Cregan Stark - Late 131 AC – Kingsroad approaching the Kings Landing

'A few more hours and the gates of Kings Landing will be within sight, and I will end this war'

The Lord of the North sat upon his destrier, looking over what was perhaps the most powerful force in the entirety of Eastern Westeros as it marched down the Kingsroad. A coalition of twelve thousand, six thousand rivermen and eight thousand valemen, not to mention the countless hedge knights and mercenary bands that joined them as they made their journey south.

Cregan thought dismissively of the hedge knights, seeing as most of them were the broken remnants of great battles such as the Fishfeed and the Battles of the Tumbleton. But rather they serve as fodder for the dragons and arrows rather than his own men, he supposed. He had them chose a few knights amongst their numbers which he could use to direct the rest. Lyman and Tytos were chief amongst them. He knew little about either of them but he was certain that he could rely upon for killing if nothing else.

Cregan thought back to what he had said earlier; 'his men', such a statement was rather controversial; while he held full command of the northmen as was his right, the rivermen and valemen weren't so easy to command. The rivermen, which had been fondly called the 'Lads' for their age and enthusiasm, deferred to him with ease and gave good counsel when required but at the same time, their youth made them rowdy and rash. Especially after their victory at the Muddy Mess which had broken the Stormlords and had incidentally cleared the way for them. Between the three leaders of the Lads he had come to make a special connection to lovely Alys Blackwood. While he had not bedded the lady he could confidently call himself closer to her than a mere friend.

The valemen were another issue altogether, most of them were loyal but almost entirely green and thought far too much of their untested skills. Led by Ser Albert Arryn, cousin to the Lady of the Vale; Jeyne Arryn. The elder knight was a competent commander but proud and haughty, seemingly of nothing but his name. Cregan felt the man was reliable if completely dislikeable. 'Such could be said of the entirety of the valemen'

The majority of the valemen dragged their feet and were absolute bastards to deal with, asking for more food, constantly whoring, drinking and making fools of themselves. They had gotten into fights more than once with northerner and riverman alike. Forcing Cregan to have angry words with Ser Albert more than once, much to his annoyance.

He looked at the siege weapons that had held up his army at Moat Callin, he had despised the delay that their construction had forced upon him but nevertheless they were necessary. Kings Landing had switched hands constantly between the blacks and the greens as the war went on, he wouldn't know who was greeting him until the city was in sight. Especially as for all he knew the had managed to rally and retreat in good order back to the city. But as his father told him; a little prudence went a long way. And as the army got closer to the capital, Cregan mused on why he why he was even here in the first place.

'Jacaerys Velaryon, the prince who flew half the distance of the continent to beg for northern swords'

While House Stark had acquiesced with the confirmation of Rhaenyra as the Heir to the Iron Throne when King Viserys demanded it of them, it seemed that not every Great House had done so. Hightower, Lannister, Redwyne, Baratheon and more had forgotten the edicts of Viserys when Winterfell first heard of rebellion and war Cregan's first response was to shrug. 'For what did Winterfell care for which Valyrian arse sat on the Iron Throne?' So long as they were left well enough alone and respected, it did not matter a whit to the Northern Lords. That changed with the entrance of the Velaryon Prince and the Pact of Ice and Fire he signed at Winterfell on the authority of the Iron Throne.

The Stark snorted, 'the Pact of Ice and Fire, what a farce, such a grandiose title for what is my due' at the overly grand name that was placed on a series of trade agreements, new titles, tax reductions and an increase of autonomy. He didn't snort at his promised Targaryen bride, no that was to be his crowning achievement. No other Stark or northern house had wed their blood with the Dragons, and such an achievement would only go further in strengthening Stark authority and prestige.

In theory, such a treaty was only effective as long as there was a Black sitting on the Iron Throne. Cregan had hoped for Rhaenyra but with the rumours that had been whispered by the smallfolk fleeing Kings Landing, it was entirely possible that the black queen was dead. Which was unfortunate but largely irrelevant. 'Black or green I care not which dragon rules so long as the wolf gets its due' In Cregan's mind he had the strength; both militarily and politically to enforce his wishes upon whatever faction awaited him in Kings Landing. He had enough clout to make the valelords pliant to his wishes and he made fast friends with Lords Tully and Blackwood, for Roddy's glorious victory at the Fishfeed had made rivermen love the North more than anything he could do.

Roderick Dustin. What could be said about the man? 'A finer warrior the north has rarely seen.' The Battle of the Lakeshore, the Butchers Ball and the First Battle of Tumbleton; the north and river celebrated the victories of Roddy the Ruin every night and every day with song and stories. Cregan joined them gladly as without the man, the war might have been lost and with it chances of Stark advancement.

"Lord Stark! Lord Stark! We have reports from the scouts!" A rider approached Cregan's guards, one of the few horsemen that the Riverlands could still call upon. The man looked young, but his armour was old and used. Any sigils or any discerning mark had long been scratched off or covered in mud. Seeing that he had caught the attention of the Lord of the North, the rider bowed his head in respect and mumbled "Milord Stark," before continuing, "Lord Benjicot has sighted the city. The gates are open and the way is clear but there's fighting in the city milord, we don't know who's fighting who but it sounds fierce as anything milord"

Cregan dismissed the rider and began giving orders, "Mycah, tell the drummers to set a pace for a quick march. Joros, get me Sers Albert, Tytos and Lyman." For the third man, Cregan looked him in the eye, "Brandon, raise the banner high and rally the men, for blood is to be shed this day."

Royce Caron – Late 131 – King's Landing

"Stormlanders! FORWARD CHARGE!"

"No Mercy for the Green bastards!"

"For Lord Daemon and the Black Queen!"

"One more push boys! One more and they'll shatter!"

By this point, Royce was more than well accustomed to the sounds of war; the screams and shouts of battle were barely anything new to him. He was a Marcher Lord, his House had defended the borderlands between the Stormlands and Dorne for millennia. He had killed his first man when he was three and ten, and since then he had proudly done his duty to Nightsong and the Storm's End. Now that he was a man grown with sons of his own that had been blooded he was somewhat less enthusiastic about his duty.

"Oh do they ever ?"

Royce looked to the man nearest to him, Ser Durran Hartong. The knight's once resplendent armour was coated black with blood and scratches but the man was still fought and killed as if he wasn't exhausted from fighting hours on end without any kind of respite. 'Or maybe that's just you and these old bones of yours Royce', Royce signed at the thought, for there was truth in it. He was no longer a young man.

"They do when they're dead, so keep killing them and maybe we'll get some peace and quiet!"

Royce's reply was met with chuckles and laughter from the near him. Giving some much-needed brevity to the grim work they had been doing for much of the day.

"Fuck the King!"

Of course, there was a rude interruption to men's brevity in the form of a swordsman who charged the Lord of Nightsong. Screaming as he attacked and wielding a longsword and a truly devastatingly ugly face, Royce was forced on the backfoot by the sheer aggression of the man. That didn't last long, as Royce blocked a wild swing with his kite shield and ended the fight with thurst through the man's throat. He left the man to die gurgling his own blood and moved on. 'Sixteen'

Luckily the square that Royce and his men were occupying were currently free of anything that wanted to kill them, giving them a small break.

One of the guards on his left spat at his own dead enemy, "Fuck me, these cunts are shit fighters, aren't they? All they know how to swing a sword and scream."

A reply sounded out, "These cunts are the dregs, some unlucky bastards given swords and given free rein to do whatever they want"

"Why?"

"Fuck knows, the Blacks want the city and they'll do anything to get it"

"I thought it was the Goldcloaks? Or is it the Riverlords?"

"How are we getting out? We're in the middle of a godsdamn city!"

As the men conversed amongst themselves, Royce sat down on a nearby seat and was considering how they'd get out of here alive. They didn't have enough men to fight their way out city or and harbour of Kings Landing simply didn't have any ships. He could surrender to the Blacks but he didn't have much faith in the generosity of the cunting bastards.

"My lord, here." Royce looked to a knight offering him a flask of water, the man was unrecognisable due to the filth and damage his armour had taken, rendering him anonymous. Royce grunted in thanks and drank greedily from the flask, burying any complaints about how the stale the water was and instead enjoyed the refreshment.

As he tilted his head upwards and drank something caught his eye, a large black shape hurtling across the sky. 'Maybe the Riverlords had siege weapons?' at least Royce hoped to the Old Gods and the New that it was a siege weapon. That hope died when the shape in the sky changed its direction mid-flight. What was even more worrying was that the shape seemed to be getting bigger.

"GET OUT OF THE SQUARE! SCATTER!"The sheer panic in their Lord's voice took them by surprise and stunned them. The draconic screech directly above them forced them into rapid action as men who were once idly talking, ran into alleyways and threw themselves as far away from the square as humanly possible.

Not a second too late as the black mass landed right in the centre of the town, as Royce feared it was a dragon but uniquely one without a rider. Royce resisted against the urge to throw himself to his knees and weep. 'Why? Why is there a wild dragon in Kings Landing? Why now? Fuck my life'. Royce had barely two hundred men with him, he could try to slay the beast but he would no doubt lose his life in the process and dozens of his men, and already the dragon had spat fire at some of his men that got too close.

Royce look at the monster could kill him in greater detail, he was no expert of dragons but this one seemed especially mean with its curved horns and terrible red eyes, its thick scales were a muted purple gave it almost a royal presence when paired with the night black skin it had. Overall, it had a certain beauty but it was still a bloody wild dragon.

He needed to rally his men and get them away from the dragon maybe that earlier idea of fighting their way out wasn't so bad. But as Royce left his cover and attempted to rally his men in an attempt to leave, the dragon turned its head towards him and promptly set him on fire.

"AAAAAAHHHHH, HELP, GODS HELP ME!" Royce Caron screamed with agony as he burned to death. The made his once sturdy armour liquid and amplified the man's pain as his armour fused with skin. His men could do little but watch as their liege died in agony however Ser Durran rushed across the square to meet his Lord, complete unmindful of the dragon and when close enough he swung his longsword, taking Royce's head clean off. The headless burning body collapsed and the continued to burn.

"When we return to the Nightsong, Lord Caron died in battle the Goldcloaks. Are we agreed?"

A series of "Yes, Ser", rang out followed by dragon's roar.

Lord Corlys Velaryon – Late 131AC – Red Keep

Where had it gone wrong?

He remembered the first Black Council when he swore his House over to Rhaenyra, the pride he felt then. The righteousness he felt, standing by a man he called brother, swearing his loyalty to a woman he knew was good and just. 'What happened between then and now?' He had been one of the most powerful black Lord equal to any Lord Paramount and call upon more wealth and naval strength than Dorne or the lesser Free Cities.

Then Rhaenys died at Rooks Rest, then Driftmark was sacked, then his family died one by one. Jacaerys, Lucerys, Joffrey. 'The Hightowers named them Strong bastards but they died as Velaryons' They might have been the sons of Rhaenyra but he had wept for them as if they were his own.

Addam of Hull, the rider of Seasmoke. The boy that he had broken with Rhaenyra over, 'and I would do so again if given the chance' when he saw Addam he saw the shade of Laenor. It was uncanny when Addam spoke or fought or even smiled, all Corlys could see was his son returned to him from the grave. And for even the memory of Laenor, Addam and to extension Alyn and Nettles would have his love forever.

Daemon, his friend, his brother. He remembered decades ago when he crowned Daemon as King of the Stepstones, that had been a glorious day. They had felt unstoppable, nothing in the world would have dared challenge them. How did that great man die to a fool of a boy like Aemond? That half-breed one-eyed squealing runt. Daemon was a conqueror, a king in the mould of Aegon the Dragon himself. The only claim that Hightower bastard had to greatness was the dragon he rode, apart from that he was a base thug and shit one at that. 'What kind of fool loses his eye to three boys half his age he starts a fight with?'

If the gods had been fair he would have died long ago, before his sweet Rhaenys or his handsome Laenor or his beautiful Laena. He was old and grey now, where there had been strength and the will to do what needed to be done there was nothing. He was tired of the war, he was tired of dragons, he was tired of the fighting, all he wanted to visit the graves of his kin and then crawl up somewhere to die in peace. 'By the Fourteen, is that too much to ask? I failed in my duty as a father, a husband and a man. Let me die'

It was a source of bitter irony that the only thing Corlys had made himself good at was being a sailor. And yet in the youth, he now barely remembered, his father had once called him the worse failure of a sailor that he had ever beheld. A father whose face and name he had long forgotten, a mother's love he had never been able to recall after his fiftieth nameday. Men asked for long life and prosperity, yet he found himself overburdened with it. Corlys couldn't even remember if he had siblings, at one point he was certain of it but now he wasn't quite so sure.

His entire life seemed half-remembered, a series of events with all emotion numbed. His victories, his failures all meaningless when he looked back on it. What was the point of sailing to the east, spending years and decades amassing wealth and fortune if it all burnt within a few hours? What was the point of loving and having children, being with them supporting them for years on end giving them support and love and everything he had, if they all died and left him cold and alone? What was the point of life when he was everything he did, every effort he made turned to ash upon his tongue.

Corlys sauntered to the balcony of the room he had stumbled into, mumbling through an old shanty song he stole from the Braavosi. Taking swigs from the bottle of rum he had asked a servant to get for him before everything when to shit. As he slumped over the railing and surveyed the city before him, he took another swig of rum. "God, what a shit hole."

Of all the cities he had been to, Kings Landing had always been his least favourite, it smelt like an unwashed dog in the best of times and a decaying unwashed dog in the worst of times. The people seemed eternally wretched no matter how wealthy or affluent they were. King Landing always came up short when compared to other cities. Now after two sacks and currently going through an invasion, it actually seems somewhat better. 'The scent of blood and ash was better than that of shit'

He could hear the fighting from here, the sheer violence was astounding he thought. Men killing each other with almost stunning enthusiasm. As he watched the city get ravaged by gods know how many different armies, Corlys idly wondered if this had how it had been for the Driftmark when it had fallen. With the screaming, and the terror and the bands of men raping and pillaging as they were wont to? 'Probably', he shrugged in thought.

If there was any sympathy in Corlys it had long died, maybe while Rhaenyra had him beat half to death for protecting the last of his line or while he stayed humiliated in the Black Cells. Either way, Corlys watched a man get cut open and strangled with his own entrails and responded by casually taking another swig of rum. He saw another poor bastard get hacked to death by a group of boys with short swords.

After what he felt to be hours of watching atrocities, he heard a roar. A roar he had heard a thousand times before, a dragon. Then seemingly out of nothing it arose, its great black wings beating and its terrible maw gave another deafening screech. Corlys looked at its angry red eyes and smiled, spreading his arms out and waiting for the inevitable. 'Rhaenys, Laenor, Laena, I'm coming' But instead of meeting his end, the dragon came forward to meet him. Its fanged smile and fearsome size would have made most hardened knights consider retreat or had been would have at least taken a step back. But a man with nothing to lose was a dangerous thing, and Corlys stood unafraid and met the dragon's stare unflinching.

'What is this urge I feel?' Corlys raised out his hand and rested it upon the snout of a beast that could swallow him whole. And yet Corlys felt no fear but instead, he felt a kinship arise out between him and the dragon before him. The old man closed his eyes and rested his forehead against the beast. Where he once felt old and weak, a new strength entered him. Where there had been melancholy and apathy he was filled with fire.

He looked at the dragon which he had just claimed and thought of what he could name it. It would be valyrian but also of the sea. The name of it came to him, a monster that had featured in a long-dead story of the early Freehold.

With a voice, that held a strength to it which it had lacked previously, Corlys spoke, "I name you, Chaerybdis, a terror which I once feared but now I welcome."

With the vigour of a man a quarter of his age, Corlys leapt upon the neck of the beast finding a position where he could sit comfortably. The dragon gave a great flap of wings and then ascended further into the sky. Roaring a challenge to all the world as it ascended further and further above the city.

Corlys look upon the horror and sought thought, with a dragon he could decide who would win the city. Blacks or Greens, and so make himself a powerbroker upon either.

He remembered Rhaenyra, that beautiful woman he had thrown his support behind, her heirs bore his name and she had placed the Velaryon seahorse upon her own personal banners. Daemon died for her.

He remembered Aegon the Elder, who had freed him from his imprisonment. And Aemond who had killed both Lucerys and Daemon.

As he mused on his choices, Chaerybdis had grown bored with merely watching the carnage and instead to join in. The dragon entered a descent, its jaws open and alit. As the dragon began to set the poor fools below it aflame, Corlys gave a roar of his own.

"DRACARYS!"