Disclaimer: I do not own A Song of Ice and Fire by George RR Martin, I do however own the non-canon character(s) of this story. This is purely a work of my personal enjoyment so I ask you to not expect anything worthy of the great GRRM. I fully welcome criticism/suggestions/questions. The story will eventually be finished (I hate leaving things unfinished) but I have no real schedule. Please review as I'd love useful feedback/thoughts about the story.
Notes: You can consider this Part2 of the introduction. Chapter 3 will introduce the 'current/pov' characters and still begin some time before Robert's Rebellion with the Rogare's taking a part in that era and beyond it. I have many OC's from the Rogare family and have a lot of ideas for those characters.
Chapter 2: Ninepenny Kings
Lys was no stranger to fools fighting over the Disputed Lands for after all they did not call them disputed without good cause. Usually the city of Lys would ignore the petty squabbles of the other 'Free' Cities so long as they kept out of Lys business; and they knew better than to cross that line. The Band of Nine had crossed that line. Overrunning the Disputed Lands? It barely warranted taking notice. The sacking of Tyrosh? It was cause for notice but not for action. Then they marched on the Stepstones, conquering them with ease, burning what trade ports Lys held on the small islands. This the city of Lys could not ignore. The Dragons of Lys had awoken, and they were furious.
"Moredo Rogare, known as the Dragon of Lys." A man with a silver band in his hair and the typical traits of valyrian heritage spoke to his young son as they walked down a hall decorated with the ornate dragon banners of House Rogare hung proudly behind large statues of men long dead. "He brought our family back from the edge of ruin."
The man and his son, a young boy of barely five years, continued down the hall until they reached another statue of note.
"Daevon Rogare," this statue had a stern and almost judging look etched on the face, Truth readily at the statues side. "known as the Defiant for his refusal to allow Daeron Targaryen's fleets to invade Dorne. The Young Dragons uncle was married to a Rogare while Daevon's own blood was Martell through his mother; thus he refused to take a side while openly threatening to sink any ships that tried to invade Dorne or Westeros on equal measure. We were officially neutral, but relations have been sour ever since."
The pair walked down some length to the next statue of note, as hurried footsteps echoed down the hallway.
"Brother!" A voice halted the man and his son.
"Aevar." The man turned to face his brother, placing a protective hand on his son. "What's the meaning of this?"
The man, one Aevar Rogare, stood flanked by a handful of palace guardsmen. "Targaryens," he replied with a low growl.
That word alone was enough to make the older man scowl. "Daegon." He looked down at his son with a smile for the boys sake. "run to your mother now."
Daegon blinked and tilted his head, confused and concerned.
"Go!" His father barked. "Run along boy!"
Daegon ran. He'd never seen his father like this. Not once, or at least as far back as he could recall, had his father raised his voice to him. "Mother." The boy's mind kept repeating the word. So, he ran to his mother. He had no clue what he was supposed to say or what was happening, but he'd be safe with his mother. He knew that much.
"They arrived mere moments ago." Aevar explained as they walked.
"How many?" Daegon's father asked, not ceasing in his quickened pace.
"A messenger," Aevar said simply. "and a handful of guards."
It seemed that King Jaehaerys II Targaryen feared the 'Band of Nine' meant to win the Seven Kingdoms for Maelys the Monstrous, who styled himself King Maelys I Blackfyre. But he hoped, no differently than Lys, that the alliance of rogues would founder in Essos or fall at the hands of another alliance in the Free Cities. As that did not happen, the thin and scrawny king, who did not lack for courage or intelligence, resolved to meet the Ninepenny Kings upon the Stepstones, choosing to take the war to them.
This is how Aevar found himself standing beside his older brother with one hand resting firmly on Glory, the jeweled valyrian steel blade of his house, twin to the blade Turth. Owning not one but two valyrian blades was a point of great pride for the family, and envy to those that wished to own just one of their own. Aevar looked down at the Targaryen envoy with distaste; the Sunset Kingdoms had been no friend of Lys ever since the Conquest of Dorne. To have them here now was... unsettling...
"His Grace," the envoy began. "Jaehaerys Targaryen, Second of his name. King of the Andals, the First Men and the-"
"Enough with the bloody titles!" Aevar interrupted the man with a roar befitting any dragon.
"I concur." Aevar's brother learnt forward on his throne of fused black stone. It was said that the chair was craved during the days of Old Valyria when Dragonlords ruled over the city. Now the Rogare's sat it, two banners hung on either side of the seat. An ornate two-headed dragon on a field of black. "State your business, envoy, and be done with it."
"As you wish, Prince." The man took a moment to regain his composure. "His Grace asks if you are aware of the rogues calling themselves the Band of Nine."
"You ask if we are blind?" Once more, Aevar growled at the man.
"We are quite aware of one of the Free Cities being sacked on our very doorstep, envoy."
"As if he could miss such a thing." Aevar added with his usual spite and a roll of his eyes. "You bloody fool..."
"I-" The envoy hesitated under the stare of the two dragons, one more dangerous looking than the other. "His Grace seeks to rid himself of the pests and the one calling himself Maelys Blackfyre, the First of his Name and King of... the..." The glare of Aevar caused the envoy to take a single gulp and get to the point. "His Grace offers an alliance..."
"An alliance." Aevar's brother spoke first, intrigued.
"Yes, My Prince." The envoy bowed his head. "His Grace is of the belief that, together as your great houses were so long ago, you could easily be rid of this common enemy." Aevar could see the wheels rolling forward in his brothers head. He too could see the potential in such an arrangement. The increased trade alone could see Lys back into a new golden age. Ever since the Conquest of Dorne trade with the West had slowed, as the Iron Throne ceased coming to Lys first for all it's easterly needs.
However. "Common enemy?" Aevar smirked. "The last I checked, Maelys Blackfyre has no quarrel with Lys."
"That may be so, Prince Aevar." The envoy kept from making eye contact. "But the man has already sacked one of the Free Cities, who's to say Lys will not be next?"
A fire burnt behind Aevar's eyes. "Is that a threat you insolent little-"
His brother held a hand up to silence him. "The Band is a threat, brother. To trade if not to Lys directly..."
"It's always about trade with you." Aevar sighed.
"That is why father picked me to rule brother," he smiled. "and not you."
"My Princes." The envoy spoke once more. "Do you have an answer for His Grace?"
"In the morning, envoy." The Prince of Lys spoke in his usual lordly tone. "You will have your answer then."
In the end Lys was backed into a corner of sorts. They could refuse, but doing so would give the Iron Throne a perceived insult and leave them to be victorious and claim the glory for themselves, or fail and hold a grudge assuming they held onto the throne afterwards. And, in the event that Blackfyre won, it was doubtful that he would forget the Rogare steel that fought the first Blackfyre, Daemon Waters, so long ago. After little thought the Prince made his decision. Maelys Blackfyre's days were numbered.
Rogare and Targaryen banners flew side by side above the largest tent in the center of a host numbering around twenty thousand knights and men-at-arms, boasting arms from the Stromlands, Westerlands and even a handful of Ironborn whom had docked at Lys with one hundred longships on the orders of King Jaehaerys. Together the two dragon banners seemed oddly at peace fluttering in the breeze, a sight none had seen in years. As the second Prince of Lys and wielder of Glory the duty of leading Lys into battle fell to Aevar while his brother, the wielder of Truth, stayed at home to ensure the armies would have a home to return to at the end of days. It was the way of things.
Aevar passed under the twin dragons and entered the grand tent to be greeted by a number of unfamiliar faces gathered around a table. "Prince Aevar Rogare, the Sword of Glory." A man announced his arrival, grabbing the attention of the unfamiliar faces. King Jaehaerys was not here, although it was rumored he'd intended to be, before his hand Ormund Baratheon convinced him otherwise; taking command for himself. Lord Baratheon was the first to speak.
"Prince Aevar." Ormund bowed his head slightly.
"Lord Ormund." Aevar returned the gesture, eyeing the others in attendance with curiosity bordering on suspicion.
"You've met Lord Greyjoy."
He had indeed. Greyjoy had sailed around Dorne with some hundred longboats and sought port in Lys before sailing to where they stood now, on the largest of the Stepstones not far from where Maelys Blackfyre was gathering his men. "Lord Greyjoy." Aevar showed the man what courtesy he could muster for an Ironborn.
Baratheon seemed to note the tension, opting to move on. "Ser Tywin Lannister, heir to Casterly Rock."
"Prince." Tywin bowed his head ever so slightly.
"Is Lord Lannister not joining us?" Aevar asked, keeping his eyes on the young Tywin.
The boys face made a scowl at mention of his fathers absence.
"Lord Tytos is otherwise indisposed." Baratheon explained.
Indisposed. Heh. Aevar had heard enough tales of the Toothless Lion.
Once more, Baratheon moved the introductions onward. "This is my son, Steffon."
The boy was a copy of his father, blue eyes and black of hair and a stature that promised he'd be as strong as his father one day.
"Leaving me for last, Lord Ormund?" A boy with a smirk spoke from Baratheons side. He was no more than six-and-ten by Aevar's guess, tall and handsome with valyrian traits wearing black armor that marked him as a Targaryen. The boys smile had an undeniable charm and Aevar for a brief moment thought of himself at the boys age.
"Prince Aevar." Baratheon snapped the dragon from his thoughts. "Allow me to introduce Prince Aerys Targaryen."
Aerys waved it off. "A pleasure, Prince Aevar. I hope our families can continue to work together in the future."
The boy had a sincere smile, marched by the young Lannister and Baratheon too. "They are friends." Aevar thought. Only a Prince and already making alliances that would no doubt secure his reign. Again, it reminded him of himself at that age. Idealistic. Aevar pitied the young dragon. He'd inherit a Throne. Aevar inherited a sword, and a sword was far more reliable and required less boring meetings and diplomacy. Yes. Aevar would happily pick his sword over that an ugly chair of spikes.
But he was being rude and those gathered were beginning to think him simple. "Yes," He replied at last with a thin smile. "we feel the same."
Aerys gave a nod in response, content that he'd gained another ally this day.
There were those on the table that Baratheon did not see fit to introduce. The Kingsguard was of the greatest note, among them Ser Gerold Hightower, but Aevar knew the names already and would not waste time introducing himself. He'd seek them out on the battlefield, to fight beside them and see if the tales of skill held any truth.
The host continued along; keeping a vigil on their flanks encase of any surprise attacks... although that seemed unlikely given Blackfyres last reported movements. Lord Baratheon however would not tale any chances. Maelys Blackfyre's host was waiting for them when they arrived, seemingly tossing any great strategic plan to the wind by forcing a pitched battle that neither side could retreat from. The battle would take place here and now. This would be the first combat Aevar had partaken in, far from it in truth, he'd spent his early years at five-and-ten fighting in the Disputed Lands, battled against countless pirates and won many a competition of skill. This was just another fight.
Ormund Baratheon's host numbered some twenty-five thousand by the time the armies gathered from all corners of the Seven Kingdoms. The bulk came from the Westerlands as when the King called upon a Warden he had no choice but to answer. Lord Baratheon brought many of his own levies, naturally, and a fair number of Ironborn sailed with Lord Greyjoy's fleet. There were men from the Reach and a handful from the Riverlands and Vale eager for glory. Lys sent only five thousand with Aevar, leaving the bulk of the cities arms to defend Lys in the unfortunate event that the Westeros host failed. In such an event, Lys would sue for peace, so long as Prince Aevar was not harmed.
The formations of the enemy were predictable, one could say as if taken out of any maesters book. Several rows of nothing but shield and sword and pikes or spears. Behind those were thousands of archers, with longbows for increased range and those with crossbows for pure stopping power; less effective at range but requiring less skill and training, they would end even the most armored of knights if aimed well. Lastly was the assortment of heavy cavalry all graced by the golden banner of the Golden Company. "So it begins." Aevar atop his white destrier. He smiled as he looked out at his foes, muttering some words under his breath.
"Your men are ready?" Lord Baratheon sat beside him atop a black horse, his voice slightly muffled under a great full-plate helm and boasted antlers. The Stag has given himself command of the vanguard and looked to like the Stormkings of old. Aevar almost pitied the enemy for having to face this man. Almost.
"Afraid boy?" Aevar asked the little dragon that rode beside Baratheon and his son.
"I'm a dragon." Prince Aerys replied simply, a confident smirk on his lips.
"As am I." Aevar replied before placing his helm over his head, a thing of simple design, close fitting with a Y-shaped slit made of a strong steel. The rest of his attire consisted of a lightweight breastplate with faulds attached to protect the front waist and hips, along with matching gauntlet and some basic light protection for the legs. The prominent feature was the single pauldron covering his shoulder. While most of his armor was polished steel, the shoulder was painted a dark black and had clearly seen a lot of action.
As was the enemy, in truth, but Aevar kept that thought to himself as the enemy lines began to chant.
"Ours is the Fury!" Lord Baratheon shouted his family words as he drew steel.
"Fire and Blood!" Prince Aerys joined the shouting.
"Hear Me Roar!" Aevar heard the young lion shout, joined by the Westerlanders.
"For Glory!" Aevar drew Glory from it's sheath and swung it for show, the jeweled valyrian steel glittering in the sunlight and raising the spirits of every Lys solider that rode with their prince. Aevar had been certain to hand pick the men that he fought with. Most were veterans from past conflicts, all counting the Prince as a brother-in-arms.
The wind. Horses and men alike showed their impatiences with groans and the clinking of shifting steel. There were no birds, Aevar noticed now, he assumed due to the sizable host and the distant storm forming to the north. Finally, their line began to move forward as the infantry passed by and went onward to begin the battle. It was the screams. Always the screams that reached the ears first, when a volley of lit arrows crashed into the lines of infantry of both sides and felled those unlucky enough to be hit. Aevar heard the whispering sound of arrow shafts tearing the air above his head as Targaryen archers unleashed a final volley at the enemy line before it clashed with their own men.
Aevar noticed it first, wide-eyed. The bowmen of the Golden Company were still unleashing arrows at their men hitting foe and friend alike.
Surprised and being littered with arrows it would only be a matter of time before the Targaryen line broke, with many already attempting to flee from the range of the dreaded arrows, proving themselves as fickle as most levy troops. However, the Lord of Storm's End stood as like a beacon as he rallied his cavalry and lead a charge against the line of archers. Aevar, in haste, rallied his own men and those fleeing the arrows. "To me!" He commanded. "Every man that flees will taste the point of a Lys spear! To me now!"
There was no time to see how Lord Baratheon was handling his own matters, at a glance the Golden Company had sent their own heavy cavalry around to prevent the stormlords charge. Aevar could hear the sounds of steel and the cries of dying men from all corners; the first waves had erupted into chaos. The Westerlanders had positioned themselves to the east lines where Aevar could see a line of Lannister knights crashing into some lightly armored Blackfyres. "Forward!" Aevar yelled. "To the center!"
*THUD* A volley of arrows stuck, one lucky enough to strike Aevar's horse and send him to the cold dirt below.
His men, and those of the first wave that had rallied, crashed into the Blackfyre lines. Those soldiers of Lys had locked shields together low, resting spears and pointing them straight. A second row locked shields higher and held their own steel about head height; no greatly professional shield wall to be certain and hastily made at best. These were largely veterans, not Westeros levies and farmers, gods know how the latter survived even this long without proper training. Aevar got to his feet and took a spot in the middle of the first row of shields. Between the gaps in the shields he could see the enemy recklessly hacking and slashing at his line.
"We hold!" Aevar shouted atop his lungs, drowning out everything else. "We hold the line lads! And we make them bleed for every inch!"
There was no sign of Baratheon, and it was clear the men were tiring. Had it been that long? No matter, the Blackfyre line was pulling back and- "Aim for the mounts!" Aevar cursed the gods, keeping his voice loud and clear despite his growing fear. "High enough to kill the horse and the rider will be helpless!" It was sound advice, and filled his men with some shed of confidence. He knew now why the Blackfyres departed, as a host of mounted knights came thundering towards them and split roughly in haft, the heavy and light mixed, aiming to give one attack to the left while another hammered the right. If successful, they would crumble Aevar's wall.
The cavalry smashed into the wall of shields and steel with a force that seemed to shake the very ground they stood on. The death wails of horse and man alike filled the air and some of the Blackfyre riders urged their mounts away, determined for another shot at the line. Two riders had made it over the shields to the empty zone behind, forcing Aevar to pull away from the shield wall with a final "WE HOLD!" before moving to handle the riders himself. Acting without delay, his sword cut the front legs of the closest riders horse, sending the beast crumbling forward. The rider struggled to get up, one leg pinned under the horses weight.
Aevar carved the mans skull in haft with a swing of Glory before leaving the wounded horse to wail and moving on.
The second rider swung at Aevar's neck from atop his mount. Ducking backwards he avoided the blow easily and took the opening to stab upwards, into the riders swordarm, causing him to drop his blade in agony. Reaching up, he grabbed the mans arm and dragged him out from his saddle. Aevar drove bloodied valyrian steel into the mans neck before tossing his corpse aside. To his joy looking back he found the sight of his shield wall holding firm if not battered.
Taking the moment of peace to scan the battlefield, Aevar noted that Baratheonf lags could be seen on the horizion near the enemies flank. "That charge was desperate." He smirked, it seemed that all would be well. Many sections of the Westeros army were still engaged in conflict while others licked their wounds. "Encircle the bastards!" Aevar yelled in the hopes that his officers would hear. "Victory is close lads!" The sight of their prince returning to the line gave the men renewed strength. "You" Aevar grabbed one of his men out from the wall, he boasted the same valyiran features that many in Lys shared and despite the blood and muck his silver hair stood out clearly. If not a tad dulled. "Get to the left flanks, tell them to push and encircle the center." The man was clearly exhausted, but gave a nod to his prince and followed orders without complaint.
Aevar was struck with an idea. The left flank seemed the lightest in way Blackfyre colors, although it was hard to tell the difference between friend and foe thanks to the blood and muck that graced every man. Still, Aevar smirked as his plan relied as usual on a mix of courage and foolish luck. Hopefully, he would end this here and now.
The remaining men of the Company had made little effort against the wall of shields and steel; while dealing a certainly substantial amount of damage the wall itself refused to buckle. The final nail in the Blackfyre moral however was the lone man smashing out from the wall of shields in the center, a wave of Lys spears and Westeros knights following behind. Aevar's charge caught on quickly, as every man in the wall followed. "FOR GLORY!" He'd cried as his shield wall broke away and pushed into the Blackfyres, a force of men entirely focused on them and too preoccupied to notice their flanks. In fact, had they been of sound mind or had that lone man before before failed to relay his orders, thing would've gone poorly.
The Dragon of Lys roared as he fought, swinging wildly and dodging like the wind. He would dodge and lunge for the joints in his foes armor while taking off limbs one by one like a man possessed. The men that fell to the ground screaming he would leave, moving onto new challengers. He blocked a sword strike with ease and slashed the challengers chest with a back-swing before driving his steel through his visor, into and out the back of the mans skull. With a grunt Aevar pushed the man free from his blade before ducking under the swing of a large battleaxe. The axeman's eyes went wide at having missed, and embedded his axehead inside the stomach of a fellow Blackfyre man that happened to be standing beside Aevar; in the wrong place at the wrong time. Taking the opportunity, Aevar swung his sword and decapitated the axeman, the look of shock still evident on his face as it rolled away onto the muddy and bloodied floor. No time to rest, Aevar dodged another blow, dunking under the wide swing and moving to remove the fools sword-hand at the wrist. Not giving the man time to scream about his lost hand he drove Glory into the mans chest and silenced him in an instant. Kicking the man free from his blade Aevar suddenly felt a sharp pain as a small dagger punched through the armor on his upper left thigh.
The blade was thin and sharp, punching into flesh and muscle.
Before he could react the man withdrew his dagger and made to slash at his chest, but thankfully Aevar's plated chest meant the dagger left nothing but a scratch. Aevar slashed violently at the dagger-wielding cunt, cutting him to ribbons. The man grasped at his wounds and stumbled backwards to the dirt. Grimacing in pain Aevar managed to remain on his feet, doing his best to ignore the pain in his leg. The blood was flowing freely and he couldn't help but recall hearing about a vain in the leg that, once cut, could not be uncut. He could only hope it wasn't that bad... but there was no time to dwell on that now.
He parried the blow of another, countering and pushing despite the burning sensation in his leg.
"VICTORY!" Aevar cheered, watching as the Westeros host cut down the now routing Golden Company.
Just then Aevar cursed loudly as a burning pain lashed across his back. An enemy had taken the opportunity of his turned back to strike, no doubt aiming for his head, yet only succeeding to rake the tip of his sword across his back. With the foes body fulling committed to his failed attack, he was unable to counter as Aevar stuck him over the head with his pommel and processed to cut open his throat with a downwards swing. His line had held, and victory was secured, but it was at great cost.
"To me!" Aevar cried, no time for rest. Blood still flowed from his leg and it burned like the fires of valyria. "Lets ride the bastards down!"
Someone found him a horse, he knew not who exactly and did not remain to ask the mans name. He rallied what knights and riders he could find within shouting distance and rode hard for the crowned stag of House Baratheon. He'd expected to see Lord Ormund. In his place stood his son, bloodied, with dry tears on his cheeks.
"Where is your father boy?!" Aevar had no time for the young stag, he needed to-
"Dead." Steffon Baratheon hung his head.
"I see." Aevar replied with a sigh.
With a hand on young Steffon's shoulder, Prince Aerys spoke. "Maelys the Monstrous is dead." The young prince explained, missing the smirk he'd boasted before the battles beginning. "A young knight cut a bloody path though the Golden Company's ranks to slay him. They say it was a sight to behold!"
"I don't doubt it." Aevar scowled, the pain in his leg was back.
"Your wounded." Prince Aerys said, wide-eyed.
"It's nothing." Aevar waved it aside. "I've had far worse. What of our losses?"
Prince Aerys seemed reluctant to ignore the wound, but wisely thought better of pushing the matter. "With the late Lord Ormund's fall, it's Ser Gerold Hightower that's in command now. Other than his lordship, who's charge was a great success, our losses are minimal. Lord Baratheon will be remembered for his heroics."
"Thank you Aerys." Steffon said sadly.
"Think nothing of it, my friend." Aerys smiled sadly. Maelys the Monstrous was dead, slain by the actions of a young knight named Barristan Selmy whom with a single swing of his sword ended the male line of House Blackfyre. It was hailed as a great victory. And, for Westeros at least, the War of the Ninepenny Kings ended with his death.
"I-" Aevar moved to speak.
"Prince Aevar?" Aerys asked as the man seemed unsteady in his saddle.
The voices faded as the world grew colder, and the last thing Aevar Rogare thought of was how perfectly the Rogare and Targaryen dragons looking flying together in the breeze. He could see them flying even now and he could swear they were real in this instance, for they were too beautiful to be mere pieces of cloth. Far too beautiful.
