only man who was more eager than apprehensive was Owen Chelsted. The man shifted restlessly atop his warhorse, his plain and unadorned grey armour looking far more intimidating and effective over his broad frame than the decorated and gleaming silver armour worn by Lord Thorne. He knew the young knight beside him was itching to be in the fray of things with his wickedly dangerous looking axe.

But he would have to wait.

The Darklyn archers engaged first and after a barked order to raise shields to the men in front, Criston ordered his own archers to return fire. Volley after volley was loosed. The two sets of archers were mostly focussing on each other as Darklyn's main army slowly advanced towards Criston's battle lines but there were casualties among the infantry on both sides as arrows flew wide or short. The knights were mostly safe. It would take sustained, focussed volleys to take down a knight in plate armour. One arrow bounced harmlessly off Cole's breastplate and another off Ser Owen's helmet. Ser Nayland Clyne was not so lucky. A stray arrow pierced straight through his visor and the man fell to the ground with little more than a brief gasp.

It took more than a few minutes before the skirmishing died down. Criston had near a thousand archers and though they'd taken casualties there numbers had won out and gained the upper hand. As Darklyn's forces begin to pick up speed to begin their charge, half of his archers switched targets to pepper the front lines while the rest continued their decimation of the enemy archers.

From the centre of Darklyn's army he saw the heavy horse begin to pull ahead of the infantry. At their head was a man in pitch black plate and a yellow and black surcoat that he knew to be Lord Gunthor himself. Just as Criston had hoped, Darklyn was hoping to avoid the spears on the flanks and commiting his heavy horse to try and break the smaller centre. He'd leave the flank to his infantry, mainly.

"Hold your line men!" He heard Deem shout right before the Darklyn lances crashed into them. Even funneled as they were by the incomplete barricades, the charge was devasting. The front of the wedge managed to pierce nearly halfway through the ranks of the centre before being forced to a halt. Thankfully however, the way they'd set the defences meant that Darklyn could not easily withdraw and wheel around for another charge. After the initial success and the skewered corpses left in their wake, the heavy horse was surrounded by the press of men dragging the knights from their horses and hacking into them.

By this point the right and left had been engaged too. The right was almost as bloody as the centre already. The Darklyn lines had crashed into Thorne and were locked together with both gaining and then losing ground. But on Ser Arryk's left it was naught but light skirmishing. Criston smiled. The stakes and heavy defences on that flank had deterred the enemy and they were hesitating to commit. Likely because they were waiting to turn infield and help press through the centre.

Darklyn's banner had fallen a few moments ago but the lack of dismay from the remaining knights indicated that Lord Gunthor was either alive or at the very least they didn't know he was dead. And retreat was no longer an option, as their own men-at-arms followed behind them and joined the press. At Criston's right, Ser Owen's hands clenched, his gauntlets creaking menacingly, and his huge black warhorse stomped inpatiently at the ground. But not yet.

As expected, under the press of both the knights and the newly arrived men-at-arms, Deem's centre was being forced back. He could hear someone calling for a withdrawal but whether or not it was Deem he couldn't tell. He'd told the commanders in the centre before the battle that they were to hold as long as possible and then move backwards in good order so the reserve could shore up the lines. He hadn't told them the plan hinged on it.

"The centre are buckling," Ser Owen pointed out, needlessly. Criston could very well see the ground being lost.

"We hold," he replied calmly. Ser Owen growled, but he cared not. He was waiting for...there!

The Darklyn right, who had been skirmishing lightly with Ser Arryk's men, had suddenly shifted their advance and plunged into the centre. With the lines on the brink of collapse, Darklyn; or whoever was commanding at that point; had called their flank away from the heavy defensive line and focussed on breaking through. And it was exactly was he'd been waiting for. He turned to his standard bearer.

"Sound the horn!" He called. He looked over to the Serjent in charge of the archers. "Signal Lord Hayford to begin his charge. Forward!"

Warhorns were sounded as Criston's five hundred men began to charge forward to support the struggling centre. Criston was at the head of the charge with his knights, Ser Owen on his right laughing as he twirled his axe in one hand, a young knight by the name of Gyles Belgrave muttering a short prayer on his left. Out of the corner of his eyes, Criston saw a trio of flaming arrows being fired high into the air. As they approaching the enemy lines, Criston had a moment of panic before Ser Arryk's men began to move, wheeling around with the spears to press the flank of the enemy army. With Arryk's spears to the right, the caltoped water on their left and being pushed back by the newly reinforced centre, the Darklyn army had only one way to go; backwars. And if Hayford played his part, that too would soon be unavailable.

Criston's few cavalry stormed through the space their centre had opened for them and showed the Darklyn forces how a cavalry charge felt from the other side. Criston's lance had slammed into some knight's chest and snapped off and he pulled his morningstar to hand even as his horse trampled at least two men beneath it. From atop his horse he slammed his weapon down onto some man-at-arms head and wrenched to tear the spikes back out again. He could hear calls for the centre to push back now that the pressure on them had been relieved and the thundering sounds of hundreds of feet charging forth, their owners screaming for this house and that told him his reserve was now fully committed to the battle.

Criston didn't shout. He cared not for his house nor home and it may have been taken poorly were he to scream "Targaryen! King's Landing! Targaryen!" as many of those around him were. They were from King's Landing. He was not. His was instead a wordless cry of fury and wrath as he rained blows down upon his enemy. At one point a spearman had thrust the tip of his weapon into Criston's chest as he rode past, sending him crashing to the ground. He lay there winded for a moment and his enemies rushed to finish him off, only to encounter Owen Chelsted in their path.

The big man laughed in joy as he whirled his great-axe in one hand and cleaved a man near in two between neck and naval. His shield was long gone so he caught an incoming blow on his vambrace and slammed his steel encased head into the other man's face. The other man dropped to the ground like a puppet with its stings cut. As Criston pulled himself back to his feet Chelsted pulled his axe back out and caught a man-at-arms across the face sending teeth and brain flying and then used it to cave in a knights breastplate. Criston heaved his Morningstar back up and gave a similar treatment to a man approaching him. A spearman tried to skewer him but he caught the point on his shield and forced it aside. He followed that up by smashing the mans arms to a bloody mess, then clearly pulverising his collarbone down into his chest. A third man had the spiked weapon crash against the side of his ribs and fell drowning in blood. He briefly saw Ser Osmund Houghton as received a spear to the throat. He was fighting a skilled knight as he stumbled over the body of Lord Thorne's son and managed to use his fall to break the knight's knee with his morningstar. Then he was beside Ser Owen again. His axe was lodged deep in a knights chest and stuck there as a man-at-arms approached. Ser Owen didn't even bother with an axe. He simply caught the sword in one hand and punched the man in the throat with the other. The man fell, clutching his throat and not being able to breathe, already turning purple.

Where in Seven Hells is Hayford? Criston cursed as he fought through the never ended swarm of men. At one point he heard a horn blowing and briefly hoped but then recognized that it wasn't one of his nor was it an attack horn.

The fight seemed to last for at least another hour after that and by the end of it Criston's entire body was aching. His blows were still as strong as when they started but there was a pain flaring up his side every time he did. Eventually though, the onslaught was over, though it took Criston a moment to realize. It was only Ser Owen's gleeful cheering that alerted him to the fact that it was over.

But despite the cheering around him, Criston could only curse as he saw the Darklyn banners disappearing into the hills beyond the battlefield. Hayford had never arrived.

"..iston? Ser Criston?" He heard through the ringing in his ears. He turned and saw a bloody Tanton Deem smirking at him, his blood soaked dirk held at the throat of a man in his forties. The man's face was batterred and bruised but his armour was ornate. It was made of gold; or at least gilded steel; with pitch black stones set in rows on the breastplate. Gunthor Darklyn.

"Ser Deem."

"I caught a present for the King. What should I do with him?" Deem gloated, his eyes drifting over to Ser Owen's steel clad form as though bragging that he'd taken a valuable prisoner and Chelsted had not.

Stepping inbetween the two to prevent them coming to blows, he said "Take him to the camp and put him under heavy guard. Ser Owen, get the men organised. Find out who we lost and how many."

"Yes, Lord Hand," Chelsted grumbled.

It proved difficult to get a true count of the numbers of bodies. The bodies in the water being the hardest. The stream was more a small river in truth, just wide enough and deep enough to make wading across difficult at the best of times. With the caltrops dug into the bed and arrows raining down on any who tried to escape that way, it had turned into a death trap. By the end of the battle, the water was completely dammed by the bodies laying across it. It was nearing sunset before they could truly start work of dragging the bodies out to be burned and it was only then that Hayford banners appeared on the horizon with Criston's horse.

Criston was furious. They had lost near six hundred men in a battle that should have cost far less if Hayford had done his job properly. Not to mention that his failure had allowed about half of the Darklyn army to escape. They may have been scattered for now, but that was still about a thousand men left roaming the country with a hatred for the Green's. He didn't hesitate to roar exactly that in the man's face before assigning him to take over from Ser Owen and commanding him to work through the night. That quickly proved to be a mistake however.

Aegon arrived early the next morning, having heard news of the battle and had helped remove the bodies by having Sunfyre reduce the piles to ash. The nobly born corpses had been separated and loaded onto carts to be returned to their homes; if they still stood; as a sign of good faith. With Hayford having worked through the night, he was the only one of the commanders awake when Aegon arrived and hadn't hesitated to spin his own tale. While he didn't go so far as to blame Criston, he clearly made sure his own standing with the King was safe, much to Criston's irritation.

Lord Darklyn had not long surivived Aegon's arrival. Upon being presented to him, bound in chains and gagged, the King had ordered Sunfyre to feast on the defeated Lord. Criston wasn't entirely sure who Duskendale passed too. Both of Lord Gunthor's sons had been slain in the battle. The younger one, Egon, had been dragged from his horse and hacked into unrecognisable pieces while his elder brother, Danos, had been one of the victims of Ser Owen's axe. Apparantly one of Gunthor's brothers had either fled the battle or died during it but no one was sure which. They hadn't yet found his body at any rate.

"Most of the survivors have scattered to the winds." Ser Owen reported the next day. "But Duskendale still stands and has been started trying to raise more levies to defend the town. We'll have to press on if we want to take the town before it serves to rally the survivors."

Deem snorted at that. "Pox on taking it, we have a dragon. Let us use him. If Rosby wasn't enough of a message, Duskendale will be. Let us see how many stand against us when we return a whole town to the earth!"

Aegon clearly liked that idea but the pressure from his lords seemed enough to convince him and Hayford seemed content to go along with it. The pressure from the other lords proved too much though. Lord Thorne and Gaunt had blathered about how it would effect the treasury to see a port and trading hub destroyed; Criston refrained from pointing out that the less ports there were around the Blackwater the more trade would flow to King's Landing instead and he suspected they mearly wanted to sack the town rather than burn it; while Ser Owen had bluntly told the King that such was the action of a coward. That had gotten Chelsted expelled from the meeting but after the blow to his pride, Aegon wouldn't let himself deploy his dragon against Duskendale. Especially not after Criston himself pointed out that Duskendale was a walled and fortified town. There would be scorpions on the walls ready to let loose at any dragon that approached unannounced.

Though Aegon had backed down, he had insisted on marching immediately and at a breakneck pace. They marched at an exhausting rate for three days and arrived at Duskendale on the morning of the fourth. The walls had fallen quickly; Darklyn had taken the bulk of the already trained men with him and they hadn't returned. Most of the town watch were green and the less said of the fresh levies the better. They'd broken quickly. But barely had they breached the gates and started to secure the town than Aegon was wanting to move on again. He had his eyes set on Rook's Rest.

"I will not suffer the Whore to hold sway over any of my bannermen while I can sit a dragon," he'd near snarled. "Regroup the men and be ready to march north."

Criston had whole heartedly agreed. Let the new Lord Darklyn keep his city and keep. Their forces were broken and scattered and their gates wide open. With the large scale bandit activity that had been steadily growing in the two years prior, they would soon have their hands full with other issues. But Hayford's craven nature had gotten the better of him again.

"The men are tired, Your Grace," he said. "We have marched a long way at a fast pace and they'll need to rest before we can start the march again."

Criston had turned Lord Hayford's face sour with the insults he had for that but the portly man had stood his ground. Lord Thorne agreed and added that it would be difficult to get the army into any sort of order so quickly. Criston did concede that point. The bulk of their infantry was spread through the town raping and burning and stealing at will. If they tried to pull them away from their spoils and march again they'd be lucky to still have two thirds of the army they'd had before. Not that Criston was generous to Thorne for that. He knew exactly who had turned the men loose and had no doubt Thorne's pockets were a few gold dragons heavier. But the argument was lost when Tanton Deem agreed with allowing the infantry to stay and pillage. Criston had hoped that the man would be too busy sacking to attend the war council but he'd staggered into the comandeered guardhouse in a jovial mood just in time.

"Very well." Aegon frowned, his mouth downturned. Hayford was anxiously wringing his hands, clearly fearful he may have expressed his opinion a tad too strongly; which for Hayford meant actually mumbling something contrary to the King's will. But Aegon, for all his anger and ceaseless rage, Aegon seemed able to accept their views. "The foot can stay and finish their merriment but once they're done they are to march immediately for Rook's Rest. Don't bother about the Dun Fort. Darklyn's widow can hole herself up in their for as long as she likes. We'll deal with her after."

He had a dark scowl on his face while he said it, but Criston counted it as a victory nonetheless. Until Aegon spoke again.

"But Lord Staunton's defiance cannot be allowed to stand. Ser Criston, you and I shall lead the heavy horse to begin making Lord Staunton understand his treason. Lord Hayford, you'll have command of the foot."

Even as Hayford perked up and started preening, Criston was frowning deeply.

"Your Grace, I advise against that." He took care to remain very neutral as Aegon turned a glare on him. He glared at everyone who disagreed. It meant nothing.

"Ser Criston. I never thought I'd see the day you advocating sparing traitors," Aegon said with a sneer. Criston kept his face blank, not wanting to point out that he had been very much on board with marching against Staunton right up until now. He wished Ser Owen were here, so he might have some support. But the days had not cooled Aegon's temper and the man was being excluded from meetings and even the battle itself, having been relegated to guarding what few prisoners they had.

"Not at all, my King." Criston replied. "If we were to march with our whole army there would be no issue. However the fact we have made it even this far with no interference from Rhaenyra..."

"The whore." Aegon drawled. "Name her what she is Ser."

Criston clenched his jaw in annoyance. What did it matter? "Without interference from the whore is strange enough. To split our army would be invite retaliation."

For a moment, he dared hope. But it was quickly quashed.

"She is scared and she does well to be so." Aegon waved his hand. "No. The cavalry will ride out immediately and begin our attack on House Staunton. Lord Hayford can follow with the infantry when he can. This is my will. You will obey, my Lord Hand."

Criston thought very quickly. To split the army was beyond foolish. The second she learned of it Rhaenyra would sail and her dragons would fly in number. Whether for the infantry or the cavalry; or even King's Landing itself; she would move against them and without the full army it would, inevitably, be a heavy loss. Unless...yes, Criston thought. That could work.

"Of course, Your Grace. If I may," he began as Aegon started to turn away. Once his slightly wild gaze was back on Criston, he continued. "How would you like to take the opportunity to remove at least one of your sisters dragons from the board?"

Chapter 12: Rhaenyra II

Chapter Text

Familiar amethyst coloured eyes met her gaze evenly across the painted table.

Everything about the boy sitting across from her was painfully familiar. He had the same high, slanted cheekbones and slim nose that she herself had. His features reminded her of Daemon, Rhaenys and, somewhat oddly and in other ways not, her father. Though the boy did not exactly look like her father; King Viserys as she remembered him had lines around his eyes, overly full cheeks, severel chins and a lot of fat that were absent of the young man; they did share many features and Rhaenyra supposed her father may have looked like this once. The boy had the same bright, silver hair and deep purple eyes that her father, uncle and good-mother all shared. His face was thin, pale and elegent in much the same way her Aegon and Viserys and he already stood tall and slim despite being only four-and-ten. He still had room to grow, but he already resembled a younger Daemon.

In the back of her mind, she considered it insulting that the boy and his full-blood siblings had inherited the highest form of Valyrian traits, while she had been relegated to a softer, white-gold hair colour that her two younger sons had taken after and a paler eye colour, more a soft shade of lilac than anything else.

Across from her, the boy raised a pale eyebrow.

It took everything in Rhaenyra's power to repress the sneer that wanted to morph into existence on her face. She may not like him, but the boy had risked everything to save her son and it had left Rhaenyra torn. Part of her wanted to insult and offend and provoke. His bitch of a mother and the rest of her brood had cost her a throne and a daughter and very nearly a son. Daeron was their kin and therefore a target and had so kindly delivered himself to her. But the other part of her wanted to pull him into an embrace and give him whatever reward he wanted. But she was a Queen, so she could do neither. Not publicly at any rate.

"Has the wine done something to offend you, sister?" He spoke at last.

Rhaenyra blinked and realised that yes, at some point she had broken the stare and begun glaring at the wine in front of her. She looked up again and her mouth threatened to pull into a snarl at the smug, teasing smile that Daeron wore at her expense.

"It was meant to an arbor vintage, fit for none but the King or Queen. Unfortunately, it seems some bitter and spoiled fruits of Oldtown were involved in its making and have rather spoiled my taste for it," she said calmly and the barely veiled insult registered instantly, if the way his mouth turned downwards ever so slightly was any indication. Admittedly, she'd always thought him a smart lad.

He looked conflicted for a moment, before sighing mournefully and relaxing back into his chair.

"I'm afraid you're right, Your Grace," he said "and I fear those rotten fruits will turn everything sour soon enough. My own...tastes...have already been affected. It may be for the best to burn out that rot, before it can spread further."

There was the slightest hint of uncertainty in his voice when he mentioned his own tastes. Rhaenyra had half a thought to throttle the boy and had very nearly done so when he and Lucos had confessed their intamacy to her when they arrived on Dragonstone. She had held a fleeting suspicion beforehand of course, it was hard not to when you observed the boys together, and there had always been rumours but she'd never been certain and she had lacked any sort of proof. Now she knew. Lucos was like a son to her. While she didn't pretend to understand his strange...desires...she would not cast him out for it.

She could wish that he had fallen for someone other than her half-brother though.

As for the rest of his little speech...she smirked. If they were in court she not only would have scored a point against Alicent and her brood but Daeron would have, in effect, publicly announced his intention to back her to the throne. But the smile died on her lips. They were not in court. And while it would be so easy, and so satisfying, to slip into a role and play the little games she had learned at her fathers side, there was no need. Daeron had quite effectively announced his intentions in the boldest and most open way possible in attacking his own brother in defence of Lucerys. Not even a half-wit could mistake that move.

"Yes." She said. "Your taste's, as you put it. Lucos is like a son to me. For the love I bear him and your role in saving my son, I am willing to overlook your...activities, so long as you remain as discreet as possible. Aegon has already begun spreading rumours of the degenerecy of our side and we do not need to feed his slander."

She stood and as she spoke she walked, slowly and gracefully around the table until she was stood over him.

"But rest assured, should he come to any harm at your hand, you will live to regret it."

Daeron swallowed. He glanced down at first before raising his eyes and meeting her gaze.

"I have no doubt of it, My Queen," he said solemnly. "Should that day ever come, I pray you show no mercy."

She examined his expression closely but everything seemed sincere. That didn't mean too much; she knew how deceptive his ilk were and no matter what words he spoke she would be watching him closely; but for know it was enough. She nodded slightly and gestured for him to follow her. She check to make sure he obeyed. To do so would display a lack of confidence in her power and leadership. She couldn't show that. Least of all to a rival claimant. She heard him stand though and his footsteps echoed alongside hers as she led them out of her solar and into the Chamber of the Painted table.

Maester Gerardys was already there. He was sat sorting through scrolls of parchment, likely the latest set of letters to arrive at Dragonstone on the progress of the war. Rhaenyra smirked at the sight of the Chain of Office hanging on his robes. She had felt a viscious pleasure at ripping it off Orwyle when the man had delivered her brothers ridiculous terms to her. The traitors in the Red Keep should count themselves fortunate she hadn't thrown him in the dungeon there and then.

Lucos was there too, stood at the window and staring out over Blackwater Bay. He looked every inch a warrior. No longer the precocious child she so fondly remembered running around Dragonstone with Jacaerys. He wore a coal black breastplate over gleaming silver chain mail and thick brown leather as well as steel greaves, gauntlets and vambraces. His longsword was sat on one hip, the sapphire in the pommel almost sparkling in the light, with a dagger sheathed next to it and a small hand axe hooked through his belt on the other side. Though she couldn't see it, she was sure he had at least on other small blade stashed somewhere on him.

She might have told him that he needn't be so armoured on Dragonstone but he insisted.

"I'll be wearing this armour for true purpose soon enough," he'd told her a few days ago as she straightened the colar of his doublet and smoothed out the fabric over his shoulders. "I'll want to be used to it when that happens."

Both occupants of the room looked over at their entry. Gerardys smiled ever so slightly and bowed in greeting. He had advocated trust to her that morning when she laid out her plans to finally confront the issue of Daeron. He seemed pleased by her choice. But not like Lucos. His normally reserved face had lit up with joy when he saw the two of them enter together.

"Princ-Queen Rhaenyra," he fumbled her title momentarily before correcting himself. He turned to Daeron next and the stoic formality melted off his face and turned into pure adoration. "Daeron."

"None of that child," she scolded him. "I may not have birthed you but you are my son and in private you need not be so detached."

He smiled and nodded. "You've come to a decision then?"

"I have." She nodded and moved to the head of the table. Lucos, Daeron and Gerardys gathered around her as she sat. "Daeron has quite convinced me of his sincerity. I have every faith he will prove an asset to our cause. And," she held up a hand to halt Lucos' question. "I will not stand in the way of your desires for each other."

Gerardys' face did contort slightly at that. He was in favour of using Daeron as an asset. He was less fond of Daeron and Lucos' relationship. She wished she didn't understand. That she was able to disregard her concerns and instinctive revulsion and continue on as if it mattered not at all. She suspected her children would be better at that than her. The best she could do was pretend. To not speak or act against them. She could accept it and not interfere even if she couldn't bring herself to fully support the idea yet.

Besides. It was worth it to see the soft smile on both their faces and the way they leaned closer to each other just slightly now that they had permission. But they had more important matters to get to.

"Truly, little brother, you arrival has come at an opportune time. You know Aegon and Aemond better than any of us. Your insight will be invaluable," she said and almost laughed at the way he straightened and puffed his chest out. Not a child anymore, but still childlike in some ways. The blush on his face after showed that he had caught her little flattery game and was embarrased for having fallen for it even for a second.

The war wouldn't wait for their word games though, so Rhaenyra quickly filled the young man in on what had happened over the last few days. Lucos and the Maester both interjecting at times to explain the strategies better than she ever could. Daemon had taken Harrenhal and opened the castle for the forces of Darry and Mooton to gather while the Blackwood's had begun to launch raids into Bracken land. The declarations from the Lords of the Crownlands, Riverlands and Vale. Her support close to home was far greater than even she could have hoped for. Jace had done quite well in the Vale from all accounts and already the Royce's and Grafton's were gathering in Gulltown. She'd sent 40 Galley's from her own house to the port, ready to begin ferrying the men when they were ready.

She was still bitter about the Stormlands though. Lord Boremund's betrayal had cut deep enough on its own but that it nearly cost Luke his life...Thankfully, it seemed the Stormlands were not entirely devoid of honor. The marcher Lords had refused to join their banners to the host Boremund was gathering at Storms End and several of his bannermen had declared their loyalty to her. While she doubted they would be enough to defeat Lord Boremund's army, they might at least delay him from entering the fray in the Crownlands.

"They're surrounded on all sides." Daeron remarked.

"Not entirely. Lord Massey is making slow progress through the Kingswood our allies in the western Crownlands are being victorious and not in equal measure." Lucos responded.

"And Lord Footly to the south had not yet moved from Tumbleton."

"Massey's progress may be slow but undeniable. His enemies have more men but they are fighting seperately. Its slow but him to the south and our supporters gathering strength to his north Aegon will be able to feel the choke closing around him."

"What will he do?" Rhaenyra asked. She, Daemon, Jace and Corlys had discussed this at the original war council but she had been alone since then, her advisors spread across the country. She had second guessed the predictions about Aegon at every turn.

Daeron hesitated. "It depends. On his advisor's; on which of them he listens to. But if I had to say, he would probably lash out. Try to crush the defiance on one front. Its not a bad strategy to break the flank before it closes but the decision would be made out of emotion not logic. His anger is like dragonfire and if he doesn't keep it in check, it may burn him too."

"He'll march out?" Lucos asked eagerly. Daeron nodded somewhat hesitantly. Lucos turned to her with a grin. "That's it then. We hit them while their army is in the open and away from the protection of their walls!"

Rhaenyra shook her head. "We lack the forces here to succeed in such a battle. Once the Vale contingent arrives things may be different but for now...no, I won't risk it."

Lucos frowned. "We have dragons. We don't need the men, not for this."

"So do they. Where Aegon goes, Aemond won't be far. Especially not now." She nodded towards Daeron at that.

"If we command our forces in the Crownlands to retreat north towards Harrenhal, we may be able to lure Aegon and his army north," Daeron offered. "That would leave King's Landing open for us to take."

"That risks Aegon turning around and hitting us with our breeches down while we're still trying to secure the city."

"I agree. The army must go first before we turn our attention to the city itself."

"Then let me deal with it. Me, Rhaenys, Daeron and you. We have enough dragon riders too..."

Lucos cut himself off. She knew why. Dragon riders were a sore subject at the moment. It had been seven days since Lucerys had arrived back on Dragonstone with Lucos and Daeron in tow. Seven days since she had glanced out of her window and nearly been sick at the sight of Luke's dragon shaking and wobbling as it approached the island. Luke hadn't left his room since, even though the Maester said his wounds were superficial. Seven days since he'd eaten more than dry bread.

"How is he?" Lucos asked after a second.

Rhaenyra sighed and had to remind herself to keep her composure. To not display her fretting to the world.

"No change. He is still in a deep melancholy mood and isn't eating or sleeping properly. He still hasn't spoken. He still hasn't left his chambers."

"I can find no physical cause for his malady, Your Grace," Gerardys said, frowning. "Though it must be said, no one truly understand how the Targaryen bond with a dragon works. Nor how the loss of one might affect the rider."

Rhaenyra thought Luke was probably also blaming himself for Storm's End.

Arrax had landed none too gently on the beach. His wing had been all but wrenched from his body and his throat bore several deep, gushing wounds that looked like something; Vhagar's fangs she later learned; had puntured straight through his scales. Looking at the poor creature, it had been a shock that she had even managed to deliver her precious son back to her. Rhaenyra had doubted she would live. Daeron and Lucos had both thought so too, as they had taken their dragons to the Dragonmont without a word, leaving Lucerys and to comfort his dying companion with no one but herself and her Queensguard as witness.

He never got the chance.

The second the two had departed a dark shadow had descended. The Cannibal. A monstrously large creature that had hatched on the island at some point. Maybe even before the Conquest. Its size was comparable to only Vhagar and had charcoal scales and crimson red eyes. His wings were even darker than the rest of his body. It survived by eating young dragons as they hatched from eggs. It rarely, if ever, interacted with humans but it was viscious when provoked. No Targaryen had ever been able to tame him. Some Maester's theorized the egg Cannibal had hatched from may not have been from Valyria at all.

Cannibal rarely attacked full grown dragons and almost never when men were near. But it must have sensed some weakness from Arrax because there was no hesitation when it landed and clamped its jaws around Arrax's already ruined throat. With a twist and a gutteral growl, it wrenched the dragons head from his body and left it sat abandoned on the sand even as the gargantuan creature began to gorge on the meat of Arrax's neck.

Luke had let out a wordless, gut wrenching scream and drawn his sword at the sight as though to attack the beast. Thankfully, Ser Harrold and Ser Glendon were able to tackle him down and drag him away. A good thing too. Cannibal had hunched protectively over the corpse at Luke's scream and raised it's head, teeth bared and snout flaring with anger when he drew steel. Rhaenyra had no desire to see her son burn to ash, not when Arrax was already beyond saving. She had ordered Luke be taken back to the castle even as his fury devolved into broken sobs. Cannibal had sat on the beach all night before dragging what was left of Arrax's body back to his lair.

Rhaenyra couldn't imagine what it was like. So far as she knew the only rider who had ever lost his dragon and lived on after was her father. But his bond with Belarion had been more tenuous than any other rider and even then she knew he had only sunken to his hedonistic ways after the Black Dread's death. For Luke, who had seen Arrax hatch and grown alongside him and forged a close bond and was still just a child himself...she didn't know what she'd do if she lost Syrax. All she could do was try and comfort the despondant boy. But he barely responded.

Rhaenyra resolutely pushed Luke to the back of her mind. There was a part of her that wanted to leave the war to others and spend her days looking after her son. But there seemed to be nothing she could do for him and it was a war for her they were fighting. Already people had died for it. The least she could do was to plan the damn thing. First on that agenda was tempering Lucos' bloodlust.

She stood and ignored how much her body protested the movement. Her muscles ached and her bones throbbed. There was a pounding behind her eyes. She was a Queen. Queen's couldn't be weak.

"While I admire your enthusiam, Lucos, we will not be rushing blindly into Vhagar's jaws. We will be patient. Let Aegon's temper get the better of him and take advantage when it is too late to correct his mistake. Maester Gerardys; send raven's to Duskendale, Rosby and Stokeworth. Command them to combine their strength and march north. If Aegon wants to claim the Crownlands so desperately, we'll make it a true chase for him.

"Lucos, Daeron," she said, turning to the boys. "Lord Celtigar reports that our men will be ready to take ship at a moments notice. When Aegon gives chase to our loyal Lords, the three of us will fly to Driftmark and lead the army onto King's Landing, whether the Vale is here or no."

The Lords sworn directly to Dragonstone had managed to muster some three thousand men between them and Rhaenyra had ordered them to assemble on Driftmark, leaving her with only a garrison five hundred strong. Dragonstone was a small island. The fortress itself made up over half of the island. There was a small fishing village, two insignificant wooden holdfasts and a small market. Fitting three thousand men would have been possible but difficult, not to mention the Valemen that would hopefully be arriving soon.

Rhaenyra had sent half her fleet to Gulltown as soon as she heard there was an army assembling there under her banner. The Vale had a small defence fleet and a few trading ships. Nowhere near enough to transport an army to Driftmark. So, while the Velaryon ships continued to blockade the Gullet, her own galley's (and those of her bannermen) had sailed north.

"If Aegon hears of our movements, he will fly back to defend the city." Daeron pointed out. "His army may not be able to get back in time but he and Aemond can."

"Which is why my husband will..." Rhaenyra trailed off as the door creaked open. A pale and drawn figure in rumpled black clothing slipped through the gap, a scroll held tightly in his hand.

"Mother," Luke said, voice hoarse.

"Lucerys," Rhaenyra said, smiling at him. "Its good to see you up."

Lucerys didn't smile back. He unsteadily made his way to Gerardys and handed him the scroll.

"A raven came. From King's Landing. Your assistant was bringing it to you." He explained.

Gerardys unfurled the scroll; the seal was broken so Luke must have already read the message; and he instantly blanched. He read it again before looking at her. He was hesitant. Rhaenyra held out her hand. Gerardys made no move to hand her the letter.

"Your Grace..." he started.

"Your Queen is asking for that letter, Maester. Don't disobey her." Lucos warned. His voice was calm; kind even; and he looked entirely relaxed. But his hand rested a little too easily on the hilt of his sword. Rhaenyra felt touched that he would defend her so, even if it was unneccesary.

"Of course." The Maester said. "I simply worried. I should warn you this news is dire."

Rhaenyra read the letter. Then again. Then once more. She snarled.

How dare they. How dare they! HOW DARE THEY!

The letter crumpled in his fist and she could distantly hear Luke reciting the list of her dead supporters. The brave and loyal men and women who had been dragged out of the Black Cells and offered a choice between death and fealty to the traitor. Most had chosen death. Lord Stokeworth who had always made her laugh with his tales. Old Lady Fell; who four sons had all danced with her at a ball many years ago. Lord's Buckler and Caswell who had ridden against each other in a tourney when she was a child and they foolish young squires, both claiming to be riding for her honour.

And those who deny me at the sight of a sword, she thought, seething. Gaunt and Buckwell would pay for that.

The news had stoked Lucos' rage and Lucerys was eager to see Aemond dead. Both were pushing for a swift attack with as much force as they could muster quickly. Those two had always been similar in that way. They had temper's that burned bright and hot and fast and was as quick to cool. Daeron and Gerardys were trying to calm the pair it seemed. As was Ser Lorent, interestingly. He had become quite loose with his tongue recently.

Rhaenyra cared not. It was Aegon's move now. If he took their bait and marched then they would be patient and steal his home from behind. If he did not then they would converge from all sides and leave him trapped. It mattered little which he chose. Rhaenyra's temper was not like Lucerys'. Not like Lucos. Her anger sat brewing in her gut for every day it was not sated. It was like ice. Slow and patient but just a deadly. Rhaenrya would see Aegon burn for all that he had done. She didn't care if it was sooner or later.

As long as he burned.

Chapter 13: Lucos II

Chapter Text

He wasn't allowed to kill the Cannibal.

Daeron had told him that almost immediately after the monster had slaughtered Arrax on the beach, when Lucos already had sword in hand and Snowfyre screeching vengence into the sky. His...lover, Lucos supposed was the best word to describe them, had wrapped his arms around Lucos' chest and refused to let him go, whispering softly about the risks, about how dangerous Cannibal was, about how they couldn't lose him. Lucos could have broken the grip but not without hurting Daeron. He'd allowed himself to be talked down.

He'd proposed the mission again to Jace when he'd returned. The sight of Vermax gliding down from the early morning mist had been a welcome one. Lucos himself had not seen Jace since before he had left to visit Daeron in Oldtown. His absence upon Lucos' return had caused him all sorts of worry and Lucos was relived to see him alive and unharmed. He'd grown since they last spoke. Jace had always been just a little taller than Lucos but he was now closer in height to Daeron than to Lucos. Lucos' father hadn't been particularly tall. He doubted he would be either. No doubt all of the Queen's children would grow to be taller than him. Lucos didn't mind it too much though he did regret not having a bit of extra reach on his arm.

After the family had greeted him back and he'd had his private meeting with his mother, Lucos had requested to see Jace alone. He'd accepted instantly and invited him back to his chambers. Before Jace could say anything, Lucos had told him everything that had happened. His and Daeron's flight from Oldtown, Baratheon's treachery, the battle above Storm's End and Arrax's death.

Jace had looked grim.

"I had wondered where Luke was," he mumbled. Luke wasn't quite as isolated as he had been for the first few weeks after Arrax's death and he was eating at least a little now but he still locked himself away for long stretches of time. He hadn't come out to see Jace return.

Lucos swallowed.

"I want to kill the Cannibal." He said. Jace had looked at him with alarm. Lucos hurried to explain. "You and me. Two dragons ought be enough, maybe some archers too. We lure him out of his cave and attack him at the entrance, where he's boxed in..."

"Out of the question." Lucos frowned, then glared. He opened his mouth to speak again but Jace cut across him. "Are you out of your mind. The Cannibal can be one of the most dangerous dragons if provoked and you want to give him a reason to attack us?"

"He killed Arrax!"

"Arrax was already dying!" Jace shouted. "We put a feast in front of him and rang the bell for it. The rest of our dragons are too strong for Cannibal to try anything and he avoids men. Our best option is to do as we have always done and ignore him."

"We can't just..." He was interupted again.

"Don't think I don't know what this is about, Lucos." Jace sighed. "Arrax was Luke's dragon. Family. You feel like you failed him. You've felt that way before and couldn't do anything about it and you think it can be different this time. It can't. We're not risking more dragons for the sake of your revenege. I don't like doing nothing either but we have no other choice. Not for now at least."

Lucos had left without another word. He wasn't childish enough to slam the door behind him regardless of how much he wanted to. No matter. His silence would express his anger well enough.

Mo- Queen Rhaenyra had said no as well. He had gone to her last, not wanting to burden her more than necessary. She had blanched when he'd suggested it. Her hand had drifted over her belly almost unconciously before she had all but screamed at him to stay away from the Cannibal. She had taken a moment to calm herself before telling him again, this time as a Royal command, that he was not to go looking for a fight with the murderous dragon lurking in the caves of the Dragonmont.

Lucos glared up at the side of the mountain. He wanted to. He wanted to more than he wanted anything else because, no matter how much he hated having his thoughs laid bare in front of him, Jace had been right. He'd been given an order from two of the people that meant most to him and wouldn't break it. But every time he saw Luke's pale and drawn face, his ever thinner figure lurking about in the dark parts of Dragonstone's halls, the surge of hate grew and grew and he was once again dreaming about dragging Cannibal's head into the throne Room in King's Landing and mounting on a spike.

"Lucos?"

He turned.

Daeron was staring at him in concern. The Queen's Black Council had not assembled in full since that first meeting. Lord Velaryon and his wife had returned from Driftmark but Lord Celtigar was still there with the army, Ser Samwell Bar Emmon and Ser Cedric Sunglass had returned to their keeps to see to their defences and levies. Ser Jon Pyle was off leading his wife's forces in the Kingswood and Daemon was at Harrenhall. Luke was still absent too. He seemed to drift in and out of meetings of his own accord with seemingly no reason as to when or where he'd make an appearance.

Some of the guards had taken to calling this smaller assembly the bedchamber council. Most of them were Rhaenyra's family in some way. Two sons, a brother, a good mother and father and; as Baela had begun attending in her father's stead; a cousin. Of those present only Lucos and the Maester were not Rhaenyra's kin.

"My apologies, Your Grace." Lucos said, bowing his head. "I was lost in thought."

The look Rhaenyra, Jacaerys and Daeron all gave him told him that they knew exactly what he was thinking about. He could feel himself start to flush and hurried to stamp down on his embarrasment.

"I'm quite sure I don't need to know what thoughts drift through your head when you're bored, Lucos. Joffrey's innocence should be guarded a little while longer," Rhaenyra said, smiling softly. Lucos did flush this time as did Daeron. Jace snorted and Ser Erryck coughed in an effort to hide his own amusement. "But come. My husband has sent grim tidings and I would have your counsel."

Lucos supposed it was only a matter of time before something went wrong. For being a war, things had been going much too smoothly, even with the execution of their loyal bannermen that had been imprisoned in King's Landing.

Jace had brought them nothing but good news. Queen Rhaenyra had thrown a small feast that night in honour of his return and the whole castle had piled into the Great Hall, less the guards who were on duty. Dragonstone was an island. While winter, war and the Velaryon blockade were stretching King's Landing's supplies to the limit, Dragonstone had no such problem. They were not short of fresh fish and most of the Free Cities were all still trading with Dragonstone and Driftmark. They'd even had a shipment of spices from Qarth that would, if nothing else, allow them to flavour their food so they didn't grow weary of the taste of fish. Huge loaves of bread, baked with flour from Pentos, had been baked through the day and set out with a honey spread at the begining of the feast. Half a dozen different types of fish had been brought as different courses; one had been added to a soup, most were grilled, one had been baked into a pie. Plates of oyesters were passed around, boiled crab had been added to a thick broth and there had even been some glazed seagull's that had been shot down for the occasion.

There was a troupe of musicians sitting off to the side. A dozen young men in colourful clothes with drums, harp's and lutes. According to Jace they had been kept on retainer in Dragonstone and Driftmark for several years as they were a favourite of Laenor Velaryon's. Neither Rhaenyra or Lord Corlys had kept them on after Laenor's death and the troupe had started travelling the Crownlands for work but the Queen still brought them back to perform at feast's every so often. She seemed to enjoy them in a sentimental way.

Mushroom was there too. The stunted little dwarf that was far cleverer than a fool had any right to be. Dressed in red and green motley and wearing a large jesters hat to match his overly large head, the dwarf pranced around the hall fumbling with his juggling balls; or pretending to; and tripping over his own feet, the bells on his hat jingling with every fall. He told lewd and disgusting japes that had most of the hall chuckling with mirth. The jokes were poor, most often boiling down to something shallow and uncreative like 'That men smells' or 'His cock is small' but there was always a subtle edge of a truly clever and often malicious barb hidden underneath. Too subtle, too clever. The true fools were those in hall that weren't smart enough to see the true joke. Mushroom's beady eyes were always watching.

The man had made Lucos' skin crawl ever since he was young and he'd been careful not to give anything away in front of him. He was sure the dwarf was responsible for the rumours of him and Daeron escaping the family.

Jace had spent the night telling stories. The Queen had been made privy to the information in private and she had announced to the hall her eldest son's success in making alliances and praised his charm and diplomacy. Lucerys had scowled at that and stomped off as soon as there was enough distraction in the hall to be unnoticed. Lucos had been sitting on the other end of the table and could only watch him go. He hadn't eaten a thing.

The exact details of their new allies were shared between courses. Over the soup and bread he told them off his agreement's with the Grafton's and the Three Sister's. After the fish pie, Jace had made a point to raise his cup and toast the loyalty of House Royce and Arryn. When the high table had been treated to a huge goose from Volantis that had been roasted over a huge brazier and flavoured with some strong pepper and another sharp spice; that Lucos couldn't identify and wasn't sure if he liked; before being thinly coated with a tangy syrup, Jace had informed them of the crown jewel among his alliances. The Stark's of Winterfell. He told all about the Pact of Ice and Fire he'd made, the splendor of White Harbour and the enchanting Godswood of Winterfell. He spoke at great length about Lord Cregan and if Lucos didn't know better he'd say Jace was nigh in love with the man. While they ate their final course; small pastry's with a fruity creme in the middle; Jace answered dozen's of Lucos' questions about the North. He'd always been curious about it but never had the courage to visit.

When the food had been cleared away, the musician's took the music up a notch. Before they had been quietly playing soft tunes, filling the background. With the food finished and the gathered guests growing rowdy as they gulped down wine and ale, they started playing faster and louder, switching from a slow, quiet version of the Bear and the Maiden Fair into The False and The Fair. There was no singer but many of the crowd took up the tune and bellowed out the words. Some were bad singers and some were fair and some sang the wrong song entirely.

Jace stood from his seat and turned to Lady Baela. For having grown up together, she and Lucos hadn't known each other very well for a long time. Surprising, perhaps, given their similar characters and their proximity to each other. But they had only truly interacted in lessons. He had flown around the Dragonmont with her once though, days before he left for Oldtown. It had been her third flight on Moondancer. He'd quite enjoyed her company and when they landed she had made him promise to spend more time with her.

"You and Jacaerys are close enough you are near enough my good-brother anyway," she had said smiling. "Besides, I'm told a man's worst fear is his wife and best friend plotting together."

Lucos had snorted.

"And where did you hear that from?" He'd certainly heard nothing of the sort.

"Oh, here and there," she'd said with a teasing smile. "Now come. I want to raid the kitchen's for honeyed bread and I think I'll use you to do all the carrying for me."

After that, he had started spending a little more time with her in the few days he'd had before flying south to see Daeron. She'd forced Jace away and sat next to him one day while they were break their fast and begun whispering utter nonsense to him, flitting from one tangent to the next but telling him to just respond in turn. Jace, sitting down the table, had been glancing warily between them for the whole meal. When Baela made a comment about how Symeon Star Eyes should have just used Alfred Broome's bald head instead of a shield, she'd startled a genuine laugh out of Lucos and Jace had looked panicked. He'd very quickly dragged Lucos away and forced him to spend the morning in the yard instead.

"My Lady," Jace said, bowing and holding his hand out. His back was as straight as a lance and his shoulders were tense. Lucos frowned. That wasn't like Jace. "We have spent nearly a moon apart for the first time since we were children. It would honour me greatly if you were to join me for a dance."

Baela had raised an eyebrow before accepting. There was something off there. Everything Jace said and did was perfect but there was a coldness that Lucos hadn't seen before. Baela had clearly picked up on it too because she sent him questioning looks for the rest of the night. Whatever it was, the Princess figured it out first. She had been glancing between Jace and some knight's daughter he was politely talking to before her expression became cold. She'd marched over to him and sent the young girl away with a glare. Lucos was too far away to hear what was said exactly but he didn't miss the way Jace's face crumpled nor the sneer Baela graced him with before she was leaving him alone in the middle of the hall.

She passed him on her way out and stopped.

"Did you know?" She asked.

"Did I know what?" he asked in confusion, eyebrows scrunching together. His stared hard at her, trying to discern what she had discovered and why he might know of it.

She met his gaze evenly for a minute before the hard look in her eyes softened ever so slightly. She stepped closer and kissed him on the cheek, in full view of the entire hall. The family might have known his relationship to Daeron but the rest of the castle didn't, not for sure. This could very easily be taken the wrong way. Thankfully, Lucos thought, glancing around the hall, not many eyes had been on them. Still, he had to give her credit for sheer nerve.

Stepping back she gave a soft sigh.

"Your friend isn't as good a man as you think he is. I hope you live up to my opinion better than he did." She started to step around him. "Oh. And thank Daeron for dancing with my sister for me. It was a kind gesture."

She stepped around him and walked away.

Lucos looked back across to where Daeron was dancing with Rhaena. After Jace had taken Baela to dance, there had been a flurry of movement. Taking cue from their Prince the men had rushed to ask the lady of their choice and the hall was soon filled with couples dancing at one end and big groups of rowdy men clamouring around each other at the other. Lord Velaryon had danced five songs with his wife before they sat back down in exhaustion. Lucos was impressed it had been so many, given the man's age. In the midst of it all Joffrey had stolen Daeron's cup of wine and took a long gulp. Before anyone could reprimand him, he was pushing his chair back and approaching Lord Celtigar's daughter to ask her for a dance. Lucos had simply laughed.

But then he'd caught sight of Rhaena. Prince Daemon's youngest daughter had put all the effort in for the feast, nevermind that it was only Dragonstone's household present. She wore a long red dress made of fine silk that swayed around her legs as she walked and left her shoulders bare. There were intricate design's weaved in black lace, including at least one artistic version of a dragon, and golden highlights along the trim. Her silver hair fell loosely about her face and down her back. She had a ring of pearls around each wrist and a golden necklace from which hung an eight sided gold pendant with a huge ruby set in it. But there she was, sitting alone at the high table with a despondant expression on her face, watching the other dancers jealously.

Lucerys was her betrothed and he'd left without a word to her at the start of the feast. She hadn't deserved that. Lucos got on with Baela far better than her sister. Baela was bold and daring and adventurous. Lucos knew that there was a edge of pure Valyrian Steel in Rhaena that was as dangerous as any of her siblings; full-blooded, half or step; but she preferred to keep it away and enjoy the life of a typical and dutiful lady. She liked dresses and songs and dancing. She had been trained to use a knife and sat through the boys lessons on history, diplomacy, numbers and letters with them but she far preferred her singing or sewing lessons. She was quiet, polite and dutiful. She had nothing in common with Lucos.

But he couldn't leave her sat there on her own.

As the betrothed of a Prince, none would dare approach her. None but a Prince themself. With Jace and Joffrey already dancing that left only one choice.

Lucos turned to Daeron only to find him already looking in the same place. Their eyes met; granite and amethyst. Lucos recognized the question in them. He nodded and tilted his head towards the lonely girl. Daeron gave him a small smile and stood, trailing his hand over the back of Lucos' and approached the girl. Lucos himself turned to little Egg and Vis. The boys had no interest in dancing and no girls their own age even if they did. They instead wanted to hear about the fight above Storm's End again. Lucos indulged them. He omitted several details; he made it sound heroic and daring and exciting. He didn't tell them about the rush of fear that Vhagar's very presence brought. He didn't tell them about how close Luke came to death. He didn't tell them how Arrax's scales had been shredded by the larger dragons's claws and fangs nor his grizzly end. He could tell them the truth when they were older. For know, he would let them be children.

He had just passed them off to Ser Glendon to take them to their chambers when Baela had approached him.

He stared after her as she made her way out of the hall and then turned on his heel and approached Jace. The Prince was standing there, staring off into space and that guilty look still on his face. Lucos bumped shoulders with him gently.

"What was that?" he murmered into his friends ear.

"I..." Jace started. He closed his eyes. Opened them again. "It was nothing. Let it be. Please."

Lucos did. Jace was his friend. Jacaerys was his Prince.

It was only the morning after that Jace had given them all the full details. About the Corbray brothers turning on their own father to declare for Rhaenyra, about Templeton marching on Strongsong to root out the Belmoore's and any smaller houses that were sympathetic to Aegon. The full details of the Pact he'd made with the Stark's and how he'd actually been beaten to Winterfell by Aegon's letter. Lucos noticed Rhaenyra going tense when that was mentioned. He knew why. A far too similar situation to Storm's End. Thankfully Jace had been a better diplomat than Luke and Lord Cregan a better man than Boremund. And no Aemond, of course.

A few days later and news had come in from the Riverlands. While Quentyn Blackwood's death was a blow, the defeat of the Bracken forces and the fall of Stone Hedge had all but broken Green resistance in the Riverlands. Wayfarer's Rest was all that remained now and the other branch of house Vance was descending with House Piper. Prince Daemon reported that forces from House Darry and Mooton. The complete silence from Riverrun itself was concerning but the Prince had promised to have people keep watch and any indication that Lord Grover intended to march would be met with an immediate and harsh response.

The Massey forces were finally making some progress towards Farring Cross in the Kingswood and there forces in western Crownlands hadn't been outright defeated yet either, despite being outnumbered.

All told Lucos supposed they were due some bad news.

He wasn't prepared for how bad it was.

"Rosby...gone?" Jace gasped.

Rhaenyra had gone white after reading the letter and had simply held it out for Lord Corlys to read. The old man looked mostly unshaken but there was a tightness around his eyes.

"The whole House?" That was Daeron, he'd slumped backwards against his chair and was looking sicker and sicker every passing second. Lucos wondered if his revulsion was at the act itself or that it was his brother who commited it?

"While I doubt every man with Rosby blood perished in this massacre, all acounts agree that all those in the immediate family are indeed gone." Gerardys was stroking his chin thoughtfully.

"At least Stokeworth was spared the same fate." Joffrey had dropped his head into his hands and this was the first time he had moved since the crushing news was read out.

According to Daemon, Aegon had descended on Rosby and burn the army and the castle to the ground without a second thought, wiping out an ancient bloodline and thousands of lives like it was nothing before turning to Stokeworth. Daemon said that reports were unclear about exactly what happened there but that the castle itself still stood. The fate of Lord Olyvar was a mystery though. Daemon himself said that the boy had escaped with the sister before Aegon's arrival and Aemond scouring the Cronwlands with Vhagar certainly seemed to support this but other reports from their agents said that the castle guard had turned him over and he was either dead or a prisoner.

"Except that its armies are now denied to us. Only Lord's Darklyn and Staunton remain to challenge Aegon in the Crownlands," Lucos said.

Princess Rhaenys cursed.

"We should have listened to the boy, Your Grace," she said, gesturing at Lucos. "We have six dragons ready for battle. Any one of us bar Prince Jacaerys could take Sunfyre and Vhagar may be monstrous big and monstrous strong but she is slow. Between the other five, he could be defeated."

Lucos saw Rhaenyra flinch. He had spoken to Maester Gerardys and while the man would not break the Queen's trust, Lucos had managed to discern that Rhaenyra was still suffering physical problems as a result of losing her daughter. He may not know for sure, but Lucos would be willing to gamble a lot that the Queen could not fly.

"What has happened is irrelevant. All that matters is what we can do now." Corlys said, placing a hand on his wife's shoulder.

"Its a nice thought but we've just lost a third of our nearest forces and for all we know, Darklyn has already fallen." Lucos said, tone biting.

"Peace, Lucos," Daeron said calmly. "The road from Rosby to Duskendale is not a short one. If Lord Darklyn holds his ground, we have time to come up with a plan. Daemon's report places Aegon's host at less than five thousand. We have twenty-five hundred at Driftmark ready to sail. Lord Darklyn has some two-thousand gathered. Our best bet may be to gather at Duskendale and face them in the field there."

"I'm not sure pitting our whole army against their's when the odds are one to one is a good idea. We're gambling everything on being able to defeat Aemond before he can turn our army to cinders," Lord Velaryon said, waving his hand over the map towards King's Landing. "The capital remains the best target."

"But without our forces in the Crownlands, Aegon will just turn around. We may take the city in time but we'll struggle to hold it." Lucos protested. "We all agreed that their army needs to be either destroyed or lured away first."

"We don't have the men," Joffrey said pitifully.

"We do have the men from the clans," Baela said. "Between them and the Vale the numbers swing in our favour."

While Luke and Jace had been flying south and north respectively to negotiate with the great houses of the Stormlands and the North, Baela and Joffrey had been given their own task. The pair had flown their smaller dragons to Crackclaw Point and managed to win the allegiance of the various clans there. Baela had been flying back and forth to get reports from the area herself. According to her they had a thousand men marching west along the point towards Maidenpool. Supposedly, Aegon had no idea they were there.

"Only if the Darklyn forces haven't been destroyed by then," Daeron replied. "Otherwise we face the same problem."

"Then we send word to Lord Darklyn and Lord Staunton to gather their strength and head north towards Harrenhal. If they can lead Aegon on a chase, we can leave King's Landing exposed."

"So we have the same plan we had before? Lure Aegon north and hope everything works in our favour?" Lucos cursed and stormed out.

He, Daeron and the Queen had come up with that exact plan weeks earlier. To have their loyal Lords in the Crownlands march north to the Trident and lure Aegon away. Depending on his numbers and theirs, they could then either strike at the vulnerable King's Landing or pincer Aegon between the Crownlanders, the Narrow-Sea army and whatever Riverlords Daemon could muster.

But Aegon had moved too quickly and now half their forces were gone.

Lucos grumbled to himself all the way to the training ground. He would go back and apologise to Rhaenyra for his behaviour later but all the waiting was grating on him. He failed to kill Aemond when he had the chance; his blade had sliced the one-eyed whoreson across the cheek. A few inches and he'd have cleaved half his head off. He wasn't allowed to kill Cannibal. Now he wasn't allowed to take the fight to Aegon either. It was diplomatic fools like Corlys that were holding them back. Lucos respected what the man had done in his life. He was a skilled sailor, naval commander, politician and Lord. But he'd gotten too cautious in his old age.

If Aegon wasn't stopped he'd just keep moving through their bannermen on the mainland, wiping them out piecemeal until they were all gone and leaving them isolated in the sea. The time to fight him was now, when they knew where he was, where he was going, what he was doing. Even better, Aemond was off wreaking havoc in Stokeworth so they'd only have the one dragon to contend with.

Lucos half considered simply taking Sunfyre to Duskendale. Lucos could beat Aegon. Snowfyre could beat Sunfyre.

No. He could offer but that was it. Otherwise he was abandoning his Prince, his Queen and his lover. And his family, above all else. He'd offer. He'd be refused, he knew. But he would offer.

Wrenching a practice sword, Lucos set himself against a training dummy. Hacking and slashing with force. This wasn't true training. This was working his anger out in the only way he knew how and against the only target he was allowed.

"Your form will grow poor," a voice called from behind.

Lucos sighed and turned. Ser Erryk Cargyll stood there, clad in white leathers and a gleaming breastplate. He was swinging a blunted sword experimentally, adjusting his grip ever so slightly to balance the weight better. The man was not as young as he had been when Lucos had first met him. He was nearing thirty now and already there were a few grey strands appearing in his mousy brown hair. He had an easy smile though and an honest look about him. Ser Erryk was among the better of King Viserys' final seven Kingsguard. A good man and a better blade. He and his twin were Lucos' two favourite mentor's. Ser Arryk had always been strange around Jace and his brothers though, cold to Rhaenyra and outright hostile to Daemon. Lucos had wondered but never asked. And now Ser Arryk was a Green, serving Aegon in King's Landing.

"I was just...letting some anger out." Lucos said honestly. Ser Erryk had the habit of slapping him the flat of a blade if he was dishonest to him and the man was suprisingly good at that for someone so...plain, for want of a better word. There were no secrets to uncover, no hidden depth or agenda. He was a brave, loyal and honourable man that could be humourous when he wanted and serious when he needed.

Ser Erryck nodded and readied his sword. Lucos mimicked him in reverse. Ser Erryk, annoyingly, was left handed. Lucos knew all his moves. They were quite standard. But he was used to defending them coming from a right handed attack. It always caught him out.

The Queensguard moved first. His sword was a blur as it came up towards Lucos' face. Lucos stepped back and it whistled harmlessly passed. When Ser Erryck brought it back down towards his left leg, he simply shifted it out of the way and parried the following thrust towards his chest. He launched a shoulder into Ser Erryk's side that sent him stumbling away.

Ser Erryk's game was speed. Lucos was fast too but the knight was a different level. Lucos couldn't match him like that. He could out muscle him though. Ser Erryck was tall and lean with a slim albeit toned build. Lucos was stockier and shorter. More weight in a more compact body. His hits had force behind them.

Ser Erryk laughed.

"Its rewarding to see you don't fall for that anymore." Lucos' face didn't change. Ser Erryck sighed. "Talk to me Lucos. What's truly wrong."

Lucos snorted

"Aegon has free reign to burn our lands at will, slaughtering our men as he goes and instead of doing anything about it, we're stuck here squabbling over what to do."

"Close," Ser Erryk smiled. "But not quite the truth yet. Be honest. With yourself, if no one else."

Lucos grunted and brought his sword down, hard. If it connected it might have shattered Ser Erryk's collarbone. He caught it on his sword and diverted Lucos' blade to the side and then side-stepped around him. The flat of Ser Erryk's sword slapped against his shoulder, leaving a stinging sensation behind.

"I know why you want to kill Aegon. But why are you so insistant on it always being right now?"

"Because I can do it! Why waste time with talk when I can end this all now!"

Lucos thrust towards Ser Erryck. When his sword was parried he turned with the motion and rammed his shoulder into Ser Erryk's chest. He heard the breath escape the older man and tried to follow up with a slash but Ser Erryk ducked under it and the knight brought his sword crashing into his undefended side. Lucos gasped for air and backed off slightly.

"No you can't." Ser Erryk said. He was standing still, his guard down. The smile was gone. He was looking at Lucos mournfully. Ever second under that look; that look that said he was something pitiful, something weak, something helpless; his anger grew. "Even you know that your victory isn't a certainty. So if its not to end the war in fell swoop as you're trying to trick yourself into believing, then why? Why are you so eager to throw yourself into a fight even you are not sure you can win?"

"Because I hate feeling useless!" Lucos roared.

Ser Erryk's guard was down. Lucos lunged, his blade flashing out towards the knight's unprotected face. Lucos felt horrow dawn even as the blade travelled. This was a spar. Practice. He wasn't supposed to try and kill his opponent!

But Ser Erryk caught the blade on his steel vambrace and directed it away from himself, his gauntled hand closing around Lucos' wrist. His eyes widened. He was tugged towards the knight and then there was a boot landing in his chest. Lucos flew backwards, feeling his sword be stripped from his hand, and landed with a heavy thud. He made to stand only to have two sword tips planted over his heart. He stilled. The swords were blunt. They couldn't kill him. But he knew Ser Erryk would make a point now. He didn't move.

"There's the truth. You want to fight because, win or lose, you'd feel like you'd at least tried? That you weren't helpless." Ser Erryk moved the swords away and helped him up. "Why did I win?"

"Because you're faster than me." Lucos replied.

"No." Ser Erryk said, putting a hand on his shoulder. They were both breathing heavily. "I won because I got you angry. I won because you rushed in without thinking it through. If we rush in against Aegon, he and Aemond will kill us all. Not just you. Is that what you want?"

Lucos shook his head and glared at the floor.

"We're not waiting because we're helpless. We're waiting because to do otherwise would be foolish. Because a better opportunity will come. Your opportunity will come. Lord Corlys is experienced. Trust in that experience if nothing else. It'll see us through."

Lucos nodded but couldn't help the sinking feeling in his gut that Ser Erryk was terribly wrong.

At first it seemed the world was determined to prove Ser Erryk wrong and Lucos right. As the days went by with no word from Lord Darklyn, tensions continued to rise on Dragonstone. Jace and Lucos argued more than they had in the whole rest of their life. Rhaenyra, although gaining her strength back slowly but surely, found her temper fraying too, particularly with Lord Corlys. Princess Rhaenys often took Meleys out and flew furious circles around the island to avoid killing someone. Luke continued to be a bitter shadow haunting them all. One day, when Luke had graced them with his despondant presence and malicious remarks, Joffrey had grown tired of it. He'd made a cruel remark about how even Viserys was capable of taking care of his things and Luke had flipped from melancholy to wrathful in a heartbeat. Joffrey had lost two teeth from that encounter. Luke, who was ordered to his chambers by Rhaenyra for the day, stayed locked in for four days and lost another few pounds. When he did finally emerge, Joffrey had come crying to Jace and Lucos swearing that he hadn't meant what he said.

Eventually Daeron was sent to Duskendale to find word in person. He was only gone a single day.

"Darklyn's dead." He reported succinctly. Lucos felt like smashing his head into a wall at the news. He had told them that this would happen. "His army met Aegon's in field a few days ago and was utterly defeated. They were hours away from Duskendale when I left. It won't hold."

Sure enough the next day brought a raven from Lady Darklyn that the gates had been breached and that the Green army was sacking the city.

"We're running out of time!" Lucos had snapped. Joffrey had spoken up in agreement. As had Baela

Jace and Corlys had immediately protested, swearing that the Vale forces had now set sail and would be on Dragonstone in little over a week. Baela had mimicked their voices poorly, making them both sound far more feeble and cowardly than they were and Jace had flushed an ugly colour. They'd been like that since the feast. In public; or as public as possible in an island fortress; they were the perfect couple. Polite and courteous to a fault. In private Jace was acting like he'd gutted her cat and Baela made comments that bordered on cruel. Daeron had to step in and play mediator again. Rhaenyra had stayed silent that time and simply drunk from her chalice. It was refilled twice.

Five days after Duskendale fell, Lucos and Jace were overseeing Aegon and Viserys' training in the yard when Ser Robert Quince wadled up to them. Quince had served as a knight on Dragonstone for over twenty years and had become almost fanatacally loyal to Rhaenyra. That loyalty was the only reason Quince was spared Lucos' scorn. It did not protect him from Princess Baela's.

"My Prince. Ser...er, Lucos," he said. Lucos found it amusing how no one ever quite knew how to address him. He was not a Lord; he held no office nor lands, but he was the last heir to a noble Westerosi house. He was also not a knight; he did however dress and act like one and it was a common secret that he was being groomed for Jace's Kingsguard. He was also not a Prince, despite the fact that on Dragonstone at least he had all the authority of one. "Queen Rhaenyra bids you attend her in the Chamber of the Painted table. At once."

He and Jace had wasted no time, only stopping to inform Ser Lyonel and Ser Adrian to see the young Prince's back to their chambers to change before supper that night, before rushing to the Chamber. Rhaenyra was sitting at the head of the table, a crystal chalice filled with red wine in one hand an unfurled letter in the other. Daeron sat to her right moving piece's around on the Crownlands portion of the large map. Lord Velaryon and Gerardys stood either side of the Queen, both looking abashed. Princess Rhaenys was pacing up and down the room. She stopped when they entered, her face lighting up as she saw Lucos.

"Finally," she said sharply. "The fools won't listen to me alone. This is our chance."

"Mother?" Jace asked, looking at her quizically.

In response, Rhaenyra held up the paper in her hand.

"Rook's Rest is under siege. Lord Staunton reports that Ser Criston and King Aegon are at his gates and begs for aid." There was a glassy look in her eye and a droning quality to her voice that caused Lucos to look at her in concern. He wondered how many times the chalice had been filled already today.

Then he caught up.

"Rook's Rest?" He frowned. "But...But that can't be. Rook's Rest is a fourteen day march from Duskendale, at best. Aegon's army couldn't have..."

He trailed off and his eyes widened.

Rhaenys all but cackled.

"You see it too?" She asked. Lucos nodded dumbly. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Jace staring at the map in amazement. There was a golden dragon piece on Rook's Rest. There was another at Duskendale.

"Aegon couldn't have marched his infantry to Rook's Rest." Jace said. "Not that quickly. Only his horse could have done it. He must have split his army."

A better opportunity will come, Ser Erryk had said. He caught the man's eyes from his position behind the Queen and grinned. The knight nodded back, his face as unmoving as stone but his eyes smiling.

"Princess Rhaenys is right. This is the chance we've been waiting for!" Lucos said excitedly. "How soon can we ferry our troops from Driftmark to the mainland?"

"Five days," Daeron replied. "But it will then take too long to march north and catch up to Aegon's foot. Six if we sail to here and disembark. The landing may be difficult but Lord Corlys assures me his captain's can do it. That would allow us to intercept the host before it rejoins with Aegon with a few days to spare. That said it's almost certainly a trap. Which part of it is the bait I don't know. Maybe both? Maybe neither, Aegon may well just actually be that impatient and arrogant."

"Aemond?" Jace asked.

Daeron shook his head but it was Rhaenys that answered.

"The letter names Aegon by name and declares his dragon to be there with him. It doesn't mention Aemond. Mayhaps he's with the other half of the army. Mayhaps he's still hunting the Stokeworth lands for the child Lord that so vexes them. Either way, he's not with Aegon. He's vulnerable."

"While I agree that this is too good an opportunity to miss, we are still outnumbered. The Vale forces are only..."

"Piss on that My Lord, we've waited long enough! If we wait any longer, the two parts of the army will reunite and the chance will be lost!"

The room fell silent. Lucos almost ducked his head as they all turned to look at him. He forced himself to stay upright. He met their gaze's.

"Your Grace," Corlys started. Rhaenyra held her hand up.

"You have counselled patience and caution my Lord. I have put my trust in your experience and done as you said. And because of that all our armies in the Crownlands have been destroyed. My bannermen butchered. It is time for a change in our path." She turned back to him. "Lucos. Through it all you have advised me to attack. I would hear your thoughts."

She gave him an encouraging smile. He glanced to his left and saw Jace looking back at him with pride (and worry but Lucos was adept at ignoring people worrying for him) and Princess Rhaenys grinning visciously. His eyes met Daeron's and found nothing but warm comfort. He nodded.

Lucos took a deep breath and looked over the map. He took note of all the pieces and paired them with the numbers in his head as best he could. He imagined lines being drawn from where they stood to where he wanted them and paired those lines with more numbers, counting the time it would take. He looked around the room, picking his commanders. Rhaenyra couldn't fly. Tyraxes and Moondancer were too young. At least one rider would have to stay. Two with the army, to face Aegon's infantry and potentially face Vhagar in the sky. One to Rook's Rest to relieve that siege and kill Aegon. He wanted that for himself. The chance to kill that arrogant little toad of an upstart. But could he send someone else to almost certain death if Aemond was with the foot? Could he live with himself if he sent someone else and they died because of it? Which of them could face Aegon and win? Who would be best to leave behind?

He blew out the breath.

"This is what we'll do," he said.

Chapter 14: Criston III

Chapter Text

Criston kept a wary eye on the sky as his men rode through and sacked the village outside the walls of Rook's Rest. Arrows and crossbow bolts rained down from the defenders on the castle walls but Criston's men were clad in full steel plate and riding hard. Few found their mark and those that did bounced off harmlessly and clattered to the ground. Criston's knights continued all but unopposed, tossing torches onto the thatched roof's and hacking down doors with their axes. Knights they may be, but most still couldn't resist the lure of some gold.

The smallfolk had abandoned the village before they even arrived. Lord Staunton had invited them all behind his walls and sheltered them within the castle and had no doubt passed spears and bows out to every able bodied man and boy among them. Taking the castle with only the men here would be difficult, to say the least. Maybe not even possible. Criston's force numbered a thousand men under his command, all of them mounted. They would have to wait for the infantry to march north under Hayford before they could attempt an assault.

They had arrived only the day before. Criston had forced his men to ride hard in order to get to Rook's Rest as quickly as possible in an effort to prevent Lord Luceon from gathering his full strength. His gruelling pace had turned a six day ride into a five day one and as they crested the hills not five leagues from Rook's Rest, they had seen the smallfolk fleeing behind the walls. Sunfrye's shadow passing over the village had sparked a panic but the golden scaled beast did not descend as they undoubtedly feared. Criston had pushed his men forward and encircled the castle, men-at-arms dismounting and setting siege lines in front of them and digging trenches behind, to guard their rear. Maidenpool had rallied for Rhaenyra after all. They couldn't take any chances.

By then the castle itself was shut up tight. Men were hurrying about atop the battlements, the gate slammed shut and the portcullis lowered.

Criston had turned to Cedric then.

"Take your freeriders and set Lord Staunton's fields alight. Slaughter his livestock, burn his fields and torch his villages. Recover any crops you can find and put them in with our supplies." He had ordered. "And have some scouts ride back along the road and keep track of Hayford's march. I want to know when he is within two days of us."

"Yes, Ser," Cedric had bowed and turned his horse, galloping back to the rabble of freeriders at the back. They would have been no use in sacking the village beneath the walls in their boiled leathers.

The ground had trembled and shook beside him as Sunfyre landed beside Criston. Criston's horse tried to shy away but he kept a tight grip on the reigns. The King sat atop her. He had wanted the job of burning Staunton's lands but Criston had been been adamant. They needed him here.

"All goes well, Lord Commander?" The King asked.

"Perfectly, Your Grace. My scouts saw the ravens leave this morning. Your presence was noticed."

He had given very specific instructions to those men in his company that carried bows that they were to allow ravens flying south to go unharmed but to shoot down any others. He didn't want Mooton or Darry or Celtigar coming. Only the dragons. They needed the dragons to come. So when he saw three ravens flying from the a high tower that had to be the rookery, all flying south over Blackwater Bay, Criston had allowed himself to feel a surge of satisfaction. Criston lacked the men to take the castle but Staunton didn't have the strenght to sally out and defeat them. Especially not with Sunfyre patrolling overhead. All he could do was sit behind his walls, hoping his Queen would come and save him and that the King decided not to burn his castle to the ground as he had with Rosby.

The King smirked. It was not a kind look for him.

"I should hope it was." He said. "My brother?"

"Prince Aemond stands ready, Your Grace," Criston reported. The King nodded sharply.

"Good. I leave the siege in your hands then Commander." He kicked his spurs and flicked his whip. Sunfyre roared. He strode forward and pushed off, wings beating and nearly sending the men flying off their feet. The golden dragon soared upwards, higher and higher until he was hidden by the clouds. The King would stay high, out of sight, and ready to strike when he was needed.

Criston watched them go and then turned his eyes to the coast. Dragonstone was too far away to be seen from here, but he knew it was out there. Rhaenyra couldn't afford to lose another supporter. She'd send aid. Criston wished he knew who would come. Not Prince Daemon. He was at Harrenhal. He doubted she'd risk any of her sons either, no matter how he might hope it was. Jacaerys had always been an arrogant little bastard, sneering down his nose at Criston. He hoped it was him. Watching Sunfyre tear him to pieces would be as satisfying as beating Lonmouth and Strong to bloody pulps all those years ago. But it wouldn't be.

Ryder, then, he decided. The boy was headstrong and fearless. He'd probably demand the chance to face Aegon. Or perhaps Daeron, to test his loyalty.

Or Rhaenyra, his mind whispered. Your little princess.

No, he told himself. Those days were done. Rhaenyra had shown her true colours and he had chosen his. He cared not for her and if she chose to fly to Rook's Rest herself she would die the traitor's death she deserved.

They had discussed, of course, the possibility that more than one rider may come to Staunton's aid. But Criston had ultimately dismissed it. Rhaenyra had been fighting too defensively, too cautiously every step of the war so far. He doubted that would change now. It would be only one of them. Two at most. They could deal with two. But they had plans in place to retreat if it was more than that. It was why had watchers with Myrish spyglass set up on the coast. They would watch for the approach of Staunton's supposed saviour and warn him if there were too many.

Criston had the men finishing setting up the best lines they could with their limited men and resources and then set camp. The following day he had commanded a portion of his knights into the village. Let Staunton and his people see what would befall their home because of their treason. Let him see what his disloyalty had wrought. Let them fear their fate.

Every time he caught movement in the sky from the corner of his eye, Criston lunged to draw his sword only to feel a fool when it was only birds passing overhead. He knew, in his mind, that the raven would take several days to reach Dragonstone and at least one or two more for their foe; whoever it may be; to arrive. But the sight of movement in the sky still set his heart beating far too fast for his liking. He found himself wishing for a different set of armour. His white as snow Kingsguard armour was distinctive and made him stand out. But he had too much pride to change into something plainer.]

"Ser Criston," one of the knights said. Perhaps a hundred of his men had bows with them. They were arrayed in the center of the camp, where any dragon was likely to be drawn. "Those birds are flying quite low. We could hit them. The men would appreciate the fresh meat."

Criston thought about for a moment. Fresh game would be nice, he supposed. Their supplies were spread thin as it was.

"No," he said eventually and shot the archers a hard look. "We can't waste any arrows."

They would need them if they wanted to live long enough to see the trap sprung, Criston knew. The men grumbled but under the weight of his glare lowered their bows with obvious reluctance.

The days passed slowly. Criston would rise in the morning, train with his men and then break his fast while meeting with the more senior commanders he had with him. He would patrol the camp and inspect the siege lines until mid-day and then receive reports from his scouts. Cedric was reporting back in daily. Most of the raids he'd carried out had been massively successful. He had slaughtered and butchered all livestock he could find in Staunton's lands and brought the meat back to the camp, to the joy of the men. They were highborn knights mostly, or men-at-arms who lived their lives in high lords castles. They weren't used to an armies rations, not like the levies in the foot.

After talking with the scouts he would train again, this time alone and then spend a few hours helping his squire learn the technique's. He would retire to his tent and eat alone as the sun set while a basin of water heated over a fire. He would strip his armour off and set his squire to cleaning it while he bathed and then would climb into his bedroll and sleep until sunrise. Then he would rise and do it all over again. Every day was the same and before long it had been a week. Seven days since they'd arrived at Rooks Rest and allowed word to reach Rhaenyra. But still, there was nothing.

By the time the sun rose on the ninth day, Criston was half convinced the raven's had never made it to Dragonstone. No matter. The whole plan had been an effort to protect them from retaliation while their army was divided. While the chance to cut down the number of dragons the rebels had even further would have been welcomed, it was no true loss. Once the infantry arrived, Rook's Rest would fall and Rhaenyra's support in the Crownlands would be confined to four small islands. Of course, that was relying on the infantry ever actually arriving.

Hayford's slow pace had been the cause of constant headaches for Criston. His scouts reported that the rest of their army had left Duskendale at about midday two days after the horse had begun riding north, which meant they had been marching for eleven days thus far. Criston knew it was a fourteen day march from Duskendale at the pace of a foot soldier so they should have been only three days away.

And yet there was no sign of them. He had his men now scouting up to five days march away and they could yet see no sign of them. The only explanation he could think of was that Hayford was dragging his weight; keeping a slower pace, stopping earlier, starting later. Criston snorted. If Hayford was trying to avoid a battle, he was doing a poor job. Such a slow moving force; cut off from its heavy horse and commanders, with no dragon support; was a target. Criston could only be glad that there were none of Rhaenyra's forces in the area that could pose a threat.

Criston was just stapping up his should pauldrons before he began his morning training when air was split with a ground shaking roar. Criston felt cold all over. There had been no horns. No warning. What had happened to the scouts on the coast? Why hadn't they warned them? He could hear the men panicking around him. Shouts of alarm and fear. Serjent's and knights barking commands. Men running to get into position. It all seemed very distant; muted almost. He slowly turned. Rounded his tent. He was facing west. Away from Dragonstone. Away from the coast. Was it Daemon after all?

But no. The dragon bearing down on them was smaller than Caraxes, although not by much. And though the scales were red they were far too bright and vibrant to belong to the Blood Wyrm.

It wasn't Daemon. But the sight of Princess Rhaenys and Meleys diving down at them was not a comforting sight, nor was it one they had truly considered. But here, watching the Queen-Who-Wasn't, Criston realised they should have. They had known they had a dragon. They had known she in Rhaenyra's camp. It was common knowledge that she had flown beside Caraxes in the War for the Stepstones. Why hadn't they considered her?

Because she's a woman, he realised. And women are weak.

She certainly didn't look weak, Criston thought as Meleys unleashed a torent of crimson coloured flames along the camp. The tents caught on instantly, flames licking along the fabric and collapsing in on itself. Men were screaming, crying, shrieking as they ran from the devastation that was befalling the right flank. Criston shook his head, hefted his sword more securly and spun, pushing his way through the fleeing crowds. Give the signal, he told himself. Sound the horn. Then organise your men.

He rushed back to the entrance of his tent and grabbed the ivory horn the King had given him to use for this specific job. He took a deep breath, raised the horn to his mouth and blew. The horn emitted a long, deep note that he hoped; so desperately hoped; could be heard. He blew the horn three times before throwing it down and hauling himself onto the horse his squire had led to him. It bucked and writhed and tried to bolt. He didn't blame it. He half wanted to do the same.

Instead he dug his spurs in and directed the horse to the front of the camp, where his men were congrating to try and avoid the flames. As he rode he heard a shout of alarm from his left and his eyes widened as Meleys glided low. Her snout flared, her mouth opened and a whirlwind of fire erupted from it. Criston had to wrench hard on the reigns to avoid running straight into the fire. He was thrown from his horse though when Meleys flew past, her claws open and grabbing up small patches of men at a time. She must have had a dozen in each claw as she swooped upwards again, her tail slamming Criston's horse down. He was just about able to roll and avoid being crushed by the animal.

His back hurt from the landing but he forced himself up.

"Archers! Loose!" He heard from nearby, followed by the 'thawck' of bowstrings being released and the hiss of a hundred arrows flying through the air. The Red Queen simply tilted slightly and let them bounce harmlessly off her scales before diving again.

"Away!" Criston shouted. "Scatter and flee!"

Whether they heard him or not he did not now. Some ran, others tried to do so with less success. Some stood their ground and tried to get another volley off. Meleys passed above them and Criston dropped to the ground when he saw her maw open again. He felt a blistering heat on the back of his neck and heard the agonised screams and the beat of Meleys wings as she turned to make a pass down the left side of the camp. Criston pushed himself up and nearly choked on the smoke. He coughed.

He looked around and felt sick. There were men on fire, their flesh, armour and bone melting away before his eyes. Some of the bodies were naught more than ash, breaking apart in the rushing wind while others were undeniably still human but blackened and burnt and near unrecognizable. Criston wiped the back of his gaunlet across his forehead. His face felt grimy. He could feel soot and ash clinging to his skin and sweat running down through it all. He pushed forward dodging the fires whererever he could. The air felt heavy and oppressively hot. Every so often he dropped to the floor and gulped a few precious breaths with his mouth near the grass, where it was just cooler enough to be bearable.

He heard a roar and looked up, searching trying to see where the beast was but he couldn't see anything but smoke. He didn't feel a burst of flame come down anywhere near him though. So he presumed Rhaenys and her mount were for now occupied elsewhere. He kept ducking around the burning men; he couldn't help them and staying would only get him killed. He had to find the siege lines. That's where his men had been running to, where they were regrouping. But the world around him was tinted orange and red and the sky was black and billowing and there were so many screams.

And then he was out. Beyond the inferno and while he wouldn't fool himself into believing it was safety, it was a welcome reprieve.

"Lord Commander!" He heard and turned his head to see his squire. His arm was a blackened, blistered mess and his face was covered in soot. But he was alive. There was stark fear on the boys face. He looked like he might be sick or collapse from the pain or maybe curl up and cry. But he bit his lip and made his way to Criston's side.

"Well done, lad," he gasped out, weakly, coughing all the while. His white cloak was gone, he realised distantly, the one given to him by the Old King.

"Ser Criston!" Ser Reginald Clyne, whose brother had died to the Darklyn archers more than two weeks ago. "What do we do?"

"We must flee! We can't stand against her!" Someone cried. But Criston knew it would not be that easy. Rhaenys had set the camp burning on both sides and had Meleys was in the midst of unleashing another long stream of fire along the trench to the rear of the encampment. They were boxed in on three sides and on the other...

"ROOKS REST!" He heard and spun. Others weren't so lucky. The arrows took them in the back, through throats and eyes and mouths. Then the charge hit them. Staunton men rushing out from the castle while Criston's army was in chaos. Ser Reginald was caught in the neck by an axe and went down gurgling. Criston impaled a man-at-arms on his sword and managed to catch a knight across the chest, sending him flying back off his horse before a lance caught him in the shoulder, stabbing between his armour plates. The lance broke off as the knight rode past, wheeling and trying to get going for another charge only to be engulfed in flames as Meleys descended on the melee, unleashing more bloody fire on the trapped army.

Where was the King, Criston thought. He yanked out the piece of wood stuck in his shoulder with a hoarse scream. His squire was in front of him, yelling with fury and hacking at any who approached with an axe. Had he not heard the signal? Had he somehow missed the screams and the dragon roars? He felt heavy wind behind him and knew the dragon was coming back again. He couldn't move though. He hoped his squire did. The lad was brave and had done well so far. Criston didn't even know his name.

But then there was another roar. Criston craned his neck. Rhaenys had heard it too. She was turning Meleys away from the battle and starting to climb upwards. Beyond her, Criston could see the golden shine of Sunfyre's scales as he dove out from the clouds, closing quickly on the red dragon below.

Criston turned his attention back to the fight. They didn't have to die here. They could win. They could escape. He staggered to his feet and hefted his sword once more. Some spearmen approached with a wild look in his eyes and stabbed at his face but Criston swatted the spear aside, lopped the head off and then caved the mans skull in with a fierce overhead strike. He reached out with his left hand and hauled his squire away from a mace that would have cracked his head like an egg and chopped the offending limb from the guardsmans body, leaving him on the floor to bleed out.

"To me! To me!" He shouted, urging his men onwards. He didn't need to bother. His men were so desperate to escape the flames at their backs they would have run over broken glass barefoot. And with Sunfyre on the field, the Staunton men were retreating back behind their walls.

"Forward! To the castle!" Some knight with a dozen small red crabs of his cloak yelled. Criston almost hit him.

"No! Rook's Rest can wait. We need to get out of the box now!" He commanded. "Go around the castle and follow the coast west, away from the fires! Go! Now!"

They were peppered with a few arrows from the walls as they pushed their way through the narrow gap they had available to them on their right flank but the castle's defenders seemed to now that the force was broken. No threat to them as they rushed to put distance between the raging firestorm that had been their camp. Criston led the men for a ways, his squire tucked into his side, each of them supporting the other. But when they were safely clear from the danger he found a knight he vaguely recognised and told him to lead the men a league away and wait. Then he stopped, dragging a shalen Ser Arryk and a dozen trustworthy men to wait with him, and turned to look back at the fight happening in the sky.

Criston watched with awe as Meleys and Sunfyre ducked and weaved around each other, snapping and clawing and firing out short bursts of flame clearly being aimed at the rider on the others back. Sunfyre was smaller and faster but her movements were less graceful than the red dragon's. Aegon had less than half the experience Rhaenys had after all and Rhaenys had experience in combat. It showed. No time more obvious than when Sunfyre almost caught Meleys neck in his jaw only for the dragon to turn so sharply Criston thought it would tear itself apart. Instead, Meleys flipped in the air and was behind Sunfyre, unleashing flames along her back and digging its claws into the joint of her wings. Sunfyre let out a cry of fury and pain and managed to wrench itself away.

Meleys pursued and for a moment Criston worried that he was watching Rhaenys singlehandedly end the war for Rhaenyra. But then a much larger shadow crossed the field. Criston blew out a sigh of relief as Aemond and Vhagar joined the fray. The old dragon slamming into Meleys, throwing her away from the King's golden dragon and then lunged after it.

Vhagar was relentless in her assault but Meleys was no easy prey. Though the huge grey beast had the advantage of strength, size and sheer ferocity on her side, the smaller crimson dragon was managing to slip away from every attempt Vhagar made to grapple with her. Meleys' movement became slightly more desperate when Sunfyre rejoined the battle, sweeping in and tangling with Meleys. Keeping her still long enough for Vhagar to land hits. Meleys struggled then. Eventually she managed to twist away from Vhagar as she dove at the Red Queen, claws open and ready, and instead Meleys was able to dig in and rake her claws down the membrane of both of Sunfyre's wings before detaching and soaring upwards, Vhagar close on her tail. Sunfyre drooped for a moment before righting herself and struggling after the larger and older pair.

It seemed like Rhaenys was running and Criston felt a euphoric joy build in his chest. That joy turned to ash in his mouth when Meleys suddenly stopped and then fell. She was heading straight at Vhagar and the older dragons jaws opened. Right as the stream of flame launched upwards though, Meleys spun, deftly avoiding flame, teeth and claws as she weaved her way past Vhagar, lancing her claws down the larger dragons belly as she did so.

And then the Red Queen was beneath Vhagar and still falling; right at Sunfyre, the smaller dragon still struggling to fly itself upwards.

They collided heavily, plummeting towards the ground. Meleys ripped the tendon at the side of Sunfyre's jaw off, leaving her jaw half unhinged and then clamped her jaw around the gold dragons neck, biting in deep and the trying to wrench upwards with her neck. One of her claws dug into the joint of Sunfyre's leg and yanked at it while the other pierced the scales on the golden beauty's neck and dragged down. Sunfyre was letting out small bursts of flame, trying to catch Rhaenys, while her claws stabbed weakly at Meleys flanks.

They were nearing the ground when Vhagar hit them. The monstrous creature slammed into the two grappling dragons and sprayed a jet of flame across the two of them. His claws impaled Meleys scales and hooked into them. The Red Queen released Sunfyre's neck to release a high screech and then started to bite at Vhagar. Sunfyre was trying desperately to escape the fight but the crushing weight of Vhagar was forcing Meleys down and Meleys' grip on Sunfyre was too strong for her torn and tattered wings to get them free.

Vhagar broke off and pushed upwards a second before they hit the ground. Sunfyre was not so lucky and crashed into the dirt right alongside Meleys. Dirt and mud erupted in a huge cloud when the two dragons landed. Vhagar loud out a deafening triumphant roar before circling around and landing heavily and none-too easily a few feet away.

Criston rushed towards the carnage as soon as the dust settled. The King had been on Sunfyre when she crashed. So he ran, as fast as he could with his injuries, towards the two huge crumpled forms. He could hear at least some of his men following behind. Aemond met him on the way, having slid from Vhagar's back. The one-eyed Prince wore a suit of plate armour, as black as night and chased with gold. He had removed his helm and his allowed his bright silver hair to flow down the back of his neck. The sapphire in his eye socket gleamed menacingly.

"What were you doing?" Criston demanded as he passed him. Aemond might well have killed the King with that last stunt.

"Ending her." The Prince replied with a shrug and a neutral look on his face. Criston's hand fisted.

They came across Meleys first. The Red Queen was dead by the time they reached her. Either Sunfyre or Vhagar had torn a huge chunk out of her throat during the fall and she had half a dozen wounds across her belly. There were a dozen charred and burnt corpses surrounding the dragon's corpse, but none chained into the saddle and none recognizable as Princess Rhaenys. That sat badly with Criston, as he would have liked to be sure of her death. But no matter. If she couldn't be seen then she was one of the corpses.

Sunfyre, despite being alive, was almost in a worse state. He was letting out long, keening screeches and kept trying to curl up around himself and not being able to. The membranes of both wings were completely shredded and hanging loose. One wing had been half torn out of its socket and the other was a crumpled and bent. One leg had deep painfully wounds around the joint and was nearly hanging off while another was bent in two places. Her face was a clawed up mess and her body was twisted awkwardly around the middle.

Beneath it all sat King Aegon. The King's gluttony and drinking had not been kind to his appearance over the last few years. He had handsome features like all in his house with high slanted cheekbones, pale skin and sharp jawline but they were surrounded by a bit too much fat on his cheeks, neck and belly. He had large pale lips and deep set sullen eyes. His white gold hair had been thinning and receding recently and he'd had some ugly red splotches on his cheeks seemingly all the time from his never sated anger. But compared to what lay before them now even the King's previous appearance would have been considered akin to the Maiden herself. Criston could tell from the painful and unnatural splay of his legs that something was broken there. His black and gold breastplate was heavily dented across the chest and every breath the King took sprayed a few small droplets of blood out onto the ground beside him. Horrific burns stretched across his whole body, but particuarly on his left side. His arm looked especially bad. The steel of his plate and chainmail and the leather of his riding clothes had been melted and fused into his skin.

The King was barely concious when they unfastened his chains from Sunfyre but he wailed and screamed and writhed anyway. They had no horses and no carts and no way to get either so Criston assigned two men to carry the King as gently as possible and sent Ser Arryk to lead them to what little remained of his host. He stressed that if the King did not survive, they would have to try and crawl back to King's Landing with the same injuries. They could do nothing for Sunfyre. Not then. They had no way of moving her and she was clearly not able to move on her own. So Criston turned to the Prince, who was staring at Rook's Rest in furious contemplation.

"My Prince?" He asked. "Your orders?"

Criston may have been Hand of the King but he knew his place. The King's injuries were grievous Aegon's absence Prince Aemond would likely appoint himself Lord Protector. Criston had no intention to debate it. Though still irritated with the boy for his reckless actions, Criston was no fool. Prince Aemond was the only one capable of combatting the Black's dragons now and whatever else he was, he was a capable warrior.

"Could we take the castle, Lord Commander?"

Criston stared at the Prince for a moment and then surveyed the devastation that Princess Rhaenys had wrought on them. Bodies, too damaged to be identified and some nothing more than piles of ash, littered the fields around Rook's Rest. The land was blackened and burnt and crimson fires still raged atop the remains of the tents and carts. Criston had no way of knowing how many lay dead there. Nor how many of the survivors were in fighting shape. But he knew enough. Only with extreme luck could they have forced their way into Rook's Rest before. Now?

"No, My Prince. We lack the men."

The Prince nodded though Criston saw how his hands clenched around Blackfyre, the Valyrian Steel sword he had recovered from Sunfyre's side.

"Very well then. What do you advise, Ser?" He asked after a moment.

"Regroup with out foot, My Prince." Criston told him bluntly. "Send His Grace back to King's Landing with a strong escort and then come back to finish the castle off."

He hesitated.

"Unless...unless you wished to use Vhagar, of course."

The huge dragon was laying calmly amongst the carnage and had an almost smug look about her. But Criston could see the deep gouges in her stone gray scales. Some left over from her grapple with Snowfyre and Tessarion. The fresher, weeping ones inflicted by Meleys.

The Prince shook his head.

"More of the whore's dragons could be here at any moment and we wouldn't know until it was too late. Even at full strength I would not risk that. We will retreat...for now."

It was a hard march. The King had moaned pitifully all the way back to their camp even as Criston's squire trudged on stoiclly, even with his whole right arm hanging uselessly and limp from his shoulder. Prince Aemond had flown overhead with Vhagar, flying much lower and more slowly than she could. Protecting them, Criston wondered, or protecting her?

It took them three hours to catch up to the remainder of their men. Criston hadn't yet had time to get an accurate count but even just looking he could see less than half of what he had before. He gritted his teeth.

"Someone fetch me Cedric!" He ordered as he strode past the weary looking sentry's.

A pained looking freerider who was sat by the edge of the camp peeling burned leather out of his side spat.

"Cedric's dead. The dragon got 'im." The man shivered. "Naught but ash now."

Criston bit back a snarl at that. That man had been a damn capable commander for the outriders this whole march. And now he was gone and Criston had few options to replace him with.

"Lord Byrch then." The man was one of the few senior nobles to ride with Criston rather than march with the foot.

One of the nearby men-at-arms shook his head.

"Dead in Staunton's charge." He gestured into the camp. "One of his sons is still alive, Stranger take me if I know which one. Don't rightly know how long he'll last though. Bad burns on that one."

"So who has command here?" Criston demanded, cursing inwardly. He wished Ser Owen had ridden with them. He wouldn't have been killed in that charge, Criston was sure.

"Ser Malwood Cressey." Criston had never even heard of him.

"Inform Ser Malwood that we will camp here tonight. We will need a carriage or cart for His Grace before we set out in the morning. Find me three decent horses as well. Ser Arryk will be riding out to find out where in the Seven Hells Hayford is."

"Yes, Ser!" The Man-at-Arms bowed and rushed off.

Criston sighed and turned to his squire.

"You can go about your own business, boy. Get that arm seen to and then get some rest."

The boy shook his head. Criston guessed he was no more than six and ten.

"I'm your squire, Ser. I'll rest when you rest," the boy said earnestly. Criston would definitely need to find out this lads name.

"Good lad," he said, putting a hand on the boys good shoulder. "But you cant attend me with that wound. Find a healer and see what can be done and then come find me. I'll be on the western edge of camp."

The boy nodded resolutely and then rushed off. Criston made his way in an almost drunken state to the west side of camp, as he promised and fumbled to unclasp his armour. He flopped down heavily and hoped no one was watching as he tipped backwards and dozed lightly until the boy returned shortly after the sun had set. His arm would have to be removed, but they lacked the supplies so for now it was strapped tight to the boys chest. He managed to carry two bowls of a thin stringy broth with him. It wasn't pleasant but Criston choked it down and made the boy do the same. It was all they had and they needed something.

They set out again the next morning. Criston met with Ser Malwood, who seemed a good enough sort. A cousin of Lord Cressey, sent to ride with the King while the rest of his House fought against the lesser Black supporters near the God's Eye. He'd managed to acquire a cart for the King and had packed it with furs and hide to ease the journey some. He'd only been able to supply three horses though and one was to be used for the cart. It would do. He sent Ser Arryk off with some knight who looked less injured than the rest and ordered them to ride ahead and find Hayford.

And then it was just marching. The horses had all been either killed or scattered at Rook's Rest which meant trudging across fields despite the blisters and bone deep aches and tiredness. Ser Malwood was at least able to report their losses. They had at most four hundred men still capable of fighting, the rest either killed, injured or otherwise lost during the battle. And that was with a generous assesment of capable. By the time they stopped for the night after their second day of marching, that number had dropped to three hundred, with men dying off their injuries, disappearing during the night and some bold ones even slipping off from the back of the column in broad daylight.

A good thing for them, Aemond and Vhagar had been flying high in the clouds to avoid prevent the chance of being spotted. Their ragged company may pass unnoticed but a dragon Vhagar's size could not.

It was early on the third day that Ser Arryk returned in a flustered panic, shouting for him as he galloped towards the column at full pelt.

"Ser Criston!" He cried pulling up just short of his place at the front of the column.

Criston glared at him. He was sore, tired and aching from the battle and the marching and his shoulder was itching and throbbing. The thin stew they'd been eating twice a day had settled poorly in his stomach and he was in no mood for more bad news.

"Ser Arryk." He said, trying to not show his aggrevation too much. "I suppose its too much to hope for some good news. Have you found Hayford."

He might actually murder Hayford if he'd somehow managed to make a mess of his army.

Arryk met his eyes and Criston felt the blood drain from his face at the sheer horror in the other mans eyes.

"Lord Hayford is dead. We found his head sitting on a spear as a waymarker," he said. Criston's stomach churned. "And the foot is gone."

"Gone?" Criston said numbly.

Ser Arryk nodded frantically.

"Signs of a battle, my Lord. And an army, flying Rhaenyra's colours sitting just half a day further." Ser Arryk paused. His eyes flickered uncertainly over the banged up men standing behind Criston. "I spotted two dragons with them, My Lord."

Criston was still and silent a moment. Then he threw up.

Chapter 15: Lucos III

Chapter Text

Snowfyre was stirring restlessly beneath Lucos as he peered through the darkness at the small flecks of flickering torchlight in the distance. The host had made camp in the troughs of the hills spanning the country north of Duskendale, more than few days further south than they rightly should have been. Lucos did not know who had command of the enemy army but he wanted to thank them. Once they had determined that the slow pace was no trap but instead the result of mere incompetence, he and Daeron could not believe their luck. When Lucos had drawn up this plan, they had been assuming the Green foot would be within a few days of Rook's Rest. There had been always been a risk of Cole discovering their movements and moving against them.

Instead they were in the middle of the Hollard Hills. Far away from any possible aid.

They had chosen their camp poorly as well. Setting camp atop the hills was difficult and Lucos could understand the temptation to simply settle below, where the ground was lower and flatter. The Green commander had set his twice as many sentry's than Lucos thought they truly needed but they were stationed around the camp itself and left them with no visibility across the hills. Already the two halves of his and Daeron's force were approaching silently through the night, closing in of Aegon's foot from both sides.

The plan was a solid one, even Lord Corlys had agreed. It was he whose input Lucos had valued most. For all Lucos' complaints about the old man's caution, once Rhaenyra had decided to commit to this course of action his knowledge and experience had been crucial in ironing out any wrinkles in Lucos' plan. By the end they had come up with a stategy that they both felt left the advantage with their own forces and mitigated the risk of implementing it so close to the Green horse at Rook's Rest.

"It will have to be at night," Lord Corlys had said. Lucos had agreed. "They will have the numbers on us so we must catch them by suprise. If we can fall upon them sleeping, we can be within the camp before they can even rouse themselves."

"Our men will have to march without light though, else the sentry's will see them coming." Jace said, frowning. "Lack of sight will hinder us, especially if we fail to take them unawares."

"And we haven't considered Aemond yet," Daeron had pointed out.

But they were both wrong. Lucos had considering both things.

"The dragonfire will be the signal for the men to launch their attack." He had decided. "It will spread chaos among their ranks even if they do know we're coming and provide light for our men to use. As for Aemond, I'll draw him out. I will be the one to begin the attack. If he's there, he won't be able to resit the chance to face me. Daeron will stay in reserve and only engage once we know one way or the other."

Neither Jace nor Daeron had been very happy with that decision but neither could fault the cold logic of it. Lucos never mentioned that he also had another reason for not wanting Daeron to engage straight away. Lucos had very much desired to be the one who went to Rook's Rest to face Aegon. Everything in him burned to be the one who got to drive a sword through the fucker's mouth. Ultimately though, he couldn't let anyone else take the risk of facing Aemond. So here he was, Daeron at his side, the two of them leading an army against the Green foot while Rhaenys flew to Rook's Rest.

Each of the other riders had volunteered for that job. Jace wanted revenge on Aegon as much as Lucos himself did and Daeron felt it was his responsibility, his duty, to face his elder brother. Lucos wouldn't hear a word about it though and since the Queen herself had given him complete authority over this battle the two Prince's had no way of changing his mind. He had decided early that one of them would be staying on Dragonstone and the other would be right next to him, where he could protect them. Ultimately, he had decided that Jace, being the Crown Prince, was too valuable to risk and had commanded him to remain behind.

Lord Corlys had gotten a pinched look on his face when Rhaenys received her instructions and Lucos had very consciously tried to not pay attention to their heartfelt farewell. But it would be fine. Rhaenys was a capable rider and Meleys a fierce mount. They could handle Aegon.

There was a whoosh of air from beside him as Tessarion glided down and landed as gently as possible. There was still a slight quaking in the ground, though thankfully they were far enough away that their foe would not feel it.

"Any sign?" Lucos asked, watching with a small smile as Snowfyre craned her neck and gently nudged her snout against Tessarion's.

Daeron shook his head.

"None." He had been circling high above the clouds, searching for Aemond and Vhagar.

Lucos had been hunting closer to the ground as well and had also seen no trace. While it was possible they had simply missed him, Lucos thought it more likely that he wasn't here. He was probably still in the Stokeworth lands, burning their fields to ash.

"I've not seen him either." Lucos told him. "Nor any movement from the camp since nightfall."

No significant movement at any rate. It was too dark and too far to see everything exactly and the sentry's had most likely changed shift.

"The men are in place." Daeron said. Lucos nodded.

The two of them had flown out from Dragonstone a week earlier with Princess Rhaenys. Lucos had wanted to get to the mainland ahead of their forces from the Narrow Sea islands in order to scout the land and to try to rally some extra forces. He and Lord Corlys had agreed that they couldn't leave Dragonstone undefended. If they failed here, Rhaenyra would still need some forces for any further offensive's and the men from the Vale would not be enough alone. As such, the Velaryon and Targaryen men had remained on Driftmark.

Some twelve-hundred men from house's Celtigar, Bar Emmon and Sunglass had sailed though. They had been ferried across to the mainland by a portion of the Velaryon fleet, who would now be rejoining the rest of the blockade. Those men were to the north now, marching under Lord Celtigar's command alongside the thousand men sent by the clans of Crackclaw Point. It had Princess Rhaenys who had flown north and given those men their orders before she set off for Rook's Rest.

He and Daeron had spent their time further south, passing over the Green army. Daeron had flown from holdfast to holdfast, town to town rallying minor lords and landed knights to their cause. He had started at Duskendale itself, where Ser Leyton Darklyn, by best guess the new Lord of Duskendale, had managed to raise two hundred fresh levies. The other houses; including Lords Follard, Byrch and Hollard; had between them supplied a hundred knights and a five hundred strong mix of spears and archers.

Lucos, meanwhile, had scoured the countryside for the scattered remnants of Lord Gunthor Darklyn's force. Most of the survivors had broken and dispersed into the winds either slinking back to their homes or prowling the country as outlaws and bandits. He had found some small groups still flying Rhaenyra's banner though, including one larger force riding under Ser Robert, a young knight who turned out to be Lord Leyton's eldest son. Lucos had managed to bring four hundred bloodied men to accompany the grass green recruits that made up the southern half of their force.

They had also been suprised to see the arrival of the young Lord Jaime Stokeworth, still very much alive and delivering three hundred of his own levies for their use.

Twenty-two hundred men to the north. Fifteen-hundred to the south, being led by Ser Leyton. Thirty-seven hundred men total. The green foot still had the numbers on them, with what looked to be about four thousand men. But the Green's were asleep. Completely unaware of their presence.

And they had no dragons.

Lucos grinned.

"Remember the plan." He said. "Hang back until I begin my third run. Aemond would have shown himself by then, if he were here."

Daeron nodded.

"Be safe," he said.

Lucos flashed him a smile before pulling his helm on. He patted Snowfyre's side and the slender dragon gave a low, almost excited sounding growl before prowling forward a few paces and pushing off. Her white wings spread outward and one strong beat had them rising. He made sure to try and temper Snowfyre's speed, circling wide circles around the camp and rising gradually instead of powering straight upwards as he wanted. Snowfyre's scales were a very light colour and the shape of a dragon is hard to conceal even in the darkness of night.

He waited until he judged them high enough, hundreds of feet above the camp and hopefully out of sight of anyone who happened to look up, before he pulled on Snowfyre's reigns and directed her above the camp. He'd kept an eye on it as they flew, searching out the best targets to attack. There were rows of wooden siege equipment on the east side of the camp. Catapults and scorpions stolen from the walls of Duskendale that the Green host had been dragging along with them, undoubtedly part of the reason they were moving so slowly. They would have to be destroyed before the host could fully wake, but Lucos planned on taking them second. The huge, fancy pavillions in the center of the camp were his first choice. The more senior nobles would likely be together there and removing the Green command would throw their forces into even further disarray.

The nobles, then the siege works, Lucos told himself and then help Daeron put down any resistance. He would be quick enough. Daeron wasn't to enter the fray until Lucos' third attack. The siege equipment would be destroyed by then.

Lucos glanced down. Miles below, the Green camp slept. They were oblivious to the living death and destruction hovering above them.

"Ilglyr," he whispered. The Valyrian word for 'dive'.

He was just loud enough for Snowfyre to hear; he didn't want his voice to carry too far, after all; and tapped his spurs into Sunfyre's scales. It didn't hurt her, her scales too hard by far to be pierced by a gentle tap of some puny little spikes but it got her attention and she knew that it meant move. In combination with his command, she knew exactly what to do. She rolled her neck, turned her body to follow and tucked her wings in close. Then they were falling.

Lucos wasn't scared. He trusted his mount implicitly. Instead he felt a grin stretching his face as he pressed body close to her back. His hands grasped at the ridges along the back of her neck, legs digging into the stirrups on the saddle. The wind rushed around them. He could feel the shock of cold carried with it even through his armour and leathers, could hear it shrieking through the gaps of his armour. Snowfyre opened her mouth and roared! Lucos' whole body shook with the force of it and he rolled his eyes at her dramatics. Of course she couldn't do this without showing off.

It didn't matter. By the time the sound had registered they were only twenty feet above the huge, rounded green tent that was the centerpiece of the camp. Lucos could see the guards outside it jump and startle and almost drop their weapons only to actually do so when they looked up and saw Snowfyre's mass bearing down on them. They ran. Maybe they would make it.

Whoever was inside wouldn't.

"Dracarys!" Burn it.

Snowfyre unleashed her almost white flames on the tent and it was engulfed within seconds. Snowfyre didn't let up, merely turning her head ever so slighly as she levelled out. The other tents were almost blown over from the force of Snowfyre's wings beating to get them level. They glided then, Snowfyre rolling slightly to one side as she sprayed out her monstrous dragonfire on the camp. Even before Lucos gave a sharp tug on her reigns and Snowfyre lifted them higher, taking them over the tops of the other tents and towards the missile equipment on the far side of the camp, several tents were collapsing beneath the weight of the flames. On a few, Lucos could see shapes beneath the fabric frantically scrambing to get out.

His observations were interupted by the loud creaking of wood and a sharp crack snapping through the air. Lucos snapped his head forward and his eyes widened. He dropped his head flush against Snowfyre's back, just barely evading the burning ball of something that had been launched at him. There were the faint sounds of something cutting through the air far too close for comfort and Lucos yanked hard on the reigns in his hand. Snowfyre responded excellently. She banked sharply left, rolling almost sideways and exposing her belly. One scorpion bolt might pierce a dragons scale but it wouldn't go all the way through to the flesh underneath. She had protected the vulnerable areas on her face and her wing joints and her rider.

There was no pained growl though, so Lucos dared presume that Snowfyre hadn't been hit; or at the very least, nothing had actually done anything other than bounce off; so when they righted themselves, Lucos' eyes were drawn immediately to where they had been attacked from.

His stomach dropped.

There were lights swarming around the siege equipment and he could make out men hustling a fresh round of missiles into their equipment. He snapped his whip against Snowfyre's side and his companion surged forwards, soaring over the camp towards the catapults and scorpions that had caught them so badly off guard. They must have set their bedrolls out next to the equipment and woken when the attack had begun, Lucos thought.

They finished reloading before he reached them. Lucos winced, anticipating a trio of boulders and a dozen scorpion bolts firing towards him. Snowfyre had been lucky enough to not take any damage during the last volley, he doubted they'd be so fortunate again. He began to turn Snowfyre, intending to veer away and make himself a difficult target. But it proved unnessecary. Before they could release their second volley, the catapults were engulfed in bright blue flames. The wood caught instantly, disintergrating before Lucos' eyes. Lucos' eyes narrowed and he glared at Tessarion as she swept in, blanketing the ground in flames. The siege weapons and the men manning them turning to ash in minutes. He was supposed to wait.

Lucos growled in frustration before turning his attention back to the battle. Seeing that Daeron had the siege equipment well in hand and trusting him to continue on with the rest of their plan when he was done, Lucos had Snowfyre sweep south first. With the fires now spreading across the camp, their ground forces would have begun their approach and they had fewer men on that flank. Lucos thought they would need the help more. He had Snowfyre unleash her flames on the tents below and on the men darting about trying to organise themselves. By the light of the dragonfire he could see the glinting steel of spear heads as Ser Leyton's men swept into the Green army. Beneath the carpet of dragonfire and the onslaught by Lord Darklyn's force the southern side of the camp was collapsing within seconds.

Lucos turned his attention northwards then. The Green army was almost entirely in rout already. The center of the camp was a raging inferno. The siege equipment had been reduced to smouldering kindling and Lucos could see Tessarion's massive figure crouched in front of the supply tent, spewing flames out in front of her. Swarms of men were fleeing to the west. Lucos was tempted to go after them. But he could see that the Green's had managed to form a crude, shallow shieldwall to the north. It was already buckling under pressure, but Lucos saw no reason to let their resistance play out.

Snowfyre swept down. His own men saw them coming and disengaged, scrambling over themselves trying to get out of range. The Green's seemed triumphantly confused, until Snowfyre roared and they realised that it was over. Half dropped their spears instantly and tried to flee. The rest, to their credit, huddled behind their shields and lowered their spears against him. Lucos snorted at the futility of it. At his command, Snowfyre opened her mouth and in the split second that the oncoming fire illuminated the spearmen's faces before they were set alight, Lucos saw stark fear. Snowfyre made three passes over the north side of the camp. Whether they fled or not made no matter. They burned.

The battle was over long before sunrise. When the first glows of dawn shone over the battlefield, Aegon's banner's lay trampled in the mud and soot. The fires had died down after a few hours, all the fabric and wood and flesh that had been feeding it burnt to a blackened crisp. Lucos and Daeron landed their dragons in what had once been the Green commander's campsite. Only a pile of ash remained now, with some mishapen bones buried beneath them.

"Hayford." Daeron said listlessly.

Lucos glanced over. Daeron had climbed down from Tessarion's back and was holding the sad remains of a banner. It was only a small scrap; torn, tatterred and burnt along the edges. But there was enough left to see the green and gold fretty of House Hayford.

"It makes sense. Aegon looked down on those beneath him. Hayford is just about the only Lord loyal to him with enough status that Aegon would give him a command so important," he said. "His grandson was a page at King's Landing. He is only ten, I think."

"Daeron..." Lucos began.

"My Lord, My Prince." Ser Glendon called as he strode through the ashen fields. "The day is ours. My men chased the enemy as far as Dunhallow. Beyond there I dare not give chase blindly. Your orders?"

Ser Glendon had been one of the men Rhaenyra chose to make up her new Queensguard. Those members of King Viserys' Kingsguard that had proven loyal; Ser Steffon, Ser Lorent and Ser Eryck; had been kept on, with Ser Steffon being named the new Lord Commander. The remaining four places had been filled with the best of the young knights Rhaenyra retained on Dragonstone. Ser Glendon had been a good choice. He'd served on Dragonstone as a page, then a squire and then remained as a knight. Nineteen he was now, with long, flowing black hair and a well groomed beard. He was decent with a sword, Lucos knew, and seemed a trustworthy, loyal sort. He lacked the same faith in some of his new brothers though.

Ser Harrold Darke was an exceptionally skilled knight with both lance and sword. A tall, handsome blonde man with a strong jawline, sharp cheeks and a rougish smile. The maids loved him and the squires admired him. But the way he looked at the Queen, at the Princess', made Lucos teeth grind. He would be driven at least, Lucos' supposed, if he could resist his urges. Better than the other two. Lyonel Bentley was scarce more than a boy but he had a sharp sense of humour and a gift for song and dance that made Rhaenyra fond of him while Adrian Redfort, who was the eldest of the four and a decorated tourney knight, was a little too fond of sweetwine for Lucos' taste.

Lucos gave one more long look at Daeron but he did not meet his eyes. He remained turned away, staring at the strip of cloth in his hands. Lucos wanted to rage at him; for straying from the plan, for being reckless, for putting himself in danger. But looking at him standing there, shoulders slumped and a look of such deep sorrow on his face...Lucos couldn't bring himself to say a word.

"Ser Glendon, lead the army south. We'll set camp a few miles away. Leave some men here to count and pile the bodies. I'll have Snowfyre take care of them."

Ser Glendon nodded sharply and marched off, barking instructions and relaying Lucos' orders. Lucos watched him go and then turned back His Prince. He put a hand on Daeron's shoulder and glanced around quickly. No one was paying attention to them and the dragons bulk gave them some cover. He pulled Daeron close and pressed their foreheads together. The most intimacy he would allow so publicly.

"Go with Ser Glendon. I'll handle things here. You don't need to see that." He whispered. He felt Daeron tense. Knew he was going to argue. "Please. For me."

He hesitated a moment. Then nodded slightly. Lucos pressed a kiss to Daeron's temple and stepped away. Daeron took a shaky breath and began to climb back onto Tessarion.

"Lucos," he heard. He turned back. "Thank you."

The moment he was gone, Lucos longed for his company. It hadn't been this bad, before. But both of them had come to depend on each other far more closely than ever in the wake of all that had happened. But it was better for Daeron to leave. Lucos had seen him struggling to come to terms with what they'd done and being around the evidence wouldn't do him any good. Nor would having to deal with the clean up. Besides, Lucos thought, he needed his own time. To get his thoughts in order.

Lucos...was conflicted. He had felt nothing when attacking the camp. He'd heard the screaming, the crying, the pleading and the wailing. He'd seen the terror and devastation he was unleashing on them and hadn't felt a thing. No. He'd felt vindicated. He'd felt proud. There had been true hatred in him for the men he was attacking. He hated them for daring to march under the banner of Jace's enemies and felt a swell of...not joy but triumph as they burned and died beneath him. When the battle was done and the dust settled, his thoughts hadn't lingered on them for a second. Until he saw Daeron. Until he saw what it had done to him and he was suddenly assaulted by a feeling of wrongness. He wondered what was so wrong with him that he could command such brutal, gruesome death and walk away with a light soul.

He didn't feel guilty or disturbed or shocked or horrified. But he knew he should and he did feel guilty for not feeling the guilt he knew Daeron was wrestling with.

It took Lucos nearly the whole day before he was able to fly to the camp and rejoin Daeron. There had been hundreds of bodies to remove and though Lucos was loath to linger, it felt the least he could do. He couldn't give each man a funeral, but he could make sure they weren't left to rot. Most of the men were innocent. Farmers and fishermen and smiths and tanner who'd had spears shoved into their hands and sent off to die. He had his men dump the bodies in huge piles and then had Snowfyre unleash her flames on them until they were reduced to ash. It was better than nothing.

It was impossible to get a true count of how many of Aegon's men they'd slain. So many had been caught in the dragonfire and reduced to naught more than ash and many of those whose bodies were still intact were unrecognisable besides. They'd managed to count enough bodies to be sure of killing at least a thousand of the enemy though and their own casualties numbered barely a hundred. Among them though were Lord Crispian Celtigar and Ser Leyton both. Lord Adrian they'd found with a large double-headed axe buried halfway into his neck. His body had ended up under Snowfyre's flame. The blackened and blistered skin made him look nothing like the weathered old veteran. They'd only been able to identify him because of the Valyrian Steel long axe held tightly in his hand. The wooden shaft was burnt and twisted but the rippling steel was as vibrant as ever.

Ser Leyton had taken a blow to the side of the head in the battle. He'd been fine until he removed his helm after the fighting had died down and piece of his skull came away with it. He'd been dead seconds after hitting the floor.

The nobles among their own dead had been separated and carried to the camp, ready to be sent back home. The highborn Green's had been left on the field for the Silent Sisters to find. Snowfyre glided over the men as they marched. Lucos didn't think they truly needed protection. The rest of their army had marched this way just that morning and they'd seen no sign of any threat. But it was better to be safe.

The sun was descending behind the tree tops in the far west when they arrived. There was a large open spanse of field left open in the camp that Tessarion was already lounging in. Lucos guided Snowfyre down next to her and left them to their playful snapping as he made his way towards the tents. He raised a hand and hailed a knight in the livery of House Warren.

"My Lord." He was greeted deferentially. Not unusual on Dragonstone but nobles from the mainland rarely paid him any mind. But House Warren were quite small and Lucos was known to be close to several Royals. And a dragonrider beside.

"The Prince?" He asked simply.

The knight jerked his head towards the middle of the camp.

"He's holding council with his commanders." He explained. "I'll show you to him, if it please."

Lucos nodded and followed the knight as he led the way to Daeron's command tent. He saw men stop and stare as he passed and rolled his shoulders uncomfortably. He heard whispers and felt the hair on the back of his neck rise in panic. Some pointed. Some bowed and one lad, a few years his elder, dropped hastily to a knee. Lucos didn't know what was going on but he didn't like it.

The command tent was a large square, every inch of it exhuding devoted oppulance. The walls were made of myrish lace with seahorses and dragons embroidered into the fabric and Rhaenyra's quartered banner hung from the pointed ceiling. Daeron's own personal tent was just as obscene albeit better looking with its plain red and black colouring. The guards on either side of the tent flaps straightened when they saw his approach. The Warren knight stepped aside and the guardsmen pulled the flap open for him. One of them announced him as he ducked into the tent.

"Lord Lucos Ryder, my Prince."

There was a crowd in the tent. About a dozen or so nobles; some in silk and some in steel, some Lords and other merely knights; all of them crammed in around a rectangular wooden table. Their loud arguing voices fell silent when he entered. Lucos scanned them in passing. He recognised some. Ser Robert Darklyn was there, pale and gaunt, a silent shadow hidden to the side. Sable haired Lord Gunnar Follard and his cousin the knight of Old Sept, Ser Richard Dargood. One of the Sunglass brothers; balding and gruff Samwell Bar Emmon; the large, bearded Jon Pyne of the Crackclaw clans. The child Lord Stokeworth was there too, his eyes barely able to see over the table top.

And at the head of the table was Daeron, Ser Glendon standing to his left. He was still wearing his armour, Lucos noticed. A suit of gleaming silver plate with a dragon head inlaid into the chest piece, over his heart. Beneath the plate he wore a leather gambison and a pale blue surcoat (he used to wear green, before he defected, and Lucos privately thought it was more his colour). His shoulders were hunched up, head bowed over the table and his face lined with worry. He looked up at Lucos' name though and as their eyes met, Lucos saw the tension drain from his shoulders.

"Lucos," he said and then stopped himself, eyes darting around at his commanders.

"Prince Daeron," he greeted in return and when Daeron gestured to the empty space at his right hand side, he smirked and stepped around the clearly fuming Sunglass and took his place.

"You have the numbers?"

"A thousand of theirs for a hundred of ours," he confirmed with a grin, though it faded at the tight lips and stilted nod he got in return. The cheer from the men around him made up for it. "Though I'm sorry to say that as well as Ser Leyton, Lord Celtigar also fell in the battle."

They likely knew. He wasn't here after all. Still, it needed to be said and Lucos wasn't lying when he said he was sorry about it. Lord Crispian had been a good man and a strong warrior. He'd fought against the pirates, the Dornish and the Triarch on the Stepstones. He had Lucos' undying respect for that last enemy alone.

"We've also managed to capture near two hundred noblemen; knights and men-at-arms mostly, cousins and such of variours houses."

"Good. We've dealt Aegon a decisive blow today, My Lords," Daeron said. Lucos had always found his voice slightly melodic. "One he will not soon recover from. But there is little time to rest. I intend to linger here for no more than a week. We must decide our next course of action before then."

Several Lords puffed up and opened their mouths to shout out their advice but Daeron held up a hand to forestall their words. Lucos smiled slightly when their mouths snapped closed instantly. He had always enjoyed seeing Daeron and the Velaryon boys flexing their Princely authority and watching proud puffing men twice and thrice their age clam up as a result. He could see a brief glimmer of amusement in Daeron's eyes when their gazes met.

"But first," Daeron continued. "Ser Glendon, do you have anything to report."

The Queensguard Knight leaned forward from his place at Daeron's left hand side.

"Our scouts have tracked the remains of Prince Aegon's foot as far west as Briarwhite, from where they turned south. They seem to be heading towards Antlers, but they may turn south when they reach the Kingsroad and fall back to King's Landing."

"Are they in good order?" Lucos asked.

Ser Glendon grinned widely.

"I've seen a herd of sheep move with more order." He said. "They're a chaotic rabble right now. Hundreds will have split off and deserted by the time they arrive at Antlers. More than a thousand, mayhaps, if they flee south."

"Then our course is clear. We must strike south for King's Landing at once!" Shouted Ser Samwell.

"We still do not know where Vhagar is," Lord Follard mused, stroking his thick moustache. "I counsel patience, my Prince."

"Spit on patience. My Prince, should Princess Rhaenys fail we will find ourselves surrounded by our enemies. We must push somewhere lest we find ourselves cut off," Ser Robert argued.

"My Prince, we must..."

"...city is vulnerable..."

"...rally at Harrenhal with Prince Daemon..."

"...nay, summon Prince Daemon to us..."

"...hunt down Cole..."

"...back to Dragonstone, to regroup with the Queen..."

"I will not tuck my tail between my legs and hide on Dragonstone while Aemond turns my lands to ash, My Lord." Little Lord Stokeworth spat, venemously, much to Lucos' amusement.

He remained silent through it all though. He watched Daeron instead. The Prince kept his eyes fixed on whichever Lord was speaking at any given time, for all appearances giving them his complete attention. But as the arguments raged on, Lucos could see how his love was struggling to cope with the weight of leadership. They looked to him for leadership and never noticed how he seemed to sag under their expectations. Only Lucos saw that.

"Duskendale." He said. He tried not to smirk when their commanders fell silent as his voice cut through their bickering. He spoke with the authority of the Queen behind him and all the Princes as well. It grated on some of them he knew; Ser Sunglass looked like he had swallowed a lemon and Lord Follard had a sneer on his face. But they feared him and feared Snowfyre more. They listened. "We will make for Duskendale."

"Lord Ryder," Ser Richard said, a particular tone in his voice that told Lucos his use of 'Lord' was meant as an insult. "Duskendale is a city in chaos. What could come of a journey there but wasted resources."

"A city in chaos because they stayed true to our cause." Lucos retorted. "We should not leave such a faithful ally to struggle alone."

The balding knight turned to Daeron. He had a very pinched face, Lucos noticed.

"My Prince..."

"Why Duskendale?" Daeron cut him off.

Lucos smiled.

"We need to send word of our victory to the Queen and to Prince Daemon and then await their response. Duskendale is the only loyal hold large enough to house our army behind its walls should our enemies march against us." He explained. "The coast road will allow us to move to King's Landing alongside the Queen's own forces when they sail or else there is a straight shot west to the Kingsroad.

"All told it is the best location to await new orders."

Daeron was nodding. So were a few of the other commanders. Young Lord Jaime was looking at him like he was one of his seven gods come to life. Ser Richard's jaw was clenched but he spoke not another word.

"My Prince, this is foolhardy. Duskendale is too close to Rooks Rest. Surely you see we must make for Harrenhal..." The Sunglass knight pleaded.

"I see that Lucos was given command of this army as much as I was." Daeron said, icily. "And that I find no fault with his plan. Duskendale is as good an option as any and its port will allow a quick escape should we need it. See to your men, My Lords. We will rest here tomorrow but I want us marching the following morning. If that is all?"

Daeron pushed away from the table like the question was a mere courtesy and he was finished whether the assembled nobles liked it or not.

"Not quite, My Prince." Ser Glendon said. "There is one other small matter to attend to. If you and Lord Ryder would both follow me outside."

Daeron's eyes narrowed as their commanders flooded out of the tent in Ser Glendon's wake. He exchanged a look with Lucos and then cautiously followed. Outside, the Lords had gathered in a circle with Ser Glendon in the middle. He placed his hand on the hilt of his sword and drew it from his sheath. Lucos' own hand instantly flew to his own sword. Ser Glendon saw and gave him a wry look. But he said nothing about it.

"Prince Daeron, Lord Lucos," he said. "Last night you both acted with valour and courage worthy of any knight. You have spoken well of how bravely your men fought, but in truth the victory is yours, not ours."

"You are kind to say so, Ser, but truly the day belongs the dragons. Tessarion and Snowfyre are the true heroes here." Daeron protested, ducking his head. There was the faintest blush rising on his pale cheeks.

Ser Samwell scoffed.

"I've seen how riderless dragons act, My Prince. They don't throw themselves at loaded siege equipment."

"Nor do they pick their victims with such precision as Lord Ryder did during the battle." Ser Robert added.

The men circled around them were nodding and muttering agreements. The crowd was growing, men edging closer to see an event that had clearly been planned our in advance. Lucos resisted the urge to hunch his shoulders at all the attention and stood straight-backed and square-shouldered. Although Daeron seemed to be growing more and more flustered; even if only behind that stoic, royal mask that he used in public, the one that Lucos could see right through; Lucos felt proud. Snowfyre had flown like a dream but it had been their strategy they'd used, their command that had been followed and their actions that carried the day. It felt good to be recognised for that.

And based on Ser Glendon' words, the intention was there to be recognised formally as well. Knighthood had been Lucos' dream for years. Not least because it was required to be a Kingsguard, and Lucos had every intention of being Jace's Lord Commander one day. But there had always been an obstacle. Lucos, nominally at least, followed the Old Gods as his ancestors had done for centuries and Knighthood was a custom of the Seven. With the chance to prove his valour in battle always looking slim, Lucos would have had to convert in order to be knighted and though he didn't particularly believe in either, the Old Gods were his father's and held a place in his heart for that alone.

But now there was war. A chance to prove, in battle, that he was worthy. And he had done so. He shot Daeron a half-pleading, half-commanding look; silently begging him to cease his objections before they changed their mind. It was alright for him. He was a Prince. He could be knighted whenever he wanted, in truth. But Lucos would not allow this chance to pass him by.

Ser Glendon smiled.

"Lord Ryder; you were the first into the battle and the last to rest. You and your dragon dove at the enemy without fear or hesitation and then stayed behind to give what respect you could to the dead. Today you have proven your courage and honour several times over. I ask you to kneel, My Lord."

Lucos exhaled and stepped forward. He felt Daeron very gently and very subtly nudge his should and glanced at him from the corner of his eye. Daeron was looking at him with a fond look on his face. Then he was before Ser Glendon. He knelt, head lowered. Felt the touch of steel on his right shoulder.

"Lucos of the House Ryder. In the name of the Warrior, I charge you to be brave." The sword moved to his other shoulder. "In the name of the Father, I charge you to be just. In the name of the Mother, I charge you to protect all innocents. In the name of the Maid, I charge you to protect all women. In the name of the Smith, I charge you to be strong. In the name of Crone, I charge you to act with wisdom. In the name of the Stranger, I charge you to uphold these vows until the end of your days."

The sword lifted from his shoulders and Lucos saw the tip come to rest against the ground in front of him. He looked up.

"Arise," Ser Glendon continued, smiling broadly. "Ser Lucos, a knight of the Seven Kingdoms."

He stood and there were cheers erupting from the gathered crowd. Some of the higher tier nobles were clapping unenthusiastically, but the knights and men-at-arms were boisterous enough to make up for it and both Ser Robert and Ser Samwell and young Lord Jaime were cheering his name. Lucos grinned. It took a few moments for everything to die down and then Ser Glendon repeated the process for Daeron. Lucos beamed at him as he knelt and received a more restrained smile in return. There was joy in Daeron's face. Lucos could see it. But something was holding him back from enjoying this moment as he should.

The cheers were even louder when Daeron rose and Ser Glendon proclaimed him 'Ser Daeron'. No one resented or begrudged him. Not even sour Ser Richard. With the formal ceremony over and the victory from the previous night still on the mind, several lords and knights ordered casks of ale and wine to be brought out and cracked open for the men. Lucos and Daeron were swept into the celebrations briefly as they, their dragons, their victory and their Queen were all toasted half a dozen times each. Another night, Lucos would have revelled in such an atmosphere. But Daeron had been acting uncomfortably from the first round of congratulations and Lucos stayed by his side as he made his excuses and left.

Ser Glendon escorted them to his and Daeron's tents. They were set up side by side with a shared canopy connecting between them; officially, because it was easier for their guards to have both commanders in one space. Daeron slipped inside immediately, without another word. Lucos, though turned back to the Queensguard.

"We will not be marching tomorrow, so I see no reason not to let the men have their celebrations tonight. But don't let our guard down. Aemond is still out there and Cole could be riding hard for us as we speak."

Ser Glendon nodded. "Not to worry Ser," he said. "I've set up watch posts every fifty yards around the edge of camp. Three men each; overseen by a trustworthy knight from Dragonstone where I could manage it."

Lucos patted him on the shoulder. "Good man. Our own guards?"

"Discreet." Lucos stumbled. Ser Glendon gave him a smug smile. "Both from Dragonstone and very loyal to Queen Rhaenyra. Even more so to Prince Jacaerys, he arranged squireship for their sons."

"Yes, well; thank you for your good judgement, Ser. Will you be joining the men tonight?"

"For a time, perhaps, if the Prince allows."

"You did your duty well today, Ser. Go. Enjoy your night. But return here an hour after first light. I want to speak with you before we begin arranging our march south" Lucos told him.

Ser Glendon bowed. "Of course, my Lord," he said. Then he smirked as he began walking away. "It seems I'll be taking your orders for a long while, if rumours of the Queen's plans for you are true."

Lucos watched him go, dissatisfied that the knight had gotten the last word. He shook his head and stepped into the tent, giving a nod to the two men standing outside the entrance. Daeron was standing beside the small wooden table that had been set up in their tent, back turned.

"Knights!" Lucos almost laughed as he approached. "Can you believe it Daeron? We're finally..."

He trailed off as Daeron turned to him and he saw the tears glistening in his love's amethyst eyes. Lucos' smile faded. He was next to Daeron in an instant, arms wrapping around the other boy. Daeron remained tense for a moment and then relaxed, melting against Lucos' front and burying his face against Lucos shoulder in an awkward crane of his neck. Lucos could feel him shaking and hugged him closer, muttering soothing nonesense in his ear.

"They were...They...The screams..." Daeron stammered. Lucos heart clenched for him as he realised what this was about. "They wouldn't stop...they were screaming and we did that...to people...we did that to people Lucos...how could we..."

He trailed off and Lucos could do nothing but hold him. He didn't understand. He didn't know what Daeron was feeling. He hadn't reacted the same way. He couldn't comfort him, not truly, because his feelings were cold and hard and they would be as strange to Daeron as Daeron's were to him. But...as he felt Daeron desperately clutching at his sleeves and begging him to stay with him for the night...he knew he could be there for him. He could listen. He could let Daeron lean on him and take on the responsibilities that he couldn't face alone. That, at least, he could do.

That, he would do. Whatever it cost him.