Prologue 3
Downfall
"It is one of the favourite quotes of the Westerosi admirals and generals that no plan survives contact with the enemy. But Operation Downfall is proof any plan can fall well before that point..." Master of Whisperers Lord Varys Tivario, 300AAC.
"What a clusterfuck." Lord Richard Lonmouth, 283AAC.
"They promised us the war was over..." Anonymous Targaryen loyalist, 283AAC.
Lord Varys, 12.08.283AAC, King's Landing System
Why, oh why did I choose to apply for my job?
It was a question plaguing Varys Tivario. This was not his real name of course, but to his knowledge, only two living people knew his real identity, and neither would talk to the authorities of King's Landing. Good, because otherwise the eunuch having come into this part of the galaxy under the name Vaelor Blackfyre would have been a dead man.
When the future Master of Whisperers had arrived in the King's Landing, he had not believed his mission would be easy. As an Essossi with a false background and a limited amount of cash for his operations, the chances for an easy climb in the byzantine hierarchy of the Royal Court were slim. His accomplice Illyrio, brother-in-law and extraordinary magister of Pentos, had estimated Varys would need twenty years to reach a post where he would be able to advance their interests. Varys had thought it would take thirty for the cause to be truly rooted in the Dragon's Den. The Blackfyre cause and interests, of course.
That the paranoia of Aerys Targaryen had given him in only six years the keys of the Crown Intelligence Agency had been literally a godsend, and had allowed them to accelerate their plans enormously. Varys had now a power base of millions agents and informers working for him across the Crown Sector and the Sunset Sectors as a whole. Drones, screening devices and official reports were literally at his disposal on a platinum platter.
But I hadn't expected to do everyone's job in this fucking kingdom until we were ready to push our coup! Is there a single man left who cares about doing his duty?
Turning out this low assessment of the Westerosi administration, Varys opened the mouth to address his...colleague...by all the Gods...considering this man an equal with a perfect and charming smile was taxing for his nerves.
"Let me sum-up the situation in a few words, Lord Stokeworth. You have a lost a nuke."
"It's the fault of my men!" Protested the Goldcloaks commander.
What happened to the officers that considered their men the extensions of their bodies? Or is it not tradition for the commander to take the blame when the men under him screw up? Never mind. I'm not sure I want to know.
In his golden battle-armour Mark 5, the forty- six years old noble looked positively ridiculous. The frontal durasteel plate had been cleaned so many times it was nearly a mirror. The arms and leg were covered with engravings of the Warrior's Litany benedictions. All above his heart and the sheep insignia of his House, there were scores of military medals, each massive and grandiloquent proclaiming imaginary deeds. The insignia on his shoulder were platinum or another silver-coloured metal, with a lot of wings and other decorations that had never figured in the list of regular dressing.
What a waste of good armour.
Because Varys knew the details of Manly Stokeworth from his engagement to the present month. Never had this man come in a circle of ten kilometres where a bloodshed scene took place. And it was not an exaggeration. When Aerys had organised his little bloodbath in the arena, Manly had hidden behind the weight of his duties to not assist the awful spectacle. Like a coward. Varys had known what was going to happen and had been ill at the very thought of it, but the Master of Whisperers had gone anyway to preserve his image of a loyal member of the Small Council. Manly hadn't, proving his personal interest went way over his allegiance oath. Like today. The golden armour must have cost way over fifty thousand dragons, given that it was a customised set of Mark 5 battle-armour. In Varys mind, it was a large sum that would have been better employed elsewhere in war times.
"You. Lost. A. Tactical. Nuclear. Weapon." The Master of Whisperers weighted each word like he was addressing a very stupid child. Which considering the mental aptitudes of his interlocutor, wasn't that far from the truth.
Lord Manly Stokeworth visage should have paled in fear or started to make ridiculous excuses by that point. Instead, his placid and dull face became red with anger.
"Shut up Spider! It's your fault more than it is mine!"
"And how pray tell was it my fault, Lord Stokeworth?" Varys did his best to keep his tone pleasant and amused, a bit humorous even, when what he really did want was strangling with his bare hands this living insult to humanity's intelligence. Killing him could hardly make the average Westerosi IQ lower, at any rate!
"Was it my men who were charged to guard the facility in question? Was it my men who went to the taverns that night drinking and whoring instead of doing their jobs? Was it one of my men who sold the codes of the bunker for one thousand dragons? Or was one of my men responsible for the whole cover up to make sure nobody found out it had ever happened?"
"You should have seen it coming!"
Once more, Varys marvelled at the arrogance and the sense of self-righteousness coming from the idiot. At Pentos, an officer of Illyrio's guard that incompetent in his duties would have been flogged in public and then executed for bringing such shame to his line, his name the object of scorn and insults for one or two generations.
Here we promote them well over their capabilities. Or they stay where they are, ruining everything.
"If my memories are correct, Lord Stokeworth, your men were put in charge of taking control of this facility by Lord Lonmouth for the express purpose of not attracting attention. I delivered you plenty of weapons for the task, gave you a free hand to choose your men and a complete access to my information network in the Kaylar district. Sixty-two hours, my lord. Sixty-two hours of vigilance what all that was demanded of you before this part of the nuclear arsenal we deprived our crazy monarch was in the hands of the Army and the Navy loyal to the Crown Prince. Now it appears you and your men were unable to accomplish this and were made out fools by a middle-sized gang. You are lucky the other two hundred and ninety-nine weapons arrived safely at destination. Else I expect you would have a very different conversation with Lord Lonmouth and Lord Connington."
Lord Stokeworth narrowed his brown eyes and tried to adopt an intimidating posture. By all evidence, he had not thought Varys was aware of the exiled Lord of Griffin's Roost at King's Landing.
Yes, I know a lot of secrets, Lord Stokeworth. If I had wanted, you and Connington heads would be busy screaming on wildfire pyres. You can thank the Seven I do not like condemning anyone to that fate.
"Now, please remove yourself of my sight, while I contact the people charged to repair the terrible errors of your men."
"This isn't over, Spider!" Barked the Goldcloaks commander in a last huff of defiance, before harrying out of the office at a vigorous pace.
"Oh, but it is." Said Varys, alone in the privacy of his office.
The Lord Commander of the King's Landing Guard, primary police force of the planet, could boast, threaten and bluster all he wanted, his time at the top of the food chain had come to an end. This last mistake was just the crowning jewel in a polluted ocean of bribery and corruption. Manly Stokeworth had held his office for sixteen long years; under his watch the Goldcloaks had become a force so utterly corrupt and oblivious of its duties that in the poorest provinces of the megalopolis covering the planet, they were considered as a gang and a band of criminals by the outlaw opponents and the smallfolk.
Maybe the new King would replace this imbecile by a competent officer. Maybe not. One thing was sure, when the year 284 after the Conquest started, Lord Manly Stokeworth would no longer have a job at King's Landing.
In many ways, that this incompetent moron would be allowed to resign was a complete disgrace. Given the magnitude of his failures and his numerous misdemeanours, Stokeworth should have been put in front of an executioner and beheaded. Or burnt by wildfire, it was the trend this year. Varys knew it, his post as the Chief of the Crown Intelligence Agency had allowed him to gather with his little mice and birds an extremely big and juicy case on the man.
But every man was not Lord Stokeworth, Lord and Master of a Stellar System the Westerosi strategists considered as the last step for any northern offensive to reach the capital. Not every lord had contributed as much as the Lord Commander of the Goldcloaks for the scheming and treacheries of Prince Rhaegar Targaryen.
Against these contributions, reigning on an empire of crime and debauchery, losing a nuke, the codes to activate it and ordering the murders of several hundred incorruptible officers were really lowly accusations. Now if only the imbecile had lost 'only' a nuke...there were also all these missing laser rifles, anti-tank launchers and battle-armours missing from the inventories. All in all, enough to mount quite a reign of terror in the illegal kingdom running under the one of the privileged and the powerful.
The Master of Whisperers tapped a long combination on his com unit. After two seconds, the image of a man with black hair and a slim-sinew constitution flashed on the screen on the opposite wall.
"Ser Alliser."
"Spider." Replied the black-uniformed man, throwing the first pique by not bothering to use Varys formal title.
"I trust you are aware of our little problem?" Asked Varys, knowing fully well Thorne had discovered the problem this late night. Varys had known it for three days, but admitting it in front of a peer of the Small Council would have undoubtedly raised several inquisitive questions.
"I am. My men have just finished interrogating one of the thieves your agents located. What he said was...illuminating."
Varys did his best to present his amused persona, although he had an urge to go to the toilets and vomit the content of his plentiful breakfast. Varys had plenty of drones, spyware and agents inside the Secret Police Blackcell facilities, and what Ser Alliser referred as 'interrogation' was purely and simply sadistic torture. For a gang member belonging to an operation having stolen enough to destroy a block of towers, it was somewhat understandable. For the five persons who had been put under the question before this one and had nothing whatsoever to do with it, it was anything but.
"I suppose it was not a coincidence the Blood Daggers chose this moment to attack?"
Located primarily in the underworld spreading under the Kaylar skyscrapers, the Blood Daggers was a minor gang compared to the crime empires existing in the core areas of the Flea Bottom's underground. Or in other less populous districts, to be honest. Assault, thievery, common drugs, prostitution, murders,...the classic gang, that never dared defying the authorities lest it bring the wrath of the Crown 'law enforcement' and the Secret Police on them.
Attacking an active military base, even if it had been one where less than one hundred Goldcloaks were present at peak hours, had been a brutal and unanticipated escalation in violence.
"No. The man did not know much, but there was a payment from an outside source and they had too good information on the defences system and positions. Their contact was a cloaked figure, male, Westerosi accent, gave them a data chip and three hundreds dragons, with a thousand more if they could do the job right. They didn't even know what was in the secure section, just thought it was a big bomb. Their client told them they could keep the loot, so nobody asked more questions."
"That doesn't narrow the list of culprits a lot." One thousand and three hundred dragons was a monumental sum for the unwashed and unemployed lowest of the low in King's Landing, whose coins rarely went over the Silver Stag. On the other hand, it was pocket change for someone with deep pockets.
King's Landing, the planet, not the capital city itself, was the home of sixteen billion people, which you had to add one more billion if the two moons orbiting it and the various space habitations were taken into account. If more than a tenth were innocent of any criminal activities, the Chief of the Crown Intelligence Agency was ready to take a jump pack and throw himself from an orbital station for an adrenaline-intensive experience. Between the wealthy merchants and the Guilds sneaky manoeuvres, the Crown officers' ambitions and the lust for power every noble from the lowly knight to the Royal Family felt, there may be twenty or thirty million candidates with the funds to plan this attack. And it was a low estimate.
"No it didn't. So I gave the order for my men to go back with a platoon of sellswords and arrest all the bastards."
"All the Blood Daggers?" Inquired Varys, though he had been of course aware of the operation the moment Thorne mobilised his band of psychopaths hours ago. In his opinion, it had also been incredibly reckless, but the Master of the Secret Police had not asked for Varys opinion or for his benediction. Arresting the leadership of the gang would have been sensible, a well-timed strike to take the men-in-the-know, then replace them with his own little birds and mice. Thorne had risked unleashing a gang war, at a moment the Goldcloaks of said district were virtually decapitated.
In the end it had worked. Ser Alliser had struck hard, capturing close to six thousand people in the disgusting slums of Kaylar and had sent them all to Blackcell Prison, gang member affiliation or not. Their fate promised to be very unpleasant. Assuming said persons still lived as the moment this conversation was taking place.
"Yes. Any progress from your end? Dealing with that many scum and plebeians is going to take days."
"I'm afraid my little birds have not returned yet to sing in my ears."
It was a monumental lie, of course. Varys had had no more chance discovering the identity of the person who had decided to hire the Blood Daggers, this trail was long dead and cold, exploiting it was close to impossible. On the other hand, the ultimate destination of the nuclear stolen device was easier to find. His best men and women were currently tracking abandoned warehouse by warehouse to find the culprits. Five hours ago, they had narrowly missed them at a long abandoned tank factory and arresting six gang members. Varys had a feeling the next time the fleeing party was not going to be so lucky.
"Well tell them to sing and quickly." Said Thorne, with all the warmness one expected of an extremely violent winter on the coldest planets of the Northern Sector. "Else Connington might put you on the target list of Downfall."
And who would be the one to 'advice' him to do that, Ser? Thought Varys as the conversation was brutally cut on the other end.
It was at this time Varys really hated Thorne. Not because the Master of the Secret Police was a dark, grim, humourless man. Not because he saw everyone beneath him, or used his seventy million enforcers and informers across the Crown Sector like a butcher upon a herd of animals. No, the upsetting reason was that no matter the circumstances, Thorne was unable to end a conversation without a death threat or lapidary remarks pushing you to murder.
And the worst part is his absolute loyalty to Rhaegar. The Crown Prince is hardly going to dismiss him once Downfall is executed and the coronation will be celebrated. Speaking of which...
The Master of Whisperers pressed a new combination on his personal com.
"Is she there?"
"Yes."
"Good. Let her enter."
A weak alarm sounded, a panel hidden behind a quite expensive tapestry slid laterally, letting enter in his office a young woman with silver hair and golden eyes. Unlike Lord Stokeworth, the new arrival had not bothered to dress properly. No bras or other underwear. A blue mini-skirt so short only the essentials were covered, exposing sublime long legs and more. A red top giving a prime access to her generous assets. Enough make-up on the face to form a sublime mask of cosmetics. Silver heels so high ninety-nine per cent of the feminine population would be unable to walk with them. And an odour of sex followed her, the evident cause being small tendrils of white fluids descending from under her skirt to her legs.
To call a cat a cat, the woman had the appearance of a whore and seemed to revel in it. Which was why the appearances were sometimes leading to very dangerous assumptions.
"My Lord."
"Sor. I trust you have the list I wanted?"
"Yes. I hope the award will be at the measure of my performance with Lord Connington?"
"Naturally. Removed the violet lenses?"
The infatuation of Connington for his beloved Crown Prince was not a secret for Varys, and the Lord of Griffin's Roost only slept with silver-haired and violet-eyed courtesans or prostitutes.
"Passing for a wealthy dragonseed these days in Flea Bottom is an invitation to an early grave. Or a collective rape. People aren't really fond of impressments. Twenty deaths when I passed there, looked like a press gang beat down a man to death and his friends brought back-up."
"Business as usual." It was pretty cynical, but Flea Bottom since the start of the war was in a spiral of riots and murders, courtesy of the Navy and the Army not being there to maintain order and the Goldcloaks being utterly useless. "And the list?"
"Pretty much as you expected. The Alchemists. The members of the Small Council, with a few exceptions: you, Thorne, Pycelle and Velaryon."
"The Master of Assassins?"
"Will be executed. The Prince of Dragonstone has tried to convince him, but the Old Death refused. Loyal to his King to the death."
The Master spy grumbled. Removing the head of this order was not going to simplify his task, the Assassins were a nebulous entity at the best of times, and anticipating their acts was a true challenge at the best of times.
Varys took a moment to touch his jaw in a gesture of contemplation he would not have done in front of anyone else. But Sor wasn't everyone. She had been with him for the last six years, and it was one of his special agents' interventions on a slaver ship that had released her from the miserable life of a pleasure slave. Varys knew he could count on her until death, and the Master of Whisperers had no intention of betraying that trust. Loyalty had to be rewarded, not punished, and not any agent could have managed to reach Connington that intimately after all.
"Princess Elia Martell, Princess Rhaenys Targaryen and Ser Jaime Lannister are to be taken alive and sent to a secure facility somewhere in the Duskendale System."Continued Sor, her had touching delicately the make-up on her face to be sure the cosmetic coloration held. "The King's capture has been authorised, but his survival is not of utmost priority. And the High Septon is to die."
"Excuse me?"
"The High Septon is to die." Repeated calmly Sor, the life or death of the Faith leader touching her externally about as much as the crossing of a street did. Perhaps less. "Connington didn't know the full reasoning, but red-hair has received the orders, the Crown Prince wants the Septon dead as soon as the guns are drawn. The official reason distributed to their lackeys of the news will be that the Faith was trying to rearm and muster a new Faith Militant."
The disdain in Sor's voice made clear how unintelligent and gullible the common smallfolk in the street would have to be to accept this outlandish story.
"Targaryen news and their employees have told more blatant lies in the last year." Noted Varys. "Although I agree with your assessment. The High Septon has tens of thousands followers in his Great Sept on Rhaenys' Moon. If the Faith really wanted a Faith Militant, he would have recruited far more than five hundred bodyguards. More probably Rhaegar wants one of his puppets for the job. Who will be charged of the deed?"
"That wasn't in the Griffin's data banks."
"Too bad. Foreign assassins?" It was more an affirmation than a question. The Crown Prince had already used such methods in the past, and given that Connington had been temporarily exiled there...
"Faceless Men are too expensive, but Essos is full of killers. One of the best in Lys or Tyrosh is likely." Agreed Sor.
"He will have to be among the best." Murmured Varys.
Rhaenys's Moon was no fortified planet, but its shrines and the Great Sept built on its surface forbid orbital weapons use and open invasion, unless one wanted to begin a full-scale religious conflict. Assassinating the leader of the Faith on a ground where thousands men, women and children were ready to give their life to protect him was no easy objective. Assassinating the High Septon with no clue who was behind it would be even more difficult.
Should I stop the attempt?
If the assassination attempt was made and the role of Rhaegar in it was discovered, failure or not...the consequences would be terrible for the Targaryen dynasty. Until the rebels signed a peace treaty, any cease-fire could be denounced and hostilities resume; moreover no one had ever accused Lord Eddard Stark and Lord Jon Arryn of stupidity. If the Crown Sector and the planets where Faith support was significant erupted in insurrections and rebellions, the Rebellion was going to adapt its offensives in consequence.
The issues at hand were that his total of information was drastically limited, no idea of the when, who or how. Plus Rhaegar, in good Targaryen, could simply decide to send more assassins next time, and decided to get rid of an interventionist Master of Whisperers by the same occasion.
Decisions, decisions. What to do?
The Prince of Dragonstone was no mental giant, but Rhaegar was usually taking collected decisions, even if they were taken to accomplish dubious prophecies and goals that made the common of mortals scratch their heads. There was a great probability the assassination was going to work as planned, although the aftermath was going to see plenty of tensions.
"Continue your assignment, Sor. Your job is excellent, and I am feeling far more secure knowing you watch Connington. The five hundred dragons will be moved to your account by the end of the day."
"I obey." Chuckled the young silver-haired woman. "Do you want Connington's genetic material?"
Her employer laughed, a sound which had nothing in common with the simpers and the cajoling done when in presence of the Royal Court.
"Nice initiative, my dear. Yes, we might as well collect it. I have no plans for the Connington line for the future, but it's always good to-"
A strident alarm screamed and what Varys was about to say was lost in the tumult.
On the left of his large wooden desk, an ancient com painted in red sounded.
Varys frowned. This line was not one of the five putting him in communication with his subordinates in this building, thorough the planet or in high orbit. It was a direct line to the Red Keep itself. Not to the King himself no, 'just' the operational centre. But the scarce times it sounded were rarely to announce your name day or congratulate you for a job well-done.
"Yes?" Announced in his courtesan-tone the Master of Whisperers. The human interlocutor to answer was in full-panic mode. In the background, shouts were uttered and alarms barked with their maximum of intensity. All giving a nice taste of the complete chaos which came when a command found itself at war.
"The King's Landing System is under Code Omega-Four! Nuclear attack detected!"
Lord Richard Lonmouth, 12.08.283AAC, King's Landing System
The rays of sun lightening the planet and the structures were an awesome spectacle. Everywhere a human eye could go, the capital planet was encircled by thousands of orbital constructions and hundreds of structures built for so many goals it was truly impossible to take a count. Massive rotund farms-installations built in the sole and only purpose were to provide a tiny portion of the food the billions of people living below required to live another day. Satellites and drones of communication for the great information giant known as Galactic Targaryen News. Factories and industries owned by Dragon Incorporated and Targaryen Free Enterprises that had been deemed too polluting even for the low standards of King's Landing to be operated on a telluric planet. Huge asteroids that had been carved decades ago to serve whatever goal their buyer had wanted. Large living habitats, from the grey and ugly looking quarters of the low-paid space workers to the luxurious residences of Guild masters and wealthy courtesans. Scores of massive shipyards, building anything from the smallest starfighter to the gigantic mining vessels which routinely went in foreign systems to drill and extract raw minerals. There were spires for the believers of the Seven who believed praying in orbit, far from any grounding and decadent order, was the way to venerate the Faith. There were scaffoldings everywhere, hundreds of thousand void workers building or stripping down tons of materials for projects ordered by the architects and engineers of the Targaryen dynasty. Yes, the orbital surroundings had been sometimes compared to a gigantic and order-less maze, and there was some justice to it.
And then there were the ships.
Merchant hulls coming from varied foreign systems and far-away regions of the Galaxy: Braavos, Pentos, Lys, Volantis and sometimes as far away as the other side of the Essos Quadrant like the Empire of Yi-Ti. Yachts and comfortable vessels reserved to wealthy individuals. Transport of troops stopping there before going to their new affectations. Freighters carrying million tons of cargo such as food, fuel and ore stored in their gigantic hulls. Passenger liners arriving or leaving the capital because their affairs appealed. Small starfighters patrolling the system, ensuring no enemy attack was in preparation in the outer edges of the system. Pilgrim and missionaries coming to pray at Baelor's Great Sept on Rhaenys' moon. Custom small shuttles, doing their best to catch the incessant smuggling and traffics reigning in the King's Landing System. The Crown Sector warships, deeply recognisable with their trident-shaped edge forming their Nova armament, the dragon heads decorating the batteries, and the massive disc forming their other extremity.
One glance was enough to remark there were too many ships. It was far from an unusual occurrence, the area of space between the capital planet and its two moons was notoriously crowded at the best of times. And from the bay of the yacht-restaurant Golden Fleece, Richard Lonmouth and his co-conspirators were able to absorb the view and eat a divine banquet.
"Magnificent, isn't it?" Murmured Lord Lucerys Velaryon, polishing absently of the hand his perfectly brushed silver hair while he looked at the spectacle. "I'm coming here once or twice per week only to admire the view."
"Are you sure my lord it's not to profit from the table too?" Asked humorously Lord Gyles Rosby. The Crownlord hairs were as white as the Velaryon were silver, but unlike the Master of Driftmark, these were a result of age, not genetics. Lord Gyles was also in Lord Lonmouth's opinion the worst man dressed in this room, having made the displacement with a red cloth which looked like the cousin of a toga and a woman's dress.
"Guilty as charged, my lord!" Smiled Lord Velaryon. "But I trust you appreciated it today, no?"
Richard and the three other men at the table found themselves nodding in appreciation at Lord Velaryon's command. Honestly, all the invitees at this table had done more than 'appreciate' the lunch that had been proposed.
The menu Richard had just eaten had been at the same level of 'magnificent'. In fact, one part of his brain had been so enraptured by it he was ready to acknowledge it as the food of the Gods! Or at the very least good enough to tempt saints.
In entrance, the oysters of Crab Island and the white sturgeon caviar of Driftmark had simply been a delight on the tongue, especially conjugated with fine herbs of the Willow Wood cultures. After this had come the Foie Gras and its simple woods strawberry cream, simple and original, supported on a black truffle purée.
The third meal had presented the three great specialties of House Celtigar's oceans: the red crab with his Dornish spices and little legumes, the lobster steamed with eggs and tomato wine, and of course the supreme crayfish and his cognac sauce. From the sea food they had passed to the meat: poached chicken of Cornfield with honey and asparagus sauce.
Fifth had been the oh-so-tempting Western filet mignon and the mushrooms rigorously and selectively grown on House Pemford's possessions. To conveniently let the stomach recover, the next course had consisted in plates of goat cheese from the Reach with Summer Island fruits creams.
Finally, seventh and last, but certainly not least, the chocolate farandole, an amazing display of nine different chocolate of the Seven Kingdoms in different forms, from the hard black to the soft praline.
And to accompany these superb seven courses, the bottles of wine had been of the highest regard. A 183' White of Castle Rhone from the Cider Hall System, a 275' Red of Montségur put in bottle by the Rowans winemakers and a 204' Gold from the Domaine Du Velours, one of the Arbor most famous wineries. Plus the other spirits and liqueurs served between or before the meals.
Lord Richard feared he wasn't going to enter his power-armour tomorrow, but by the Seven it had been worth it.
Fortunately it's Lord Velaryon who owns the Golden Fleece and everything going with it. Paying for five menus at this restaurant would be enough for me to re-equip an entire company of my men plus tanks! Seven Hells, maybe more! We are officially rationing the food after all, and the food prices have never been so high these last months!
"Oh, you will never hear a complaint from me on the subject of the menu, my lord." Announced Ser Jaremy Rykker. The young knight currently serving as the Goldcloaks officer for the Dragon Gate of King's Landing was a bit red-faced from all the alcohol and liquors that had been drunk in the last hours, but Richard supposed they were all in that case. "But I can't stop to think you invited us all aboard this ship for more than gorging us on your excellent food and raid your wine cellars."
"Ah, yes. It's possible my motives weren't as pure as I implied when I contacted you." The theatrical sigh of the Lord of the Tides was purely for show and did not fool anyone around the table.
"But as you well know Ser Jaremy, our beloved sovereign Aerys has taken the bad habit in these trying times to monitor as many conversations as humanly possible, and we have to take certain precautions. Lord Varys and Ser Alliser Thorne are on our side, but who knows how many spies report directly to the sovereign."
"You will hear no complain from me too." Grumbled Lord Caspian Pyle, in his formal gold uniform barded with decorations and citations. "Yesterday, Aerys invited me for the burning of one of my own captains! Because according to his 'trusted sources' this man was a traitor and a craven! Truth to be told, I'm sure all Ser Valon did was speaking one bawdy story when he was drunk and..."
The scar on the face of the fifty-plus years old man twitched in anger, and a gesture imitating with some justice the famous lightening of a wildfire pyre was produced. The other four men winced. Ser Valon's death had surely been horrible. That it could happen to them personally at any time dampened considerably the mood.
"The madman is delusional." Said Lord Gyles, emitting a slight cough.
Funny, my lord, I didn't think you told Aerys that at the last court opening. If memory serves, you were clapping and thanking him for his generosity.
"He has been for a long time." Affirmed Lord Caspian Pyle with a profound grimace of distaste.
Inwardly, Richard felt something like piety. As a commander of men that had fought at the Trident and on several other battles of the war, Richard himself had rarely been in King's Landing this last year. Now with the benefit of hindsight, being on the frontlines did not look like a bad thing. You were shot. Your ships were shot. You had the duty to face enraged masses of Northmen and Stormlanders wanting to gut you and place your head in their private collection. But at least against the rebels, you knew usually who your enemies were.
Lord Caspian Pyle however, had not had this chance, being stranded in the capital system since the beginning of the hostilities, and the fleet commander had never pretended to be one of the King's greatest supporters. Aside from his planetary lordship of Pyle, a system at the frontier of the Storm Sector, Lord Caspian Pyle held the rank of Royal Admiral...a military position that in this war had been more a curse than a benediction.
The Royal Fleet of King's Landing had been considerably raided by Jon to launch the offensive in the River Sector and consolidate the garrisons in the Storm Sector after Ashford. After the defeat in the Stoney Sept System and the serious loyalist losses caused by it, more ships of the lines, battlecruisers and escorts had been transferred from the capital command to the offensive forces. The last straw had been when Rhaegar had returned from Dorne, Lord Pyle having to relinquish all the heavy units save one or two battlecruisers. The Royal Admiral was now in command of a large fleet of light and scout cruisers, with hundreds of fighters, forts and weapon platforms for support. Hardly the crowning achievement of a career, and supreme inconvenience he had to support Aerys chaotic orders at the same time.
Lord Lucerys Velaryon on the other hand, as the High Admiral, Lord of the Tides, Master of Driftmark and Commander of the Deep Space Fleet of Dragonstone, had been able to avoid the folly gripping the court. Aerys, in the midst of his frequent crises of madness, had become more and more insistent that Dragonstone had to be held at all costs.
Against who the system-fortress had to be held was a mystery to all save Aerys.
Lord Lucerys had had to manoeuvre several times his fleet to avoid being caught in the cosmic storms plaguing the Narrow Void, but apart from the occasional pirate wanting to prey on the trade coming from King's Landing, no threat of any kind had manifested.
"Ahem. Yes. This is why Downfall is going to be launched in about forty hours."
"So soon?" The question from Jaremy Rykker was betraying a non-feinted incredulity. "We were supposed to have six days left!"
"I'm sure Prince Rhaegar has excellent reasons..." The voice of Lord Gyles Rosby was soft and the manners those of an accomplished follower.
Yes, I'm sure there were. Like the ones which existed when he kidnapped and raped a Lord Paramount's daughter. Or the one where he put all the fleet in orbit around the planet of Trident because there was no way the rebels were going to ambush us. And the Rebels wonder why so many of the Crownlords are staying loyal to the Targaryens. What an ass-kisser...
"Indeed he has. According to the latest messenger-ship I received today, the Rebels are refusing in block all our offers, the cease-fire as well as the proposition to hold the peace talks at Maidenpool. It's possible if Aerys isn't removed that we will not be able to establish negotiations...and the rebels are fortifying their positions as we speak."
Not surprising. The dragon words have no value anymore north of the Trident, and the terms Rhaegar proposed are good...for us. Not so much for them.
"My lord, I agree with what you've said, but we simply aren't ready! Lord Commander Stokeworth requisitioned this morning two thousand more men to search something a gang has stolen, and each Gate Commander has not had the time to assure all the men will turn loyal when Downfall is executed."
"If you're unable to do your duty, Ser Rykker, you can discharge your duties to your second-in-command." Sneered the Lord of Rosby.
The noble visage of Ser Jaremy went redder, and his sword arm went to his side, fortunately not finding the ceremonial vibro-sword that had been left in the restaurant cloakroom.
"I'm prepared to do my duty, Lord Rosby." Acidly replied the Goldcloaks officer. The 'unlike you' was left unsaid but nonetheless heard. Lord Gyles Rosby had never served in any military service whatsoever, using his sickly constitution as a pretext. "I'm just warning you that advancing that much Downfall is going to disrupt a lot of the planning. Planning we all agreed to in the last days."
"I'm afraid I have to concur." The voice of Royal Admiral Pyle was composed, but if his eyes had been able to throw lightning, they would have done so. "The whole operation needs to be extremely well-prepared and all the officers in charge fully briefed on it. Forty hours to inform all of them and coordinate their actions is not going to be enough. We court disaster."
"I tend to share your views, my lords, but I am not the one who has been given the authority to launch Downfall." Reminded them the High Admiral. "This honour belongs to Lord Jon Connington."
A couple of years ago, knowing this would have cheered up Lord Richard Lonmouth. Now? Not at all. Jon Connington, his friend, had changed. Returned from the Free Cities where he was still supposed to be in exile, the dispossessed Lord of Griffin's Roost was now a colder man who rarely smiled or let his guard down in public anymore. There were occasions his friend came out of his cold carapace, but these times were increasingly rare. Questioning Rhaegar motivations in front of Jon only resulted in being severely reprimanded, if not outright insulted.
"I think if we speak in one united voice, we can convince Lord Jon to delay things a bit." Proposed Richard in appeasing tone, sipping some of the gold wine in his crystal glass. "We have to face some facts, my lords. We aren't ready. If we miss our objective, there won't be a second chance to act."
"Indeed." The smile of Lord Pyle could have chased the clouds of pollution from King's Landing skies for a second or two. "I'm sure Aerys is searching for more 'traitors' for his pet Alchemists to burn at his next spectacle in the arena. Since the Rebels aren't going to cooperate and surrender tomorrow I suggest we-"
None of the four nobles would know how Royal Admiral Pyle have terminated this sentence. A bright flash had just illuminated the bay of the Golden Fleece, partially blinding the eyes of every man and woman present in the restaurant.
Seconds after, the Golden Fleece itself was shaken like a huge fist had chosen this moment to strike it, and the civilian shields of the yacht were activated in catastrophe.
"What in the Seven Hells was that?" Blustered Jaremy Rykker after several seconds and the effects of this unanticipated brightness dissipated. "Are we under attack?"
A waiter who had been ranging some glasses had stumbled and was now contemplating the glass ruin at his feet. Several members of the staff had likewise fallen or lost their equilibrium.
From the speakers, the voice of a panicked man, certainly the captain of the ship they were all aboard, resonated across the shocked restaurant passengers.
"Lord Velaryon, a nuclear attack has been detected! The defences of the King's Landing System are switching to Code Omega-Four!"
Now that the sudden explosion of light had dissipated, Lord Lonmouth turned to the bay...and what he saw made him shudder and gasp in stupefaction like everyone else.
Debris. There was a lot of debris. In a section of the orbital installations right in front of the Golden Fleece, something had shredded, torn apart and distorted the fragile order existing above King's Landing. Debris. Richard saw a scout cruiser had literally been cut in half, the time to bring its particle shields and other defences clearly insufficient.
Or maybe its defences were just not enough. By the Seven...how many orbital stations did we just lose?
There were ruins of multiple 'portable' shipyards. Hundreds of scaffoldings had collapsed, their components propelled everywhere in the void. The void was preventing flames from spreading out, but there were countless secondary explosions rocking the structures, destroying millions dragons worth of investment. Thousands of men and women were trying their chance in the emergency lifeboats, their launch creating thousands of light streaks towards the greater trader and military ships that had been caught outside the blast. The poorest workers, less fortunate, were launching themselves outside their workplaces in the vacuum to avoid the destruction storm. With their spacesuits for sole protection.
Looks like the safety procedures were really ignored for too long, thought the Storm lord. Everyone is panicking and no one is following proper procedures. The Seven only knows what would have happened if this was the attack of a Rebel fleet!
"A nuclear explosion..." Lord Gyles Rosby coughed loudly before continuing. "It's absurd...absolutely absurd..."
"Lord Pyle. In your opinion, where did the device explode?" Demanded the Lord of the Tides, ignoring the aurochs-like denial expressed by the Master of Rosby.
"I don't know, High Admiral." Said Lord Caspian, transformed instantly into his military persona." The confusion and lack of training concerning the Omega procedures is creating a monumental havoc. I told Aerys and the Small Council we needed to conduct exercises and prepare the system in case a true emergency happened, but I was overruled."
And now we're seeing the result. You can say it, Admiral. The dragons screwed up.
Ser Jaremy Rykker was far less restrained in his situation report.
"What a bloody mess!"
"Thank you Commander." Declared frostily Lord Lucerys before turning to one of his bodyguards waiting silently behind him. "Bring me a holo-com. I need to talk to Lord Connington and the other members of the Council."
"High Admiral." Intervened Richard, finally putting his illusionary fingers on something that gnawed at his mind. "Was not Dragon One in the middle of the stations we have just lost?"
"So?" The question of Lord Gyles was way too rhetorical. "We lost one military station. Big deal. Or you have not noticed the dozens of others we must have lost! Including Golden Cow, a place where my first cousin lived if anybody cares!"
"That's not what Lord Lonmouth is trying to say." By the tenor of Ser Rykker's words, the condescending and imbecilic comments of Lord Rosby were really putting him into a bad mood. "And there is more important than your first cousin, my lord."
"Yes." Declared soberly Lord Pyle. "Dragon One was our main command centre to control the orbital defences, and thousands of our best and brightest were aboard."
Which means the highest echelons of the King's Landing military forces have just been decapitated. I wonder...
"Is it possible the responsible of this attack were only targeting Dragon One?" Asked Lucerys Velaryon with a grim face, as his bodyguard posed on the freshly cleared away table a brand new holo-com and the Master of Driftmark tried to contact the Councilmen. Clearly the High Admiral had arrived to the same unpleasant conclusion as Richard Lonmouth.
"But why? Why assault this control station?" The visage of Ser Jaremy Rykker was deeply perturbed. "Attacking Dragon One does not make the missile and laser platforms inoperable. Dragon Two and Dragon Three can serve this role as well, and in one or two hours all the codes and priorities will have been re-routed through the secondary stations. The Capital fleet is mostly intact too! No external enemy is going to be fray a path in our defences in that interval!"
"Except the enemy is already inside our defences."
Three men had just appeared on the holo-com of Lucerys Velaryon, their angry and determined visages showing they had already been speaking before the lords aboard the Golden Fleece joined the conversation.
Richard Lonmouth knew them. The first was Jon, a war figure in his red and white power battle-armour, though the marks of his formal dismissal by Aerys were still visible on it. The second was Lord Manly Stokeworth, so fat the Goldcloaks Lord Commander was looking on the verge of exploding his heavy golden battle-armour. And the third was the Master of the Secret Police, Ser Alliser Thorne himself, black clothes, as grim and brooding as ever. No, no it was not exact. Alliser had murder in his eyes, and other two were...troubled.
"Is there something wrong, Ser Alliser?"
"These two imbeciles have just launched Downfall without warning anybody!" Growled one of the most loathed and feared man of the King's Landing system.
No, no. It has to be a mistake. Jon would warn me. We are friends...
But one look in the holo-com was enough to let his assurances crumble. Lord Manly Stokeworth wasn't protesting. Nor was Jon.
"You have done WHAT?" Shouted Lord Caspian Pyle.
"I have launched Downfall." The tone employed by Connington could have frozen the arid landscapes of Dorne and was not sorry at all. "I felt I had no recourse-"
"Because you lost your fucking nuclear bomb and Elia Martell told you to go fuck yourself!" Interrupted Thorne with enough venom to poison millions of people.
"You...it was your bomb that just made a mess of MY stations and MY fleet?" Admiral Pyle had just started to lose his calm, Richard realised. The Royal Admiral of King's Landing was spluttering in anger and his fury levels were skyrocketing by the second.
"No it was not MY bomb." Said Jon in a fixed expression. "That Dornish whore stole it and placed it aboard Dragon One. When I told her to surrender her daughter to my custody, she detonated it and launched her own coup. But it's no longer relevant."
"Of course this is relevant!" Protested Lord Lucerys Velaryon with something like the fires of extinct dragons animating his reactions. "Is there anything we should know or will we discover more dark secrets when we will dig the rubble after the battle?"
Lord Manly Stokeworth made a vigorous nod of denial and was about to pronounce more platitudes when Alliser Thorne left out his second bomb.
"Lord Connington here has sent new order to one of your deep space battlecruisers, the Swift Argent I believe. The patrol of the warship in the Narrow Void is cancelled and the Swift Argent is to intercept the private ship carrying Princess Rhaenys Targaryen to Dorne..."
For a quarter of a minute, the four guests and their hosts went silent as their brain refused to compute with the information the Secret Police Commander had provided.
"YOU DID WHAT?" The scream of Lord Velaryon could have woken up the dead.
"No need to shout so loudly, our ears are not-" The sentence of Lord Manly was cut without any care.
"I am Lord Lucerys Velaryon, Master of Ships, High Admiral of Westeros, Lord of the Galactic Tides, Master of Driftmark and Governor of Dragonstone! Who exactly are you to give orders to my own ships, Connington! Especially going behind by back! Who do you think you are!"
"The future Lord Paramount of the Stormlands and Prince Rhaegar's Hand!" But knowing Jon much better than any person save perhaps Rhaegar, Lord Richard saw the Lord of Griffin's Roost was less than assured of his own invulnerability.
Perhaps he understands that with failures of that magnitude, everybody is...expendable.
"If Rhaegar gives you the Paramountcy after such a fiasco, then your dear Crown Prince is as insane as his father!" Lord Caspian Pyle retorted.
"We will see, won't we?" Jon's voice did not send a lot of warmth. And the...grimace...he made was honestly deranging. "I have Prince Aegon, Prince Viserys, the Queen mother, her newborn daughter Daenerys and Ser Jaime Lannister in my custody. Ser Arthur Dayne has Baela and Visenya, the spawn of the wolf-bitch. My forces and the Goldcloaks are taking control of the Red Keep as we speak. Soon Aerys is going to be arrested and Princess Rhaenys recovered. Crown Prince Rhaegar is going to become King. Who do you think he will listen to? You or me?"
It's not about you or us, Jon. It's you and the thousands of people that have been murdered by your fault. The coup had planned for less than a hundred deaths...
And on this dramatic tirade, the figures of Lord Manly Stokeworth and Jon Connington disappeared from the holo-com. Not that the images replacing them were much better. It seems that in his haste to put the capital's heart under martial law, Jon had gotten very zealous. From the cameras Thorne had put to their disposal, the Goldcloaks, the Gold Fists, the Targaryen sworn knights and the Dornish Special Forces were fighting among the buildings of the capital city itself. The familiar shapes of Salamander 280-type tanks were in action, blasting away hundreds of soldiers with their cannons. Ground-support aircraft launched their missiles to blow away skyscrapers.
It was not a peaceful coup. This was civil war.
"Ser Alliser?" Asked Ser Jaremy Rykker, who had the expression of a knight desperately trying to grab the last ties of sanity existing in this whirlwind of chaos. "Any news from the other Councillors?"
"No. The corridors of Maegor's citadel are...bloody. Between the King, the Princess and the Connington forces fighting each other, none of my agents have managed to report to me. Communications with the Red Keep are cut."
"Who was out when the coup was launched?" Demanded Richard.
Perhaps if a person of sufficient rank is on the field, someone can tell Jon to stop this bloodbath...
But the answer from Thorne only dashed his hopes.
"Varys. I know he had a conversation with this ox of Stokeworth in his headquarters before..."
Before Jon and Stokeworth decided to pull the trigger.
The Master of Whisperers was resourceful, and Lord Lonmouth did not doubt of his survival. Alas, being Chief of the Crown Intelligence Agency did not give a lot of ground troops at all. Which was why they were in need right now to establish authority.
"Do what you can to investigate, Ser Alliser." Sighed Lord Velaryon. "The carnage has advanced too much to be stopped now."
"By your leave, my lord."
The holo-com saw Thorne's image disappear, leaving only the images of the street-battles being fought on the world below.
"Admiral Pyle."
"High Admiral?"
"Direct all your ships to conduct search and rescue operations."
"What do we do about Connington?" Asked Rykker with the look of a man who loved nothing better than to put a laser shot in the skull of Griffin's Roost exiled lord. Lord Lucerys Velaryon answered with a very nasty smile.
"Nothing."
"But-" Tried to speak Lord Rosby.
"I said we do nothing to help or fight him." The glare of the Lord of the Galactic Tides was very threatening. "Is that clear? It's evident at this hour Connington has received special forces to execute Downfall, forces we have never been informed of. Jon Connington has refused to coordinate with us or warn us in advance of his plan. He will sink or swim on his own merits."
"This is the behaviour of a coward." Sneered Lord Gyles. "One would almost think-"
"Thank you, Lord Rosby." Snapped Lord Lucerys, making a sign of the hand to his bodyguards in the back of the room. The two massive guards dragged Lord Gyles by the arms and led him out of the room.
"Where were we... ah, yes. Regain your commands, my lords, and do your best to save the maximum of victims of this abominable act of terror. Whoever emerges on top, Princess Elia Martell or Jon Connington, we will have the Royal Fleet to deal with them."
Richard let the High Admiral give his commands in something like a daze. As Lord Lucerys had said, it was sometimes to recover something from this disaster. But his thoughts were not in the situation developing on the planet or on the devastated orbital stations. No, Richard thoughts were how badly he had been deceived by Jon Connington...and Rhaegar Targaryen.
How? How did we get there? Did I truly know you, Jon? Was it the power? Why?
Was it for that damn cursed throne?
There was only thing Richard could tell after such a disaster. Taking the 204' Gold bottle, Lord Lonmouth drank the wine remaining in one go.
"What a clusterfuck."
Janos Slynt, 12.08.283AAC, King's Landing System
Janos back ached against the extra-concrete wall. His head ached. His feet ached. His hands ached. All his body ached.
What...happened?
Janos had difficulties to see his hands. Tearing part of his cloak to clean up his face, the Goldcloaks lieutenant realised his eyes weren't the problem. The entire street was clouded in dust and debris. The lights flashed out. Sparks came out of what had to be a power cable. To his left, an entire pan of wall collapsed, creating more dust.
Janos coughed. There was too much dust.
What happened?
Janos tried to stand up, but his legs refused to obey. Fear gripped his mind. Was he crippled? But no, he saw his legs move, coming out more debris and spreading more dust. Janos coughed again. The pain in his body was lessening. Pushing and groaning, he managed to slowly stand up on his feet.
The effort was almost too much, and Janos had to lean on the same wall again to not fall. A few seconds passed, and Janos felt better. His back and his legs hurt, but it was bearable. The wall wasn't necessary anymore, he could stand on his own. Hesitantly, Janos made a step after another, looking at the spectacle of devastation surrounding him.
Where is my rifle? I thought I had it in my hands...
The Go29 was an ugly and unreliable thing, but it was the sole weapon left to him. After several efforts to survey the debris, Janos found his laser rifle under an unoriginal door that had seen better days. Examining the batteries and the others parts of his weapon, the King's Landing officer sighed in relief as everything seemed to be working as expected. The last test would be when the rifle would be fired...hopefully a long time from now.
But it's not like you have any choice, eh Janos? Used all your grenades, didn't you?
Janos turned the corner of the street...and crouched, slightly withdrawing on the limited protection of the abandoned street... And then lucidity came back entirely. His memories flooded back.
The tank. It was the tank that slaughtered us.
Janos knew the model. A Salamander type 296. The smallest tank in the Royal Army arsenal. When Janos had made his demand to join the army, he had wanted to be a tank man. He had read everything that was available on tanks in the library two shops away from his father's butchery. Given that a smallfolk library had never access to the great tactical and militaries treaties, most of the information had been on the Salamander. 41 tons, 7.8 metres long, and a plasma gun of 75.7 millimetres produced by Dragon Incorporated. With a maximum speed of 25 kilometres per hour, a front protection of one hundred durasteel plate millimetres, the Salamander had always been considered an infantry tank, and one of the lightest among the Seven Sectors of Westeros.
Not that it made me much good. Not the right connections and the right background to enter the army...
Easy to destroy...if you had mortars, a tank, some artillery or aerial support. Janos and his men had had none of this. Just Go29 rifles and old plasma grenades.
Did we manage to beat it?
Janos turned his head around the corner for a few seconds. There were huge holes in the tank everywhere, but this would not be the first time a tank had survived an assault able to pulverise a platoon. The first thing Janos and his men had learnt in the last hours was that a tank was way more resistant than flesh. The human screams when plasma touched flesh...
Where are my men?
The buildings were in ruin. The main street of Flea Bottom that they had taken from the Iron Gate garrison was littered with craters and ton of rubble, with the damaged Salamander in the middle of it. Windows were in ruins. The few supraglass that went into these cheap constructions had not survived the explosions and the shockwaves. None of the smallfolk were coming out of their refuge and shelters. Either dead or not trusting the 'mercy' of the winners.
Janos didn't blame them. They wanted to live. He wanted the same thing. Janos didn't want his kids to live without their father and have only the meagre pittance of the royal allocations to survive.
Janos men wanted the same thing too but it had not saved them. Tom laid smashed along a wall, his entire body a bloody mess. There was there or four that were blocked under the tank itself. Kan, Remy, Philip...all dead. Janos stopped crouching and advanced to see the carnage, struggling to not vomit while more and more corpses came into view.
My friends...I'm sorry...
And suddenly, a soldier emerged from a nearby alley like a reaper.
"Lieutenant."
"By the Seven, Deem!" Hissed Slynt, who had raised his rifle to shoot the newcomer and was now lowering it again. "Don't surprise me like that!"
Allar Deem was perhaps the worst of the men Janos had had the misfortune to meet in his years serving in the City Watch of King's Landing. Not because he was corrupt or rapid to take bribes from every shop in Flea Bottom. Every man wearing the gold cloak and wanting to help his family did that.
No, Sergeant Deem was a complete monster. Janos knew Deem had killed at least twenty men, including three of his fellow Goldcloaks. The only reason Deem had not been executed for his crimes was because he was someone's pet murderer higher up in the Iron Gate's hierarchy.
Janos had hoped that for once, Deem would be useful today. For a true battle. Killing was pretty much the same anyway, right?
Wrong. The moment the tank had come, Deem had disappeared. Killer in the night, but when the moment came to kill an enemy who had the firepower to shoot back, the reality had been revealed. Deem was really a coward. And now he was back. Deem was back and all the platoon save Janos were dead.
My men are dead and the coward comes back...
"They're beyond help, Lieutenant." 'And so are you if you oppose me'. Janos had not heard the words be spoken, but the meaning was clear. "I'm getting out of here."
"You want to desert?" Janos knew at the moment Deem was really mad. Desertion was one of the rare crimes under Aerys that didn't deserve the wildfire pyre.
No, if you deserted, you were crucified, and then, after hours of suffering, the Alchemist executing you lightened the wildfire under your ass.
"It's only desertion if we're caught."
They know all your hideouts, Deem. They know where your bank accounts are. They will know the moment you break your leash. They don't want a rabid dog in liberty.
"Goodbye, Lieutenant Slynt, it has not been a pleasure to serve under your command."
But it was not Janos problem anymore, and as Deem began to race westwards, Janos realised Deem's desertion was unimportant to him personally.
You let us to die; you can hang for all I care.
Janos felt himself grimace. Being an officer placed the duty to guide your men. Looking down the street, there was absolutely no movement.
They're all dead. Except Deem. When did I become such a miserable excuse of a Lieutenant?
No movement...wait was that?
From the east, a large column of golden figures marched in the ruined street where Slynt and Deem had stood. There were scores of them...no hundreds...and these were not Goldcloaks of a small barrack or the Iron Gate. These were Gold Fists, and wore bright yellow battle-armours Mark 2 for protection.
Well the army is here...we're...I'm saved, thought the Goldcloaks officer, trying to not feel any jealousy at the pricey equipment the troops arriving next to him were carrying.
With this, our guys could have torn apart this Salamander easily...
Janos and his men had been forced to go into this battle with the 'militia' battle-armour; which was in reality not a battle-armour at all but the total of an average helmet covering the face with integrated radio, a decent breastplate, some leg protection, forearms armour and reinforced boots.
These fellows had real battle armour; not the ones of knights and lords wore but enough to save your life when laser and plasma explosions rocked the ground. It was pristine too, with no sign of damage excepting the dust they were walking in.
They waited until the enemy was done...why I am not surprised?
"Hail King Rhaegar." Said Janos Slynt, coughing at the end of the sentence, the dust hampering his lungs for the hundredth-plus time.
"Hail King Rhaegar!" Shouted the Gold Fists officer, before adding in a whisper to Janos. "Be a little more enthusiastic, Lieutenant. One might almost believe you're a traitor."
We have fought hours against tanks with nothing but rifles and grenades and he doubts our loyalty? What a fucking prick!
Janos thought about replying but what would that serve? Goldcloaks were always support to defer to the Army, and Gold Fists were the Army's infantry. Plus he was a Lieutenant, and the man facing him was a Captain. A junior Captain, but still. Contesting the orders given was a sure way for court-martial these days.
"Join the rear-guard with the other 'cloaks. Resistance in Flea Bottom has been extinguished. We move on the Red Keep!"
Janos saluted and marched against the wall, careful not to impede the progression of the troops in battle-armour. Seeing the large column advance like on a parade ground, only dispersing to pass the ruins of the Salamander, Janos looked silently at the cheering ranks. Should he warn them adopting this kind of formation against a tank was an invitation for the enemies to shoot first and ask questions later?
"ONWARDS TO GLORY! WE MARCH TO THE RED KEEP! FOR KING RHAEGAR!"
"TO GLORY! FOR KING RHAEGAR!" Answered thousands of voices.
Oh, well. If they want to die...like my father always said, if the pig comes to the abattoir freely, you quickly kill it.
The ranks of the warriors clad in power armours went past him, and soon there were replaced by more conventional Goldcloaks marching in dispersed formations.
Like Janos, their gold cloaks were shredded, their durasteel equipment was in ruins, and quite a lot of weapons carried were vibro-swords, vibro-axes or vibro-spears, not the standard laser rifle. The Goldcloaks Lieutenant stopped leaning against the wall and joined their ranks.
"You look like a tank rolled over you, Lieutenant." Joked a Corporal missing several teeth, an accent of Flea Bottom being clearly recognisable in his voice. "Your helmet is nearly fended in half." Startled, Slynt realised the man was right. His helmet was falling into pieces as he tried to remove it. Janos made sure to thank silently the non-commissioned officer for his remark, before throwing the torn helmet on top of the ruined tank responsible for its state.
But it saved my life...
There was not a lot of talk as they progressed in their long walk to the Red Keep. From the distance, Janos could see the kilometres-tall red walls waiting for them, with their massive batteries atop shooting endlessly to interdict the skies.
I hope they have a plan to take this thing. This is not a fight you take with a laser rifle and a score of grenades.
In fact, the more they came near the Red Keep, the more Janos saw the battle he and his men had fought against the tank had been ridiculous in size, ferocity and sheer number of soldiers present. Hundreds of tank hulls were abandoned on the streets, in the houses, along with uncountable military vehicles. The marble alleys were crackled and darkened. Arc of triumphs celebrating famous victories of the last hundred years had been torn apart. Gracious arcs and suspended gardens were unrecognisable. Headless statues faced vandalised public buildings. Banners of the three-headed dragon were full of holes. For every squad and lone soldier joining their group, there were thousands of Goldcloaks and Gold Fists dead, so many Janos had no difficulties finding a brand-new helmet that the former owner wouldn't miss, and a new rifle which packed a lot more punch than the useless Go29.
Before them, the golden soldiers still walked, hammering martially the ground with their armoured feet and singing famous songs of long-dead bards.
They should shut up. We're going to be in range of the Red Keep main guns in a few minutes...
BANG!
The first victims never saw their own death.
One moment the Royal soldiers were pushing a loud cheer, the next five of them had their brains blown up, in spite of the armoured helmets they wore.
"TO COVER! TO COVER!"
Janos had no idea who had shouted this excellent suggestion, but he didn't waste any time in plunging behind a ruined infantry transport. In three seconds, seven or eight men had joined him, Goldcloaks all of them.
"NO!" Screamed the Captain who had spoken to Janos minutes ago. The officer had jumped on the ruined carcass of a Salamander, and was now haranguing his men. "LET THE COWARDS RUN! WE WILL MARCH TO THE RED KEEP AND PUT AN END TO THE TYRANNY OF-"
BANG!
These were his last words. The sniper-and it had to be a sniper, Janos reckoned, had recharged its long-range weapon and shot in the head the Royal officer, blowing what little intelligence and military knowledge the man had in a sonorous detonation.
The rest of the action was only confusion and panic. Trying to shoot the ambushed killer that had just shot them like the imbeciles they were, the Gold Fists fired everywhere they thought the sniper was hidden. Including sometimes the ruined transport that Janos and the other soldiers were covering behind.
I bet the sniper is laughing at us...
And every ten seconds or so, a new BANG! sounded. Inevitably, two or three battle-armours fell. The men supposed to be the better of the Goldcloaks on every skill were shot like scared rabbits into the light of a vehicle.
Janos had no idea what sort of weapon the shooter was equipped, but it was a fearsome thing.
This rifle is shredding battle-armour like it doesn't exist...
And then the shots from the sniper finally ended, but the battle-armoured brutes didn't stop firing, ruining the top of the cheap constructions with hundreds of laser impacts.
"CEASE FIRE!" Shouted a Gold Fist officer that came racing out of a nearby street. "What are you doing, band of imbeciles?"
"Sir!" Affirmed one of the biggest battle-armoured armsman present." Eliminating a sniper, Sir!"
"And where is this sniper, hmm?"
"Err..."
Ceasing to cower behind the transport, Janos and the other Goldcloaks approached the officer and the surrounding Gold Fists. The simple soldier that had been talking was now trying to silently ask his comrades for support, but none appeared very keen on revealing where the sniper had been positioned or why they had been firing at least half of their laser rifle's power sources.
"So you never saw this sniper, hmm? And he decimated your company, hmm?"
Decimation was the right word. The damage caused by the sniper had been terribly thorough. Close to one hundred massive yellow soldiers out of a thousand men company were lying on the ground, with their helmets or the protection over their hearts and their lungs blasted apart.
Damn. I want this sniper's rifle...
"We have lost enough time here! Put back into formation and march for the Red Keep! If you are under fire by a sniper, only shoot when you have him in your scope, not before!"
"But sir...who's in command?"
"I am in command!" Erupted the Captain. "Now move your guns and your feet to the Red Keep NOW!"
This time no one tried to discuss or to ask for clarification. Perhaps because the last words had seen the Captain draw his massive vibro-sword in a very threatening manner. Hundreds of Gold Fists and Goldcloaks stopped hiding and went on a rapid march, passing the last ruined buildings and taking the full measure of the last great bastion to take.
The Red Keep was now in view, in all its sinister glory. A true storm of durasteel and laser fire surrounded it.
In all his life, Janos had never seen so many tanks and blinded vehicles, parade days or not.
All the capital's reserves must have come for this...
The Salamanders light tanks were present in the hundreds, as were the infantry transports, disgorging before Janos' group thousands of Goldcloaks to reinforce the lines. By the emblems and tattoos, these men came from the King's and Lion Gates. As Dragon Gate and Gate of the Gods formations were here too, it meant virtually the rest of King's Landing garrisons were in their hands.
It also means they've sent you to the butchery, Janos...
But the light vehicles were not the only machines present. They were scores of Firewyrms, the Crown Sector common battle-tanks, and even a few Drakes heavies firing at the gates of the Royal citadel. They were supported by hundred of artillery pieces. Catapult, Inferno and one gigantic Comet-type heavy tank were hammering the walls and the turrets defending them.
"ONWARDS PROUD SOLDIERS OF THE CROWN SECTOR!" Brayed a man in polished golden battle-armour who was literally...shining? Yes, the man had cleaned so much his armour that it was shining at the reflexion of thousands laser shots.
"ONWARDS!" Screamed a few officers who arrived on their own tanks, encouraging and pushing thousands of new Goldcloaks by the simple movement of their private vehicle. "FOR KING RHAEGAR TARGARYEN!"
And they said yesterday shouting anything but 'Long Live King Aerys' was a death sentence...
Loud noises came out the polluted and dark skies over King's Landing. Coming out of the smoke, many assaults shuttles and starfighters descended towards the Red Citadel.
"QUICK! WE NEED TO ATTACK! WE CAN'T LET THE FIGHTER COMMAND TAKE ALL THE GLORY THIS TIME!"
This was the moment, many anti-aerial batteries hidden in the core fortifications opened fire. Half a score shuttles and plenty of spacefighters exploded under the devastating salvoes, their burning remains falling on the troops besieging the fortress.
Yeah...that was glorious...
"ONWARDS! DEATH TO THE TRAITORS!"
The sky was getting darker. All over King's Landing, hundreds of fires were burning, devouring the inflammable supplies of the capital, starting vast beacons of smoke. Encouraged or threatened by their officers, the Goldcloaks were ordered to march towards the gates.
Each second, some cannon or missile was fired at them. Each time, there was a new crater in the space between the last inhabitations and the walls of the Red Keep, coloured red and yellow from the blood and the destroyed armours the projectiles and the lasers had projected.
Janos and his men were running. Running towards their death by thousands and tens of thousands, shooting all the way with their laser rifles or screaming incomprehensible battle-cries. The tanks and the lasers destroyed countless enemy position on the red walls, but there was always one more reappearing to shoot a missile or a monstrous salvo of laser. The monumental gates of the Red Keep, one kilometre tall, were not breached, despite the fire of hundreds of tanks and artillery.
In the darkness and the light fighting in this destruction, the massive fortress was looking like it was bleeding. It was beautiful...and scary...and terrifying at the same time.
We aren't going to take it...we are just here to pay the butcher bill...
Five of the men that had taken refuge with him behind the vehicle were still with him...until an explosion narrowly missed them...and sent hundreds of shards in a soldier to the right.
"ARRGGGH!" Screamed the Goldcloaks simple soldier, a young man that could not be possibly older than nineteen years old. "My leg! My leg!"
Janos rushed to help the man...however one glance was more than enough to know the recruit was done. The militia armour had proven useless, and the right leg was covered in so much in blood it was difficult to know what exactly was wrong.
Or what is still good in his body. They will have to amputate...
A blast of laser interrupted Janos thoughts, blasting the young man's head apart in a shower of gore.
Being especially close, Janos and the three men that had rushed to save the injured were now sprayed in red.
What in the Seven Hells?
"Don't stop! FOR KING RHAEGAR!" The exclamation came from a Gold Fist in a battle-armour that looked like the type worn by Knights...and by the looks of it, the young man wearing it was one, as he had the shoulder markings of a Royal Knight-Captain. In his hand was a blazing hot gun...the gun that had just murdered the Goldcloak in front of Janos in cold blood.
Bastard...
"Well? What are you waiting for? Do you know who I am? "
"A dead man." Answered Janos Slynt, arming his laser rifle and shooting the knight in the head, which was fortunately unprotected. The man had not bothered putting on his helmet.
His loss, my gain, like they say.
The other Goldcloaks in the vicinity opened fire on the Army officer too, showing him how they felt about his victim's demise. By good fortune, no one important appeared to have noticed their little retribution. The assault on the walls was very messy, and there were soldiers running in every direction possible, even behind...where some of the tanks shot the retreating infantry.
Bastards...I hate the nobles and the knights.
It was at that precise moment a ray of light hit the red walls, melting and deforming the red material in mere seconds.
By the Warrior...
"BEHEMOTH!"
The ground itself shook.
"BEHEMOTH!"
The earth itself was vibrating, pulsing to announce the arrival of destruction incarnate.
And the cry was taken again by hundreds of thousands voices.
"BEHEMOTH! BEHEMOTH! BEHEMOTH!"
Coming from the east, at the weak light of the sun and emerging from the fires, a huge machine was now seen, dispersing the smoke and the darkness like it refused the night the right to hamper itself.
Monumental. Gigantic. Titanic.
One hundred and fifty metres tall. So many cannons that a heavy-battle tank was a kid's toy in comparison. A march that made the ground shaking in terror and submission. A shape that was continuously seen on advertisements for Galactic Targaryen News. A figure of dragon where the head of a human would have stood on the figure. Two gigantic rail guns instead of the arms. Tons of durasteel crushing and remoulding the earth, erasing natural defences, and giving despair to any enemy idiotic to stand against them.
This was the second greatest weapon of the Targaryen dynasty, right behind the extinct dragons. The mightiest war machine of the Westerosi ground forces. The Behemoth.
"A Behemoth is here...we're saved!" Cried one of the Goldcloaks in the crowd. And the rest of the crowd continued to psalm the name.
"BEHEMOTH! BEHEMOTH! BEHEMOTH!"
The Behemoth closed in. Suddenly, all the walls of the Red Keep went silent, like if for the first time the fortress itself recognised it had found an opponent worth of the name.
A shrieking sound resonated over hundreds of kilometres. Allies and enemies, all soldiers put their hands to their ears, as the sonic wave hurt them. It was not pleasant. It was not gracious. It was the cry of a war beast, calling the Gods of War to come and receive their judgement.
And then the twin rail guns of the Behemoth fired. Twin beams of red light, so powerful they shone like the very sun itself, emerged from the guns and in an instant of eternity, struck the Red Keep's Gate.
The explosion was so loud it had to be heard to the Seven Heavens and the Seven Hells. A monumental cloud of dust rose, and thousands of durasteel pieces went everywhere, killing and murdering friends and foe.
Finally, the smoke diminished, revealing the power levels of the weapons just fired.
Of the Red Keep's Gate, more commonly known as the Eternity Gate, there was nothing but a smoking and twisted ruin. Gate leaf, durasteel reinforced by dragonfire, harrow...all had been pulverised by the mighty power of the Behemoth.
A million screams went in the air. A wild sound that defied all logic.
"VICTORY!"
"IN THE NAME OF KING RHAEGAR TARGARYEN...ATTACK!"
And Lieutenant Janos Slynt, like countless others, charged into the breach.
Perhaps I will live to see another day...
Elia Martell, 12.08.283AAC, King's Landing System
"HA! HA! HA! BURN TRAITOR! BURN!"
And the Alchemists wonder why no one trusts them...
Elia Martell activated the dorsal reactors of her customised Nymeria-model battle-armour and made a vertical jump, gripping one of the arcades decorating the ceiling with her free hand.
It was not a moment too soon. The place on the ground floor she had just left was suddenly sprayed in green flames. Despite being fully armoured, Elia was able to feel the sheer warmth emitted by the inferno. Not good.
"BURN! BURN IN THE NAME OF KING AERYS!"
The deranged voice of Rossart, Grand Master of the Alchemist Guild and by the Mad Will of Aerys the Second of His Name, Hand of the King for the Seven Sectors of Westeros, was coming out of the green flames. Despite coming out of a metallic filter of some kind, the inhumanity and the love of all burnings were clearly audible.
"DON'T HIDE PRINCESS! THE KING HAS COMMENDED YOU TO BURN AND-"
Elia shot a full salvo of her finely crafted laser rifle, directly targeting the demon-shaped helmet worn by Rossart the Dement. But just before contact, a force-field of green energy flickered into existence and stopped the laser shoots.
Damn it. If I meet the insane Alchemist who invented this power-armour, I will kill him. Very, very slowly.
"YOUR EFFORTS ARE FUTILE, PRINCESS. THE MARK 20 IS THE APEX OF THE ALCHEMIST CRAFT, A TRUE MARVEL OF ART. OUR MOST GIFTED INVENTORS HAVE PASSED DECADES PERFECTIONING AND IMPROVING THIS BATTLE-ARMOUR. NO ONE CAN SAVE YOU NOW, LOGIC HAS DECREED IT. ACCEPT THE KING' S SENTENCE AND BURN!"
A new activation of her dorsal reactors allowed the Princess of Dorne to widen the distance between her and her opponent, just as Rossart inflamed the ceiling and half of the corridor with his wildfire-thrower. Hundreds of corpses having fallen in the last hour, red, gold and orange clad, were devoured by the voracious alchemical substance.
Elia dropped to the ground on four like one of the feline predators of the Marches before standing in one swift move and rushing back into the fight.
Good thing that I had my Mark 13 with me when Connington delivered his ultimatum. Against a Mark 20, I wouldn't have stood a chance with a simple Mark 12.
The sad part was, Rossart boasts had merits. The battle-armour Mark 20, commonly known as 'Alchemist Armour' by the majority of the existing military forces in the galaxy, was only second in terms of performance to the Mark 7 'Dragon' when it worked. Personal particle shields, the resistance of a Lord-level battle-armour, two wildfire cannons in the forearms and a speed able to outpace several bikes and slow tanks on open ground...the Mark 20 was truly a fearsome thing.
But it was the Mark 20 very strengths that carried the worst weaknesses. The Mark 20 was a wildfire-powered armour...and the peak performances never lasted long enough for its owner to leave alive the battlefield. According to the rumour, the prototype of this model had been based on a few data chips and confusing encrypted information that had escaped the Doom of Valyria. An impressive job to patch the fragments, but incomplete nonetheless.
Fatally, an Alchemist could rarely pass a day in this armour without something going really wrong. Like, fatally wrong. Sometimes it was just a complete failure of power, and the other Alchemists had to cut down the armour to free their comrade. Sometimes the Alchemist was cooked by his own wildfire, more thoroughly than if a dragon had done the deed. In time, more Alchemists had been lost to their own failing equipment than anything the enemy did to kill them.
When one added the forbidden drugs and narcotics the Alchemists injected in their bodies while tendrils of Green Matter poured around their organs...and the fact one of the initial tests to enter the Guild was to wear one of said suits...no wonder the Alchemists were raving, utterly mad.
"Fine. Plan C has not worked. Time for Plan D."
Emerging from the wildfire with each of his weapons roaring in anger, Lord Rossart was cutting a figure of terror and awe; one might almost say of evilness. Demon helmet, check. Metallic air-breather, check. Multiple syringes-type objects plunging regularly their content in the wildfire's containers, check. Red-coloured cape torched by the wildfire, check. Burning the mortal remnants of his own followers, check. Maniacal laughter, check.
"IT'S NOT TIME FOR PLAN D, PRINCESS. IT'S TIME TO BUUUURRRRRNNNNN."
If such a thing had been possible, Elia would have sworn Rossart had just achieved orgasm at the idea of more burnings. The two wildfire cannons were activated at the same time, and the corridor was plunged once more in an inferno of green flames.
The Nymeria armour was nothing against this destruction. Wildfire ate everything, and Elia had no choice but to run in the other direction.
Sooner or later, you are going to make a mistake, Rossart...and when you do...
"BY WILDFIRE OR DRAGONFIRE...THIS WORLD WILL BE BURN! SO HAD SPOKEN BLESSED KING AERYS, TRUE CHAMPION OF THE FLAME! IT MUST BE DONE! BURN! BURN! BURN!"
Elia had believed the Alchemist could not get more insane, but she was wrong. Lowering of his wildfire-throwers for an instant, the Wisdom took one object to his belt and launched it in the general direction of the Princess of Dorne.
Made even more careful by the last minutes of fight, Elia ran away. An explosion shook the walls, and the turn of a new corridor allowed her to avoid the hundreds, no the thousands of flaming green splinters coming in her direction.
Wildfire grenades. Who else than an Alchemist would be insane to use them in a closed environment?
"NOTE TO SELF. THE POWER OF THESE GRENADES IS CLEARLY LACKING."
Lacking?
The hall where the Hand of the Mad King was passing had just been transformed into a carbonised nightmare.
If it this is lacking, I never want to see the full version.
Not that it seemed to be a problem. Rossart was the last Alchemist alive in the Red Keep, and Elia personal Special Forces had made sure a very thorough attention was made to wipe out this Guild of insane pyromaniacs.
"COME ON PRINCESS! DON'T HIDE! I HAVE FORGOTTEN MY PERSONAL ANTI-TANK WEAPONRY AT THE GUILD!"
Time to finish this.
Elia unleashed every tiny bit of power in the Nymeria power-armour plus some that wasn't there. Descending a half-destroyed stair by its banister, the former Dornish Colonel did a thing Rossart had probably never thought in his calculations. She threw her laser rifle. Like one of those gladiators threw their vibro-spear in Aerys imbecilic games.
The green shield of Rossart proved completely useless against such a material projectile, and the Grand Master received the rifle directly in the legs, projecting him in an impressive slip on the back, leaving green sparkles on the floor. The battle-armour had easily absorbed the shock of course, but it had never been the point.
Else I would have shot the head.
Profiting from Rossart lack of battle experience, the sister of the Red Viper closed the gap between herself and her opponent, drawing the dagger on her right side and executing two complicated strikes, before giving a vicious kick in the upper torso of Rossart.
Against a Mark 20 armour, an attack with durasteel like the one Elia had just executed would have been worse than useless. But the Princess dagger was not durasteel. It was a Valyrian alloy.
Rossart hit the opposite wall with a loud CLANG!...and without his arms. The main wildfire weapons were smoking and the Alchemist hands were now jolting in the middle of a pool of blood that was enlarging at an impressive speed. On the opposite wall, their former owner was in a pitiful state. From the wounds, the Grand Master was losing a lot of blood, and his battle-armour was smoking and shrieking. The metallic breather had been removed, and the breath that was now coming out was the one a human made in his agony.
"It's over. You have lost, Lord Rossart. Now tell me where the wildfire caches are. They won't be of any use to you where you are going." Elia recognised she put a bit too much of triumphalism in her voice, but assumed it. This man and his mad cohorts had massacred her own bodyguards. In the Princess of Dorne's opinion, she was awarded a bit of pay-back.
"This is wildfire..." Rasped Aerys' Hand. "Your argument...is...incorrect."
"You really have no decency anymore, don't you, Rossart?" The Dornish woman recovered her laser rifle and pointed it on the head of the Alchemist.
"Orders...holy orders...are to be obeyed..." The man was spitting blood now. His end was a matter of seconds.
Damn it. If we win, we're going to have to search the entire capital for this wildfire...
"My life...for King Aerys."
What?
The Dornish Princess just reacted by instinct. One silent activation of the reactors, and she crashed through a window before rocketing down one of the great towers and traversing many corridors in catastrophe. Looking behind her, there was only a column of green flames. The Tower of the Hand, a huge construction in red that had stood for more than two hundred years, was now burning a livid green, with the light and the darkness forming images of monstrous creatures; an ocean of green flames to serve as the tomb of the Wisdom.
Fortunately I was so low an altitude the anti-aerial defences didn't shoot me...Nice funeral pyre by the way, Rossart. Now that the Alchemist problem is removed, let's see how fare the others.
Opening her radio link, Elia searched the frequency used by her special forces.
"Colonel Scorpio, report."
His real name wasn't Scorpio, of course. As a matter of fact, none of the Dornish which had served in Elia's guard at King's Landing had been using their true name or given anything looking like their real military record to the Crown Intelligence Agency, the Kingsguard and the different other securities services pullulating in the polluted stronghold of the Targaryen dynasty.
"Princess! You're alive!" The tired voice of Scorpio answered after a few seconds of electronic parasites.
"Indeed. Rossart is dead and the rest of the Alchemists have been eliminated. What is the strategic situation?"
"Bad, your Highness. Three of my soldiers have taken an auxiliary control room since...the Alchemists have proven a bit too competent at defending the main ones."
Which meant, if Rossart was any indication, that they had made themselves detonate in an explosion of wildfire.
"Our forces?"
"Have taken the outer circle of defences of the Green Keep." Scorpio coughed, and Elia winced as she heard the sheer pain in the man's throat. "For the good it will do to us...all the women and men we have left are injured..."
The Princess of Dorne listened with her heart tightening the mounting list of casualties. Women and men she had known for years, in her service for Doran or playing as her bodyguards at King's Landing. Now, all dead serving under her orders, plunged in a war they should never have to fight.
"How much time can you hold?" Asked the Princess, calculating how much a time an evacuation or a change of strategy would cost.
"Ten minutes."
Ten minutes?
"Our snipers have done too much damage to their Gold Fists and Goldcloaks commanders. Jon Connington has given the orders to bring all reinforcements against us."
"The Red Keep is strong. And the Eternity Gate won't fall that easily without orbital support."
"Yes, I think your husband's friend has understood this point." There was a savage glee in Scorpio's voice, one indicating his command had been busy in the last minutes explaining to the Kingslanders how idiot and stupid their mass charges had been.
"But now, it is over. They're bringing a Behemoth from Camp Daeron."
Elia shivered. Behemoth. The simple name was a curse and a malediction in itself. It had been the Behemoths that had twice spearheaded the vanguard forces of the Young Dragon to conquer Dorne, forcing House Martell and all their banners to resort to assassinations, skirmishes, raids and sabotages. Forcing the Dornish vibro-spears to wait patiently for the vigilance of the Reach and Targaryen generals to decrease and their complex machineries to grip in the desert immensities. Dealing with one on an open battlefield was just a recipient for disaster. Robert Baratheon was perhaps the only being in the entire galactic history to have fought one and destroyed it in the Battle of the Trident.
Oberyn had shown her several times the carcasses of the juggernauts half-buried under the dunes. Behemoths, in spite of over a century abandoned, were still gigantic mountains of durasteel and barely understood technology, souvenir of the ancient dragonlords' glory. For the Dornish women, it was the proof the dragon blood had really something to compensate when they waged war upon another.
And now one was on its way.
"Can the forces we have left inside the city stop it?"
"No. Most of the soldiers who stood with us are dead, and half of the capital forces are converging towards the Red Keep as we speak. Our snipers are doing what they can to delay their progression, but they already can't kill all the officers and the tanks. Dealing with the Behemoth without heavy weaponry and orbital strikes can only result in a glorious suicide." The tone of voice of Scorpio showed how little the grizzled Dornish colonel cared for glory. "We can hold the walls until the Behemoth comes, but a counter-attack to slow it down is not in our range of possibilities."
There was one moment of silence on the radio, and the Dornish Colonel spoke again.
"Short of an orbital strike in the next ten minutes, the Eternity Gate is going to fall."
And the Red Keep with it. Shit.
"Rossart is dead, and I doubt Aerys has the official codes anymore. Connington is an idiot, but even he wouldn't have launched his coup without denying the madman the capability to turn King's Landing into a smoking crater."
He can't be THAT brainless...
"My conclusions exactly." Replied Scorpio. "What are your orders, your Highness?"
"We have lost." Declared Elia. It was a bitter realisation, but plunging the head in the sand like an ostrich and covering the eyes in denial would not solve anything. "The soldiers who are able to escape and are currently inside the Red Keep must do so immediately. Two of the secret passages known to us have not been sealed. Use them, rally our special forces dispersed across the capital."
"Princess, we can't leave you here!" Exclaimed Scorpio.
"You will have to. Rossart and Aerys, damn their souls to hell, have blocked me out of the vital chokepoints, and too many anti-explosion doors are closed."
All around her, the towers were ruined and looked about ready to collapse. The only exits now available led to the Throne Room...and the Eternity Gate. No Dornish knew of any secret passage in these areas of the Targaryen fortress.
"I will need close to an hour to deactivate all their electronic locks, and we will never have that time. Evacuate the citadel, leave only the volunteers and the few persons necessary to fire the automatic defences."
"But-"
"Evacuate, Colonel. Dorne has lost enough of its children in this war, I refuse to give the Great Wyrm more. This is an order."
"But-"
"Order Nymeria-Aegon-Vale-Sunspear-three-nine-five-Viper. Execute."
"By your command, Princess." The voice of Scorpio had come from rebellious to resigned. "Unbowed, unbent, unbroken."
"Unbowed, unbent, unbroken, Colonel. Tell my daughter I love her of all my heart."
"It will be done. All our prayers are with you Princess."
Elia cut the communication. There wasn't anything more to tell. Activating once more the reactors in her armour, the Princess rushed in the last corridors, this time helped by the updated information given by Colonel Scorpio. The Eternity Gate was going to fall; nothing Elia could do was going to change that fact. But there was one man who had to be dealt with before the end. One of the two main architects and culprits of this entire war.
Two minutes and twenty-seconds later, the sister of the Red Viper was in front of the great doors of the Throne Room, ready to accomplish the vengeance she had prayed to come in the last months. Taping an override combination from a panel command that had somehow avoided destruction, the Dornish Princess waited as the defensive systems registered her order.
The Royal doors opened towards the interior in a very melodramatic groan, one that Elia was sure Aerys had taken great lengths to prepare. Allowed to see the first meters and pillars before her, Elia realised the place was not like she had imagined to be.
The Throne Room was largely in the darkness. Here and there, there were a few modern lights, disguised in torches by ingenious artists, but these were the only lights available. The news screens on the ceiling were switched off. So was the music, icy or sonorous depending on the sovereign whims. The black marble was cold, like the heating had been cut off hours ago, long before the coup was launched.
What the hell happened here?
There were no courtiers, sycophants, whores-turned-courtesans, flatterers and the thousands of servants male and female living in the Citadel built Maegor the Cruel. The rare battle-armours mounting the guard along the vast columns and the sculpted walls were dead, their lifeless eyes reflecting no clue of their passing.
There was just the silence and darkness. And the dragon skulls of course. The damned dragon skulls. The reason why this Throne Room was so huge and the ceiling so high. Balerion, Meraxes, Vhagar, Caraxes, Syrax, Meleys...the defunct Targaryen dragon skulls, of a size so gigantic most were able to swallow a destroyer-sized ship between their frightening fangs.
In the semi-darkness, this proof of the Targaryen once mighty power were even more terrifying than at the light of the day. Passing before the familiar sight of the Black Dread, Elia was glad her little Rhaenys wasn't here.
Hopefully she will be safe at the Water Gardens...
And then a voice spoke in the darkness. A voice millions, no billions of people across the Seven Sectors of Westeros had had all reasons to despise.
"I've been waiting for you Elia Martell. We meet again, at last."
Light progressively came into the Throne Room. Nothing like the true brightness of a Dornish Sun or the one lightening King's Landing, more like the moment when the sun is setting and night has not completely fallen on a world. Penumbra was the right word for the circumstances.
For the first time, Elia was able to discern the mass of the Iron Throne at the end of the kilometre-long and extravagant avenue. The ugly black mass was as dark as five days ago when she last set a foot here. The million swords of the Great Surrender, taken upon the Field of Fire and uncountable battlefields by negotiations or the force of arms. Forged by the fire of the Black Dread and thousands of forge-masters in a long mass of sharp edges where no human could sit comfortably.
But no Dornish weapons have taken their place here. The Dragons were already dead when we joined the realm. Unbowed, unbent, unbroken.
On this seat was a man in red and black battle-armour, with the red dragon of House Targaryen. Startled, Elia Martell recognised Aerys II after several seconds. Yet it was the king...and it wasn't him. For the first time in ages, Rhaegar's father had cut his nails, his beard and his hair. Gone was the beast-human look, the Head of the Targaryen dynasty before Duskendale had returned. There was no madness in the violet eyes, just a hard, cold determination. The rides and the privations of the last couple of years had recessed.
"The Circle is now complete." Aerys affirmed, looking pleased at Elia's uneasiness discovering his new appearance.
"What happened to you?" Stammered the Princess of Dorne.
"Why does it matter? You have come to kill me, don't you?"
"You would have done the same a thousand times if you had the assurance your own son wouldn't kill you for the act."
Aerys nodded briefly.
"Perhaps...but was it truly me? Was I the one to wield the torches when the wolves burnt? Or did half of the court watched without moving one finger?" The former Mad King made a negative sign. "I was mad, I recognise it. What was the excuse of all those who obeyed my orders?"
"You were the King."
"The Starks, the Arryns and half of the realm beg to differ." Aerys smiled, a frank open smile that was more terrifying than anything else Elia had seen on this day. Damaged teeth were reflected by the artificial light. Silver hair shone in an unreal manner. A pale hand was agitated in denegation. "Exactly. Even Tywin, a man I was proud to call my friend, turned against me when my mind went troubled. But it doesn't matter. Nothing matters in the end."
"Nothing matters? Your own son madness doesn't concern you?"
Aerys fists tightened on the Iron Throne, drawing some blood, but the look of the king remained unrepentant...and tormented?
"I saw Him, Elia. He showed me his armies. He showed me His powers. He showed me what is waiting for us in the Void. Beyond the Wall, the Great Enemy has returned."
Elia was no great student of Westerosi history, but she knew what Aerys was referencing to.
"The Others..." The descendant of Nymeria whispered. Aerys nodded grimly.
"The Pact has been broken many times now. His Daughters are mustering for war...and humanity will not be able to stop them."
"Humanity won't bow to them. The First Men won against them once. We can win again." In the privacy of her own mind however, Elia didn't feel so certain. Assuming it wasn't one more aspect of Aerys folly, Westeros current civil war had created enough feuds and grudges to last a century or two. Uniting every Sector against the Others...I don't think a God would be able to do it.
Aerys reply was just a tired smile.
"I'm afraid they've learnt from their mistakes...the Wall will not stop them. This time even the Promised Hero may not be able to deliver us the victory. When the Dragons rise again, the Dead no longer sleep and the Heavens scream, they will come."
A deep silence fell in the Throne Room plunged partially in the shadows.
This is what is waiting the realm...the Long Night.
Finally Aerys broke the calm.
"I am Aerys Targaryen, King of Westeros, Protector of the Faith and Defender of the Realm. And you killed thousands of my soldiers, Elia Martell."
"And I would have killed thousand more to ensure Aegon and Rhaenys safety."
Aerys stood up from the throne, a massive vibro-blade in his right hand. "Your loyalty as a mother do you credit. As a Protector of the Realm, not at all. I'm afraid I'm going to insist for a duel."
"Really?"
After what you said, you just want to fight? Was the implicit accusation.
Aerys visage took a sheepish expression.
"My former soldiers are coming for us. One of us will die now...the other will have the pleasure to tell Stokeworth's cronies to go fuck themselves...if they can find of course the orifice appropriate for that."
No, that's not your reasoning. You don't want to give them the credit to kill you. You don't want them to see you sane a last time. They have failed you...you will not give them a last hope.
"In guard then." Replied Elia Martell, with the honorific bow preceding a duel, drawing her dagger and letting her rifle fall to the ground.
"Yes, in guard." Sighed the sovereign, who had finally reached the bottom of his awful throne. "Fire and Blood!"
At an impressive speed provided by his Dragon armour, the Lord and Master of Westeros raced into battle a last time, trying to come to grips with his opponent. In a few seconds, the Princess of Dorne realised that even a dagger against a vibro-sword, the odds were not in the King's favour.
His technique was sloppy, his reflexes inexistent due to decades passed bedding ladies, murdering people and governing Westeros. Each strike was given without precision or particular intent. The armour giving the speed was impressive, the flesh inside was not trained to the rigors of battle. Elia had fought constant skirmishes in the last hour, but she was in a better state than her adversary.
The King made a first mistake. But one was all what a woman trained by the Red Viper needed. The Valyrian dagger pulverised the Mark 7 and found Aerys' heart.
"Rhaella..."
Aerys fell against the floor at the very feet of the Iron Throne and stopped moving. For the first time in years, his face was serene in the dark pool of blood which was forming.
"Damn you, Aerys!" The Princess of Dorne released a tear. "Damn you for forcing me to end you while you were no longer insane!"
This whole affair...how did we come to this?
Breathing loudly to find a measure of calm, Elia took the vibro-sword of the fallen King and mounted the Iron Throne, an ascension that took her the better part of three minutes to avoid all the barbs and the sharp turns.
Once seated, a grimace came to her tired lips. In spite of wearing a comfortable battle-armour, the Throne was as prodigiously uncomfortable as it was said.
It's a wonder why people fight for it...
Loud noises mounted in the corridors at the entrance of the Throne Room. The weight of thousands armoured fists, running in her direction.
So this how it ends...
A mass of yellow battle-armoured soldiers erupted in her vision. As they were running, not walking, their progression towards the Throne was fluid, a gigantic snake of gold. Gold Fists, wearing dusty but more or less intact armours. Goldcloaks, wearing all sort of weapons, but their gold cloaks in lamentable conditions. There were a few Storm units with the red and white of Connington, but by far a minority in this sea of gold. More telling however, was the lack of officers. A smile came to Elia lips.
I see they've learnt Dornish snipers are not to be underestimated...
The most interesting thing however were the reactions when they saw the King dead and his murderess sat on his throne. Relief. Appreciation. Anger. Worry. Fear. Sadness. The Liege they had forsworn their oaths. The Princess they had mocked and vilified, aware her husband had chosen others high-born women to warm his bed.
"ELIA MARTELL!" The voice of Manly Stokeworth boomed from a megaphone, their owner waiting at the entrance of the room, clearly not wishing to close the distance.
"LAY DOWN YOUR WEAPONS AND SURRENDER!"
"I am Princess Elia Nymeros Martell. By my blade, your King and his Hand stand dead. What part of Unbowed, Unbent, Unbroken don't you understand?"
The ambiance in the Throne Room grew tenser and tenser after her clear declaration. Gold Fists and Goldcloaks tightened their rifles and their vibro-weapons. Fear was in their eyes.
The Lord of the Goldcloaks puffed like...like a puff-fish, the arrogance and the self-righteousness added. That it was visible a good kilometre away said very sad things about the lord's vanity.
"You do not leave me any choice, then. You are going to learn the price of your treason." His voice was not in the least sorry.
"I paid it the day I married in the Targaryen dynasty." Declared joyously Elia with a hint of melancholy. "Shall we dance?"
Rhaenys...Aegon...I love you. I will wait for you in the Heavens.
"In the name of King Rhaegar-" Began Lord Manly Stokeworth.
Elia didn't give him the time to finish his sentence, activating her dorsal reactors and raising high the vibro-sword in her hands a last time.
"Let the Galaxy burn!"
My Lady,
As I predicted in my last message, the System of King's Landing has been four days ago the theatre of a terrible and bloody coup.
While details are far from clear at this stage of my investigation, it is evident a three way-war between supporters of the Rapist, the Crazy One and Princess Elia Martell has been fought. Rapist forces, placed under the command of the no-longer-exiled Lord Jon Connington, have taken control of the entire System. The Royal Fleet and the army garrisoned on Visenya's moon rallied to his cause once the outcome of the coup was no longer in doubt.
What has been confirmed dress a very dark picture of the situation.
Dragon One, the central command hub of the orbital platforms, is gone, nuked to oblivion. A majority of space habitations in the vicinity, which were built in complete ignorance of the safety regulations, were total losses. King's Landing the City itself has been the battleground of a short but vicious civil war between the men and women of the three factions. The Rapist was clearly able to suborn a large majority of the Goldcloaks and the Gold Fists forces, but Princess Elia's subordinates had the quality to counter the numbers. The Crazy One supporters appeared to have been limited to the green maniacs and some ass-lickers with more stubbornness than sense.
Unfortunately, a large reserve force under the personal command of Connington intervened and rapidly convinced (by bribery, threat or outright murder) all the hesitating garrisons of the capital to join him. By that point, the numbers of Rapist supporters became overwhelming and all the quality in the world couldn't save their opponents.
The Alchemist Guild was wiped out, a fate that I will not shed a tear except to celebrate. The last Dornish soldiers retrenched themselves in the Red Keep, trying to inflict enough casualties to stalemate until an eventual cease-fire. It was at that moment Connington made a Behemoth leave Camp Daeron to breach the Eternity Gate.
As horrible as this order was, it proved effective and the Gate fell quickly (renovation efforts delayed for the last two decades may have played their role too I suspect). Some of the Dornish escaped by the infamous secret passages of the Red Keep when everything was lost. We will have to see if a few veterans in half-pay return from certain secret operations at Sunspear for the next couple of years.
The deaths of the Crazy One, Queen Rhaella Targaryen (cause of death: childbirth and the long sessions of rape her husband subjected her to) three members of the Small Council (Master of Coin, Master of Laws and Hand of the King) and Princess Elia Martell have been confirmed, the first having been killed by the latter, despite GTN best attempts to darken the snow. The Princess has sold dearly her life against hundreds of her Rapist-husband soldiers, but was eventually slain. It is a great loss to Dorne and the Realm as a whole.
The other members of the Royal family are in Jon Connington's custody including the Great Silent Wolf's twin nieces. Only the fate of Princess Rhaenys is unknown, with my best sources insisting her courageous mother managed to spirit her away before everything fell apart.
The number of casualties admitted at this hour by the authorities of King's Landing stands at an estimated 3 504 840, 46% of them being military ones. In my professional opinion, these figures are deliberately understated, as by my personal sources the true number of deaths may reach ten million by the time this week ends.
In the short-term, this operation, that I believe was code-named 'Downfall', do not represent a major strength decrease in the Loyalists war machine capacities.
The military factories of the King's Landing System are all intact. So are the shipyards and the main repair facilities. The majority of the Crown forces lost in this battle, with the notable exception of the Dragon One operative crew, are third-rate Gold Fists formations and Goldcloaks, which the dragon-lovers never intended to field against us except in the most desperate circumstances. One light cruiser, three scout cruisers and two escort carriers, along with two hundred and five starfighters have been lost. Less than a flotilla all told.
Loyalist relationships with Dorne are certain to degrade, but alas their army and their fleet were crippled at the Trident. Unless the Rapist has reached a new level of insanity and declares war on Dorne in the next days (something we can't exclude given the Targaryen dynasty past actions), the Southern rapport of force will be unchanged for the next months.
In the long-term, it is probable there is going to be a large source of resent in King's Landing, the Crown Sector and the Princedom of Dorne towards the Targaryen dynasty for these heinous actions. The march of the Behemoth for example, while no doubt a moral crusher and a battle-winning move, has killed hundreds of civilians and soldiers loyal to the Rapist, making our own friendly fire incidents at Ashford and the Battle of the Bells look like green troops mistakes. Possibility to create underground cells exists, and in my humble opinion should be exploited as soon as possible.
Your respectful servant,
The North remembers. The Dragons will die.
Coded transmission from Northern agent D4583 to Marshal Lyessa Flint, dated 16.08.283AAC.
Contrary to what you affirm, at no moment either me or the persons in my employ have noticed any Rebel activity actively or passively supporting the soldiers acting under Princess Elia Martell. I would advise you to abandon this issue...except we both know you won't. Now stop wasting my time.
Memo typed by Ser Alliser Thorne to Lord Jon Connington, dated 19.08.283AAC.
