The Narrow Sea…
For yet another night, Drakon could not sleep.
Whenever he tried, the world of dreams was closed to him. His thoughts were consumed with memories of Jayne, Edric, Edwyn, Daemon and Rhaenyra, and of Visenya. Drakon could hardly imagine the pain they had all gone through, likely thinking he was dead since the Siege of Meereen. Edric and Edwyn were strong, and Jayne was clever; he knew in his heart they would help maintain the peace he had forged.
He just had to get home and see them.
With the absence of sleep, Drakon put on a red shirt, left his cabin, and made his way up to the deck. Most of the other passengers were asleep, so the only people he encountered were the crew, who bowed as he passed. Ser Loras, ever vigilant, followed in his wake.
He soon emerged from the ship's interior. It was nighttime, and the stars twinkled between the clouds. A breeze whipped at Drakon's skin, but he never minded the cold. His blood always ran hot. Rhaegon and Maelion flew overhead, circling above the fleet. The golden hue of their wings glittered, even as they blocked whole swaths of stars at a time. The fleet stretched across the water, bearing the full might of the Golden Company as well as 2,000 of Samwell's troops from the Stormlands. The enemies of the Black Dragon would drown in blood and burn in fire.
Drakon paused in his ruminations. Was someone breathing behind him?
"Not many people can sneak up to me like that," he said, staring out across the water.
"I've had a lot of practice," Arya Stark replied. She stepped over to his side, placing her hands on the railing. She stared at the horizon, her brow creased.
"You can't sleep?"
She shook her head. "There's a part of me that still can't believe I'm going home after all this time. When I left, it seemed like there was nothing for me there. But now I know my sister and brothers are alive, and I can't wait to go home."
Drakon smiled. "I know the feeling."
"I spent all that time training, imagining what I would do to the people on my list."
Arching an eyebrow, Drakon asked "A list of people you were going to kill?"
"Yes."
"I had a list of my own, once. Crossing off those names was one of the proudest acts of my life."
"Did you really kill them all?" Arya asked.
"I killed a lot of people when I took the Iron Throne. Who was on your list?"
"Meryn Trant."
"My Dragon ate him in a Trial by Combat."
"Cersei."
"I burned her alive with Wildfire."
"Joffrey."
"Unfortunately, I had nothing to do with his death. That was the work of Olenna Tyrell."
"Illyn Payne."
"I took his head with his own sword. I thought it appropriate."
"The Mountain."
"Oberyn Martell stabbed him with a poisoned spear. I cut off his hands and his ears, cut out his eyes, knocked out his teeth, then stayed with him all night while he died slowly and painfully."
"Walder Frey."
"Your Great Uncle Brynden had him tied to four horses and ripped apart. I wiped out the rest of House Frey."
"Tywin Lannister."
"Shot with a crossbow by his own son while taking a shit."
"The Red Woman."
"Melisandre, Stannis' advisor? My wife sliced her throat open at Castle Black."
"Beric Dondarrion."
"No one heard from him or the rest of the Brotherhood before I left. With the realm largely at peace, I suppose there was no need for them. Maybe there is now." Drakon looked down at Arya, then added "I'm sorry I took them from you. More than anyone, I understand the need to see that sort of thing through yourself. I only—"
"Thank you."
Drakon stopped, furrowing his brow. "That's not the reaction I expected."
"I'm disappointed I never got the chance to kill them myself. I killed a few on my own, before I left. But now…I don't know. It almost seems like my path is open. All the people who destroyed my family and my life are gone, and now I can go home."
"You should know that Westeros is in some turmoil. There may be some need for your…unique skills before we can finally rest."
Arya smiled. "Valar Morghulis."
"Valar Dohaeris," Drakon said. "Here, I want to show you something." He drew the Valyrian Steel dagger he kept at the back of his belt, untying the sheath before holding it out to her. "An assassin used this dagger to try to murder your brother Brandon. It helped start the War of the Five Kings. I acquired it in King's Landing some time later. It's been very useful over the years."
He handed it to Arya, who drew the dagger from its sheath. Her eyes seemed to sparkle as she admired the weapon. "Valyrian Steel."
"The handle's made from Dragon bone," Drakon said.
"A fine weapon."
"It is. I want you to have it."
Arya looked up at him, shock etched across her face. "No, I can't."
"One does not simply refuse a king's gift," Drakon said, a playful smirk on his face. "It's yours. I have a feeling that it will serve you better. My fighting style has always been more about…brute force."
"Thank you," she said, looking at the dagger with a new appreciation.
"Now, since neither of us can sleep, and we're still days away from King's Landing, I suggest we pass the time with some training." Drakon took a sword from one of the nearby guards, then moved to the centre of the deck.
"Training?" Arya asked.
"Yes. Let's see if anything you learned from the Faceless Men can help you beat me. And don't feel bad when you lose; after all, I've only ever lost a duel twice in my entire life."
Arya's confusion morphed into quiet confidence, and she took the bait. The Stark girl came to stand in front of him, twirling the dagger in her hand. She was obviously getting a feel for it. Drakon entered a ready stance, then nodded. Arya came at him with surprising speed and ferocity, handling the dagger well despite her inexperience with it. Drakon parried or dodged most of her attacks with relative ease. She lunged, but he dodged, grabbed her wrist, and held his sword to her neck.
"Dead," he said.
Arya grunted, and they started again. This time, she hurled the dagger at him. Drakon barely dodged in time, and the dagger missed his nose by an inch before imbedding itself in the mast. Arya came at him with a series of jabs and kicks that would have likely incapacitated a lesser opponent. Drakon, however, was many times her size with a heavily muscular build. Her attacks smarted for a moment, but did not cause much harm. After blocking a jab to his throat, he kicked her feet out from under her, and she fell to the deck.
"Dead," he repeated, holding the tip of his sword to her throat.
She smacked the blade away, then spun on her back and hopped back to her feet.
"You're going to have to do better," Drakon said, turning his back to her. As expected, she fell for the obvious trap. He heard her quick footsteps, indicating that she ran towards him, before she leaped at him. Drakon waited a handful of seconds, then spun around, caught her by the throat, and slammed her into the deck.
She gasped for breath, and he said "When fighting a larger opponent, speed is key. Since you're smaller, you have avenues of attack that defeat my size and skill. You can't just come at me and expect to break through my defense; do the obvious, then surprise me with a different angle of attack."
He released his grip, and Arya breathed deeply before getting back to her feet.
"Again."
Winterfell…
Sansa's tears ran hot down her face. Her jaw quivered, and she sniffled, her breaths uneven.
Just a few days ago, there was reason to hope. Edric would have made peace with Jon, and the North would finally stabilize after years of war and betrayal. Margaery had given birth to a son, who she named Luthor after her grandfather. He had Edwyn's eyes, but every time she looked at the babe, Sansa could only see Edric.
Now, she stared down at his corpse.
Edric laid on a table in Maester Pyne's laboratory, dressed only in his smallclothes. The old Maester had let her see him after he finished cleaning the body. Edric's body contained many scars and bruises, some of them contributing to his death. His left thigh had a long gash from an axe wound, and he had three holes in his chest from the arrows and crossbow bolt Ludd Whitehill and his men had put into him.
Sansa only wished she could have killed Ludd. It would have given her much pleasure to have Brienne cut him in half. Only it would not.
Edric looked almost…peaceful. He wore no bandage over his eye, having finally come to terms with what Ramsay did to him. His shoulder-length hair was pulled back, and his beard was finely groomed. Her husband looked every bit the strong, noble lord he always wanted to be. Sansa stood over him, unable to stop crying for several minutes now. She thought she lost him in the Wolfswood, killed by one of Jon's men, only to discover he was still alive.
Why did the gods decide to spare him, only to take him from her in the next instant?
She touched a hand to her growing belly. Before long, her child would be born, and now she had to face the prospect of raising it herself. Sansa questioned whether she had the strength for it; looking back on her life, she always needed her mother and father both, not that she realized it at the time. Sansa could play the game well, dealing with nobles and knights and schemes, but raising a child was one of the hardest things in the world. Could she raise a strong, honourable son or a kind, wise daughter by herself?
The door creaked open, and Brienne entered. Behind her was Jon, the bruises from the ambush at the Wolfswood still visible. "Sansa," he said, his voice quiet. When she said nothing, he continued. "I'm so sorry. I wish I could go back. I wish—"
"Why did you have to fight?"
Jon stopped.
Sansa looked at him, her eyes red and puffy. "Why did you have to fight? Why couldn't you sit down and talk? Instead you let your pride and your bravado lead you into a war that didn't need to happen."
"As much as I want to go back and change things, I can't. It's done."
"You and half the North fought Edric and half the North. You fought a war over who should rule and which grudge was the most recent. My husband died because both of you were stupid! This is what happens when matters of honour and politics cause men to take up arms: families torn apart, husbands and brothers and fathers never coming home because they all want to prove who's stronger!"
Sansa broke down, sobbing, and Jon rushed to wrap his arms around her. She wept into his shoulder, and he said nothing, merely holding her tight.
"I want him back!" she croaked.
"I know," Jon said. There was nothing he could do or say to make her feel better. They stood there for some time, while Brienne kept a respectful silence. Eventually, Jon said "I should head back to the great hall. Many of the Northern lords still bear heavy grudges, and they all need to start working together. It's what Edric would have wanted."
Sansa nodded, wiping her eyes. "You go ahead. I'll stay a bit longer."
Jon nodded, then departed. As he walked out the door, Maester Pyne walked in, bowing his head. "My lady," he greeted solemnly.
"What can I do for you, Maester?" Sansa asked, sniffling.
"Before Lord Edric departed for the Wolfswood, he gave me this." The old man produced a letter from his robe, holding it out to her. "He wanted you to read it, in the event that he…"
"Never came home."
Maester Pyne nodded. "My lady," he said, bowing before closing the door behind him.
Sansa broke the black Direwolf seal on the letter, then unfolded it.
Sansa
If all goes well, you'll never have to read this. But, should something happen to me, I want you to know how I truly feel.
I spent most of my life training to become a knight. My father plotted for twenty years to avenge his brother and see a Targaryen on the Iron Throne. On some level, I always knew I would become a lord, but I never expected to become Warden of the North at seventeen. I almost did not accept, until I met you.
I've loved you from the first moment I saw you, and I knew in that moment that I would accept my father's offer because it meant I could be with you. Those first few months were hard, knowing you were so guarded around me. I wished with all my soul that you could love me back. When you finally reciprocated my feelings, you cannot imagine how overjoyed I was. You were there to comfort me when my father died, and I hope that, in my own small way, I was there for you as you moved on from your past.
If you should be reading this letter, then I'm sorry I could not come home to you. I wish, more than anything, to see my child born. The day you told me you were pregnant was the happiest day of my life. I know you will be a wonderful mother, and I am certain our son or daughter will become a Lord or Lady of Winterfell that your ancestors would have been proud of.
If we have a boy, I want to call him Eddard. And if we have a girl, I want to call her Catelyn. I can think of no better names to give our child strength and courage. After all, your parents raised a brilliant, strong, beautiful daughter. If all goes well in the coming days, I will tell you this myself. If not, then I hope you can forgive me.
Love,
Edric
Sansa's tears fell on the parchment as she read its contents. When she finished, she held it against her chest, then leaned down and kissed Edric on the lips one last time. She stayed with her husband for the rest of the day, not wanting him to be alone.
Bitterbridge…
Edwyn pulled on the reins of his horse, stopping it. He held up a fist, and his soldiers stopped as well. 25,000 men had accompanied him from Highgarden, along with 8,000 Stormlanders that returned to Westeros with him from Meereen. More than twice the numbers of the Darklyte host, and Edwyn hoped that he had acted quickly enough to catch them off-guard.
He could see a field of tents outside Bitterbridge. Banners depicting the black flame on a blue background of House Darklyte. By his count, Edwyn figured that this was only a fraction of the enemy army. Probably just an advance force meant to secure the area before they marshaled their strength and advanced on King's Landing. The camp was situated next to the river, which created the perfect opportunity.
"Have the infantry form up and march on the camp," he told his commanders. "I'll lead a cavalry charge on their flanks."
His soldiers quickly formed, marching towards the enemy camp. The Darklyte forces mobilized in response, but they were outnumbered. Archers loosed arrow volleys, pikemen advanced, and both armies entered into a melee. As his infantry fought the enemy head-on, Edwyn drew his sword and shouted. The cavalry force behind him did the same, and he kicked his horse into a gallop. They charged towards the camp, causing the ground to quake all around them.
A few enemy soldiers tried to meet them head-on, but they were crushed in moments. Most of the Darklyte troops in the camp dropped their weapons on the ground and ran for their lives.
Edwyn slashed a Darklyte man across the neck, killing him in a single stroke. He kicked his horse, prompting it to ride faster. The cavalry force tore through soldiers and tents alike; they were an unstoppable horde that would trample all who opposed them under foot and hoof. Edwyn was finally redeeming himself for his past humiliations: tricked into killing his own Smallfolk in battle and poisoned by that Darklyte bitch, and before that when he spent weeks in a cell in Meereen. He would not dishonour his father's memory. He would not! Edwyn would not be the weak link in the Blackfyre dynasty.
A spear pierced his horse's chest. The animal shrieked in final agony, throwing Edwyn to the ground as it collapsed and barreled into a tent.
Edwyn shook his head, trying to make sense of events. Half his face was covered in dirt, while his knuckles burned with fresh scrapes. What the fuck just happened? He cast his gaze around the battlefield, breathing a sigh of relief at the sight of his cavalry still fighting. With a start, he realized that he'd ridden well beyond his infantry.
A Darklyte soldier rushed him, swinging a sword. Shouting, Edwyn threw himself into the fight, blocking the man's initial strikes before gutting him like a roast pig.
"On me!" he called to his men.
Something slammed into his back, throwing him onto the ground. Edwyn rolled over to see a knight bearing the black Manticore crest of House Lorch standing over him, sword poised for a killing blow. A sword tip emerged from his throat, and the knight coughed blood, shock etched on his face. He collapsed, dead, revealing a ginger man mounted on a horse, sword tip covered in scarlet.
"My thanks, Ser Ronnet," Edwyn told the head of House Connington.
"Think nothing of it, my lord," the knight replied, dismounting and helping him stand. "Though, might I suggest sticking with your men? Less easy to murder you that way."
Edwyn snorted, wiping the dirt from his face.
The clamour of battle sounded closer, which meant Edwyn's men were winning the battle on the field. He only needed to force his way through the camp to meet them. From there, they would scour the area of any Darklyte forces. "With me, move!" he cried, walking towards the nearest group of enemy soldiers.
The fighting was fierce; for every inch of ground gained, the Darklytes made them pay for it. They fought with such surety that Edwyn begrudgingly respected them for it. In their place, he would have fought to the bitter end as well.
Burying his sword in a man's gut, Edwyn grabbed a spear and ran it through the throat of another. He was gripped with anger and righteous fury, unable to stop himself from killing every man he saw. Edwyn Blackfyre was not the weak link, and he would stamp out this rebellion once and for all in his father's name.
A startled cry drew his attention to the left, where he saw an impossibly tall warrior kill two Oakheart soldiers.
"Saernys," Edwyn hissed. "I want that miserable cunt alive!" he told his men.
They rushed towards her, weapons drawn. Saernys slashed her Valyrian Steel sword, cutting two men in the face. The weapon's tip cut through the metal helmets like soft butter, spattering blood on a nearby barrel. She parried the strike of a Blackfyre soldier, then drew a dagger with her free hand and drove it into the eye of another soldier.
Edwyn growled. He ran over to the nearest horse, pulling its rider to the ground and mounting it. He then kicked it into a charge, keeping his eyes focused on his nemesis. She parried another strike, but flinched from a cut to her leg, hindering her movement. Edwyn's horse smashed into her, and she fell backwards into a tent, collapsing it from her excessive height and the weight of her armour.
"Bind her!" Edwyn barked, pointing at her with his sword. His men piled onto the Darklyte woman, holding her arms and legs as Ser Ronnet Connington disarmed her of her Valyrian Steel sword. By the time he dismounted, his men were binding her wrists in rope. Edwyn sheathed his sword, then removed her helmet. "Your poison failed to kill me."
Saernys, her brown hair clinging to her forehead from sweat, looked at him with a casual expression. Even on her knees, she was tall enough to nearly look him in the eye. "It would seem you're made of sterner stuff than I thought." She glanced at the greater battle. "Well done on catching me unawares. You've proven yourself a capable commander."
"I've crushed your advance force," Edwyn said. "And with you as my hostage, your father will end his rebellion if he ever wants to see you again."
"Nothing is as it seems, Edwyn Blackfyre," she warned. "Greater men and women than you or I have fallen to lesser sins than glory mongering."
Edwyn clenched his teeth together. "Get her out of my sight."
Blackfyre soldiers tied Saernys to a post in a tent, but not before stripping her armour. She tried to resist when they took Dark Drinker, but all that got her was a punch to the face and a kick to the stomach. Once she was bound, one of them spat on her. They left her alone, standing guard outside the tent.
Saernys sat against the post, her body throbbing with pain. Her torso was covered in a field of dark bruises from being hit with a horse; even with armour on, that hurt. As the hours passed, and day morphed into night, Saernys replayed the events of the battle.
How in seven hells did Edwyn Blackfyre discern her location? He'd lead a sizeable army here in less than a week.
If all had gone according to plan, Saernys would have established an effective battlefield, one which she could lure the young Blackfyre into. Having drawn his army away and defeating him, she would simply waltz up to Highgarden and take the Reach's capital, securing its vast wealth. Now, those plans were stillborn. Thankfully, the majority of her army was elsewhere, securing more conscripts and resources for the war effort.
Saernys lost track of how long she remained tied to the post. The cut on her leg stung, and her many bruises ached.
Were those footsteps outside? Had Edwyn Blackfyre come to gloat further?
"I wish to see the prisoner."
That wasn't him. Someone else…
"I'm sorry, Ser," one of her guards said. "Lord Blackfyre's orders. No one's to see her without his express permission."
"Of course, of course," the first man said. "Good man."
Saernys heard a blade being drawn, then a squelch and a surprised gurgle. More commotion, then several thumps as bodies hit the ground. The tent flap opened to reveal a husky man with a long red beard and long red hair. His tunic was emblazoned with twin griffins, white and red on opposite-coloured backgrounds. "My lady," Ser Ronnet Connington greeted, wiping his bloody knife on his sleeve.
"Took you bloody long enough," Saernys said.
The knight, accompanied by three men wearing his House's colours, cut her bonds. "Blackfyre caught us all by surprise. I didn't have sufficient time to warn you."
He helped Saernys to her feet. "How did he know to come here?"
"Said he had a dream about it while recovering from your poison."
Saernys nodded in understanding. "Of course…Dragon Dreams. I thought only full-blooded Dragons could have them."
"Regardless, we must get you to safety, my lady," Ser Ronnet said, gesturing to his men. "I've extended your offer to those knights and lords of the Stormlands willing to listen. Those that won't are being taken care of as we speak. Nearly all of the men of the Stormlands here will pledge their loyalty to you."
Saernys smiled. Sending secret missives to Ser Ronnet and the other Stormlands commanders had been a risky move, one that could have exposed her position, but the fruit it bore was oh so sweet. Ser Ronnet handed her Dark Drinker in its sheath. Saernys kissed the handle of the weapon, relieved to have her family's ancestral weapon back; she would never forgive herself if she lost it to her enemies.
"Excellent. You will be well rewarded, I can assure you. Now, time to breath some fire, I think."
They walked out of the tent, the Connington men brandishing swords and torches. One of them waved a torch, signalling other sympathizers. All around them, men loyal to House Blackfyre of Highgarden were stabbed or had their throats slit. Torches were held to the bottoms of tents, which quickly caught flame. It was several minutes before the first alarms rang, and by then the camp was in full chaos.
Saernys drew Dark Drinker, partaking in the bloody anarchy. After suffering such a humiliating defeat, it felt good to strike back against her enemies in so deadly a fashion. The Stormlanders joined her family for a number of reasons: vengeance for their murdered liege lord, Stannis Baratheon, opportunistic greed, or genuine trust that her House was a better bet than the remaining Blackfyres. Whatever the reason, she now had thousands of reinforcements to her family's cause.
"There!" Ser Ronnet cried, pointing.
Saernys noticed what he saw: Edwyn Blackfyre and a retinue of guards fighting through a thicket of Darklyte sympathizers. Her first thought was to strike at him now, cut off the head of her enemy's army. But a quick glance showed her that the Blackfyre forces were mobilizing. They still outnumbered her troops over three to one.
"Leave him," she said. "We need to get out of here, now. Retreat to Ashford!"
With all haste, Saernys and whatever Darklyte soldiers remained, plus the 8,000 men of the Stormlands, fought their way out of the Blackfyre camp. They rode hard for a day and night, reaching the safety of Ashford. Saernys allowed herself to breathe a sigh of relief, letting a Maester treat her injuries and the servants draw her a bath. Two days after being defeated and captured, she retired to her chambers, resting on freshly cleaned sheets.
Her comfort was shattered when a raven arrived, bearing a message.
It was from Gae. Saernys tore the letter open, eager to hear news of how he'd secured the services of the mighty Golden Company. With them fighting for the Darklyte cause, Westeros would submit in a matter of months.
Instead, what she read pierced her heart with a bolt of shock, disbelief, and more than a bit of fear. Her brother's letter contained a single sentence, but it was enough to change the entire war for her family's ascendance to the throne.
Drakon Blackfyre lives.
King's Landing…
"Are you prepared to devote yourself fully to the gods? To place yourself at their whims?"
The High Sparrow looked down at the young man lying prostrate before him. Like so many others in the past months, he had been divinely inspired by the Seven to mete out their judgement. Hundreds of the faithful were gathered in the Sept of Baelor; the Faith Militant, garbed in black and armed with sword and mace, and countless nobles who held true to the faith.
"I am, Holiness," the young man replied. "I wish to be guided by the Seven in this life, so that I may join them in the next."
The High Sparrow smiled. "And so it shall be." He nodded to members of the Faith Militant, who grabbed the young man and held him by the arms. One of them drew a knife and, holding the young man by the neck, began to carve the seven-pointed star into his forehead.
The legions of the faithful had risen in King's Landing, and the people were finally free of sin. The incestuous, black-hearted queen had fled, unable to face the consequences of her blasphemy. The High Sparrow had done good work in the capital, and soon, he would see that the corruption and depravity were cleansed. All the sinners in all the kingdoms would be purged, by sword and by fire, starting with the blasphemous king and queen's children. The offspring of sin could not be allowed to live and spread their taint. The light of the Seven would shine on them for eternity.
They all froze as a monstrous roar thundered from the heavens.
There it was.
After being absent for over a year, Drakon had finally returned to King's Landing. The city looked normal from the outside, but he knew that within festered the rotten disease of rebellion. Many had grown bold with news of his demise, and this was only one place of many that rose up against him.
Drakon would purge the corruption with fire.
"I haven't been here in so long," Arya said as she stood beside him.
"I grew up here. King Aerys had me confined to the lower levels of the Red Keep like a dirty secret he wanted kept from his enemies. I moved through the tunnels and sewers like a rat forbidden from seeing the light of the sun."
She looked up at him. "Now you descend on them as a mighty Dragon."
"Yes." Drakon walked down to the deck, where the soldiers of the Golden Company stood, perfectly assembled. The entire company was prepared on every ship, ready to dispense the king's justice. Rhaegon and Maelion flew over King's Landing, their roars announcing the return of the rightful king. Drakon walked over to Harry, who stood by one of the boats. "Take back my city," he commanded. "Kill anyone who stands in your way."
"Yes, Your Grace," Harry said, bowing. He then put on his helmet and said to his men "Take the city in the name of your king!"
The soldiers raised their spears and shouted twice, then began boarding the boats. Flagbearers signaled the other ships, relaying the order, and soon dozens of boats rowed towards the docks and the shore. They were underway in minutes, speaking to the efficiency the company was infamous for. Drakon stood at the ship's bow, Arya, Ser Loras, and Samwell by his side, staring out at his advancing army.
As the boats neared the shore, they were sporadically fired on by archers along the walls. Evidently, many of the Goldcloaks were involved in this rebellion. The arrows did no serious harm, however, as the soldiers on the boats raised shields. Between that and their fine armour, only a handful of men died or suffered injuries. They soon reached the shore, and the soldiers hopped onto the sand before forming into groups. Their officers called for shields, and they raised them to create shield walls.
The formations slowly marched towards the walls, fired on the whole way. Like Stannis Baratheon, Drakon directed his army to strike at the Mud Gate. Unlike Stannis, he would not face the sudden appearance of Lannister and Tyrell cavalry.
King's Landing would submit, and all those who resisted would die.
The soldiers of the Golden Company reached the walls, where the traitorous Goldcloaks threw large rocks at them. Their shields held, and many ran ladders over to their comrades. Many archers crouched by the boats and fired arrows of their own at the men atop the battlements, diverting attention away from the infantry. Men began to climb the ladders one after another, and many died when rocks struck their face or arrows pierced their necks or underarms.
A second wave of boats soon beached, and one of them bore a large battering ram. It had been carved during the voyage from Braavos, and its head was in the shape of a Dragon. Once the ram was at the gate, a half-dozen men were quick to begin hammering the Mud Gate.
Drakon watched the siege proceed, his eyes scanning the extent of the engagement. He had recruited many of the Goldcloaks himself, back in the days before his assumption of the throne. But as skilled as they were, their experience was limited to dealing with angry drunks and the odd murderer. Here, they faced the most disciplined soldiers in the world, and they stood no chance. Within minutes, the Mud Gate burst open, and his soldiers started pouring through the breach.
With a smile on his face, he said to the others "Come, let's go ashore."
The four of them, plus Nymeria, boarded the last remaining boat. By the time they disembarked, most of the initial landing force was within the city walls. As Drakon passed through the Mud Gate, he looked down at the corpses lining the courtyard. The majority of them were Goldcloaks.
"Rewarded as traitors deserve," he spat. There was no way Ser Hugo could have betrayed him, so his old friend was either imprisoned or dead. Both options saddened Drakon, but he did not let that eat at his resolve.
Now within the streets of King's Landing, the Golden Company soldiers formed into tight phalanxes. In some areas, they walked up to five men abreast, while some had to walk single file through tighter alleys. They were met by Sparrows wearing long, black wool shirts with chains wrapped around and wielding anything from clubs to swords. The fanatics simply walked towards the phalanxes, unafraid to face certain death, all the while chanting phrases from the Seven-Pointed Star.
For their part, the Golden Company soldiers halted, driving their spears into the enemy's front ranks and gutting several men at a time. The soldiers in the rear would fire arrows, softening up their targets for the pikemen.
Every time the phalanxes would halt, they would all cry "Beneath the gold," kill several fanatics, then finish with "The bitter steel!" The company's motto echoed through the streets of King's Landing as the Sparrows were trampled underfoot. "Beneath the gold, the bitter steel!"
The Dragons intervened a few times. One particular unit of the Golden Company faced a large gathering of Sparrows. Rhaegon landed on a building behind them and doused them in Dragonfire. They roasted in seconds, burned to ash. Even their weapons, some of which were the finest steel in King's Landing, melted into nothing. Along the Street of Silk, Maelion dipped his head between the buildings and chomped on a Sparrow, feasting on him before dispersing the man's comrades with a tail swipe.
Drakon and his companions calmly strode through the streets, passing by the corpses of defeated Sparrows and traitorous Goldcloaks. This purge was meant to be final, and hopefully the memory of it would discourage similar acts for another century.
They came close to the Sept of Baelor, and Drakon looked down at Arya. "Care to test your new skills?"
She smiled, drawing her Valyrian Steel dagger and running off into the shadows.
Drakon resumed walking. Another turn would take him to the Sept. He drew Blackfyre and Dark Sister, swinging them to get a feel after such a long recovery. "I need to kill something," he said. Rounding a corner, he came within sight of the Sept of Baelor, where his troops converged. The remaining Sparrows were assembled on the stairs leading to the great structure, armed and prepared for a final stand.
Drakon would have it no other way.
He led the charge, along with Samwell and Ser Loras. The Golden Company surged forward, smashing into the Sparrows, and a fierce struggle erupted. Drakon swung his Valyrian Steel swords with the grace of a ribbon dancer, cleaving through flesh and bone with laughable ease. Between his skill and significant strength advantage, none could survive even a single blow. Samwell cleaved men in half with Brightroar while Nymeria tore open throats or bit into ankles to create openings, and Ser Loras demonstrated ample skill with his blade.
Sparing a glance at the Sept, Drakon saw the High Sparrow watching the battle unfold, guarded by seven Sparrows. The old man glared at him, but given that his forces were being slaughtered, his wrath was impotent.
As they neared the High Sparrow, Drakon noticed a tall, severe-looking Septa approaching him. She had the demeanor of a military officer rather than the gentle-yet-firm Septas Drakon had known. She stood beside the High Sparrow, appraising the battlefield with a stern gaze. As Drakon carved a Sparrow from groin to neck, spilling the man's guts onto the steps, he saw the Septa whisper something in the High Sparrow's ear. The old man looked at her, shock written on his face.
The Septa drew the Valyrian Steel dagger.
The seven Sparrows barely had time to draw their weapons before the tall woman slashed and stabbed them in short order. She then grabbed her chin and pulled her face off, revealing Arya Stark's face. The little wolf held her dagger to the High Sparrow's throat.
Covered in blood, Drakon ascended the steps until he was face-to-face with his former ally while his troops rounded up the remaining Sparrows. "It seems your gods have abandoned you."
"They are with me, always. The Seven reward those with the strength to fight for what is sacred."
Drakon shook his head. "So sanctimonious, even at the end. You and your fanatics drove my family away, plunged this city into chaos. For what? Holiness? Justice?"
"Your children were born out of sin," the High Sparrow spat, his eyes burning with disgust. "To allow them to live would have been a greater offence to the gods than anything you or your sister have done."
Drakon headbutted the old man, hearing the crack of his nose breaking. The High Sparrow stumbled backwards, but Arya stilled him.
"Thank you, High Sparrow," Drakon said, his tone even. "Thank you for showing me what I needed to see. The Faith of the Seven has long bound the realm in a shared belief. It has unified our people and continues to provide comfort to the millions who call Westeros home. But not for me. You have showed me that your gods have no say in a king's matters. Therefore, I, Drakon of the House Blackfyre, First of My Name, King of the Andals and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, Protector of the Realm, and Father of Dragons, do sentence you and your followers to death. I also condemn the Great Sept of Baelor to be demolished. From this day forth, the Faith of the Seven shall no longer be the official faith of the royal family and the realm."
"You would profane this holy place by spilling the blood of the faithful and tearing down these stones?"
Rhaegon and Maelion landed on buildings on either side of the steps leading to the Sept. Together, they roared, baring their arm-long teeth to those who rebelled against their father.
"I had something more…immediate in mind," Drakon said with a smirk. The High Sparrow's look of horror gave him distinct pleasure. "Take His Holiness and the rest of his Sparrows inside, then chain them to the statues of their precious Seven." Arya and the men of the Golden Company complied with the order, imprisoning the fanatics in their sanctum.
Once his troops were clear of the structure, Drakon made his way to the bottom of the steps. He then pointed at the Sept with Blackfyre and cried "Dracarys!"
Rhaegon and Maelion reared their heads back, then breathed large plumes of Dragonfire. The Great Sept of Baelor, constructed by Drakon's ancestor centuries ago, was consumed. The flames danced across the stone structure as the roof and walls collapsed under the unstoppable force of the Dragons' breath. Within minutes, it was nothing more than a pile of rubble that belched a black smoke cloud into the sky.
With the city secure, Drakon and his companions rode to the Red Keep. Golden Company soldiers marched through the streets, while the Smallfolk cautiously peered out their windows and doors. Some openly cheered his return, but most were quiet. They feared him, particularly his army and his Dragons. When he came within sight of the Red Keep, Drakon stopped. He felt his heart skip a beat, and all breath left his lungs as a chill pierced his gut.
Hanging atop the main gate of the keep was Rona.
Her clothes were in tatters, her body covered in blisters and sores. Rona's face, once handsome and calculating, was unrecognizable amid blackened burns and melted skin.
"Did you know her?" Arya asked.
"Yes," Drakon replied. "She was my best friend. She introduced me to my first wife."
"Someone has betrayed you, Your Grace," Samwell said. "That is the only explanation."
Drakon nodded. "Yes. Whomever that person is, I will make them suffer a thousand deaths." Turning to Jon Connington, he said "Cut her down. We will give her a proper burial once order is restored."
Within the Red Keep, Drakon found a welcoming of sorts in the throne room. Lady Olenna and her son Mace stood by the Iron Throne. Ser Bronn, Tyrion Lannister's former enforcer, paced by the doors. Simon was nowhere to be seen, and neither was Ser Hugo. As Visenya had fled the city, Drakon guessed the remainder of the Kingsguard were with her and their children.
"Your Grace," Ser Bronn said as soon as Drakon walked into the room. "Your wife and I had an arrangement, and that—"
"She made you Lord Commander of the City Watch."
The knight paused, then said "Aye, she did."
"I take it that Ser Hugo is dead. He would never have allowed the Sparrows to cause such chaos otherwise." When the knight nodded, Drakon said "This day extracts a heavy toll."
"Yes, it does, Your Grace. Now, about the arrangement I had with—"
Drakon held up a finger, and Ser Bronn stopped talking. "You will be compensated for loyal service, that I can assure you. I will even allow you to keep your appointment as Lord Commander of the City Watch. So long as you refrain from speaking another word in my presence until I bid you to speak. I find myself lacking the patience required to deal with talkative fools."
He left the knight to think, approaching the Tyrell matriarch and her oaf of a son. "Well, it seems no one truly stays dead anymore," Lady Olenna quipped. "When we heard you'd fallen a great height from your Dragon, we thought that was that. Imagine our surprise."
"It gladdens me to know that you cared so much, my lady," Drakon said sardonically. "I thought my return home would be a joyous occasion, and yet I learn that two of my most trustworthy friends and allies have been murdered. What do you have to say to that?"
"Your Grace, I—" Mace Tyrell started to say.
"I was talking to your mother, not you."
The heavyset man shut his mouth, while the Lady Olenna said "It's all rather unfortunate. Ser Hugo found himself the victim of corruption in his own ranks, while Rona was burned alive with Wildfire in a Black Cell after she'd been found guilty of treason."
"Treason?" Drakon asked. "Impossible."
"Yet it was discovered that she was responsible for spreading rumours about your wife. Rumours that she is secretly your sister, and your children are therefore born of incest."
Drakon narrowed his eyelids, taking a step towards the old woman. "Take care, my lady."
She waved it off. "Oh, it really doesn't matter much anymore. Before any kind of sentence could be carried out, Rona was murdered in her cell. The next day, Simon Groat was nowhere to be found. It seems he has left the city."
"Simon. That greedy little worm." Drakon cast his gaze about the throne room, glancing at the skulls of the Targaryen Dragons before his eyes settled on the Iron Throne. "Retaking King's Landing was only the first step. Apparently, much of my realm has rebelled against my rule. There needs to be correction, a restoration of balance. Tomorrow we convene the Small Council. Until then, you are all dismissed." Everyone, apart from Ser Loras, walked out of the throne room. "Arya," Drakon said, turning to look at the Stark girl. "Come with me."
He led her through the halls of the Red Keep, past loyal Goldcloaks and Golden Company soldiers. "Where are we going?" she asked him.
"Rona has been my spymaster for decades. She kept a trove of my most important secrets. If Simon has betrayed me, then he was bought by a rival. Any rival who knew enough to turn him would know that the information she collected could be used against me."
They soon arrived at Rona's office. The door was cracked open, and when Drakon opened it, he saw that the room had been torn upside down. The desk was overturned, the shelves broken and their contents spilled over the floor, and pages had been torn from all the books. Most of it was rather trivial, mere bits and pieces of information regarding the Great Houses and those lords and ladies worth spying on. The real prize was hidden under a floor tile, behind the desk.
It was open.
"No, no, no…" Drakon said, kneeling beside the tile as he reached into the empty space it formerly covered. There was nothing, no scrolls or letters. All of it was gone.
"I'm guessing they have your secrets," Arya said.
"We need to get to the Twins."
"The Twins? Why?"
Drakon looked at her and replied "Because your brother Rickon is there, and his life is now in danger." Less than half an hour later, Drakon and Arya mounted Rhaegon's back as the silver and gold Dragon soared away from the capital.
Meereen…
Daenerys, still dressed in her Dothraki outfit, stood in front of her throne. At the base of the steps, two of the horse-lords held Daario by the shoulders, their Arakhs drawn.
Olene, standing beside the queen, frowned. She leaned close to Daenerys and said "Your Grace, what is this about? Has Daario done something wrong?"
"Not something. Everything."
The Braavosi took a step back, looking down at her comrade. She found it hard to believe that he would betray their queen, given how devoted he was. Daario, just like Ser Jorah, was in love with her. Love made men do stupid things, but treason? Olene and the others were still basking in their victory over the Masters and the Sons of the Harpy. Finally, Slaver's Bay was freed from the yoke of tyranny.
"Your Grace," Daario said, "if I have offended you, then—"
"Offense is one word for it," Tyrion interjected. "Another would be treason. Betrayal. Self-interest."
"I wasn't talking to you, dwarf!" Daario spat.
"That's enough!" The throne room grew silent, and all eyes turned to the queen, who looked furious. "Do you deny that you helped found the Sons of the Harpy, and were responsible for all the atrocities they committed in my city?"
"What? Of course I deny it! How could you even think that I…" Daario trailed off, then looked at Tyrion. "You believe him? He's only been here a short time; I've been with you longer. I claimed Yunkai in your name, I fought the Masters' Champion in your name."
"And yet, you claimed to lead the Sons of the Harpy in the Masters' name," Lord Varys said. "You made them believe you wanted our queen dead, that you were a simple Sellsword who would do their bidding if paid well enough. You certainly had us fooled, for a time."
Daario looked up at the queen. "You're really going to listen to all this? After everything I've done for you?"
"Everything you've done for me?" Daenerys asked, incredulous. "You betrayed me, facilitated the murder of hundreds of my subjects, and you expect me to be grateful?"
"None of them matter. Not one of them." Daario tried to stand, but one of the Dothraki elbowed him in the face while the other kicked him in the leg. He fell back to his knees. "You are all that matters. You are a queen. You are a conqueror. The Masters, the slaves, the Westerosi, they are all nothing before you. What does it matter if some of them die on your path to glory?"
Olene's mouth fell open. How could he be so callous, after everything he had seen? How could he expect the queen to agree with him?
For her part, the queen looked remarkably calm. But Olene knew her well enough to recognize the simmering volcano of rage bubbling inside her. "You claim to fight in my name, and yet you've learned nothing about what I stand for. I kill only my enemies, those who would grow fat and rich on the backs of others. I aim to free, not to enslave or murder. You seem to have lost sight of that."
"I love you," Daario said. "From the first moment I saw you, I loved you. All that mattered in this world was you and me. If a few slaves had to die, then so what? I gave you all the incentive in the world to exterminate the Masters for good."
The queen stood up and slowly walked down the steps. Olene was close by, a hand on her rapier.
"You betrayed me," she said, her voice soft yet burning. "You had my citizens and soldiers slaughtered like animals in the streets, all the while feigning loyalty. You went behind my back to attack Drakon Blackfyre, starting a war that devastated this city. Everything you have done has harmed me and my allies."
"Daenerys, I love you—"
"Love? This is not love. All you understand is what makes you feel better, regardless of how others feel. You grew up surviving the Fighting Pits and became a Sellsword by being selfish and never exercising true loyalty to anyone. There are those whose love is unconditional, who would lay down their lives for others without regard for themselves. That is love, Daario Neharis. That is something you will never understand."
The queen turned to look at Olene, who nodded at the unspoken command. The Braavosi stepped forward, drawing her rapier.
Daario smirked. "I'll make sure to give Kovarro my—"
Olene drove her rapier through the Sellsword's lying mouth and through the back of his skull. She withdrew the blade and sheathed it in one clean motion, and the Dothraki released their grip as Daario's corpse slumped onto the floor.
Olene looked back at the queen, who sneered at her traitorous advisor before turning around and walking away.
Later, the queen met with Tyrion in her chambers. The relief of victory was still clouded with the revelation of Daario's betrayal. They shared a pitcher of wine, and after an intolerable silence, Tyrion said "I know that was difficult. Executing a man you've known for years. But if it's any consolation, you made his death quick, not drawn out and agonizing like your father would have done."
"It's not," the queen said dryly.
"No, I suppose not. I'm terrible at consoling."
The queen smirked. "Yes, you really are."
"Alright. How about the fact that this is actually happening? You have your armies. You have your ships. You have your Dragons. Everything you've ever wanted since you were old enough to want anything. It's all yours for the taking. Are you afraid?"
Olene saw the queen nod.
"Good. You're in the Great Game now, and the Great Game is terrifying. The only people who aren't afraid of failure are madmen like your father, or tyrants like Drakon Blackfyre."
The queen gave him a heavy look. "Do you know what frightens me? I ordered the death of a man who loved me. A man I thought I cared for. And I felt nothing."
"He wasn't the first to love you, and he won't be the last."
"Drakon Blackfyre is many things. A murderer. A conqueror. A Dragon. When we were held captive by the Dothraki, I got the chance to know him. There were moments when I saw what Ser Barristan saw: a proud, strong man who wanted to escape the shadow of his father, whose true self died with Rhaegar." When Tyrion gave her a disapproving look, she added "That doesn't excuse his theft of my throne. But now, having spent time with him…He and I are not so different. We have both ordered the deaths of hundreds, burned people with our Dragons, and were sired by evil men who wanted to see the world burn. He is the only other person of Targaryen blood in the world, the only other relative I have left."
Olene shared a glance with Tyrion, who said "I understand your reticence. Kinslaying is, after all, a grievous offense. But he stands in the path of your throne, your family's throne. You know, better than most, that ruling requires difficult, often bloody and unpleasant, decisions."
"Well," the queen said, standing, "you have completely failed to console me."
"For what it's worth…I've been a cynic for as long as I can remember. Everyone's always asking me to believe in things: family, gods, kings, myself. It was often tempting, until I saw where belief got people. So, I said 'no, thank you!' to belief. And yet, here I am." He stood and added "I believe in you. It's embarrassing, really. I'd swear you my sword, but I don't actually own a sword."
The queen smirked. "It's your counsel I need."
"It's yours, now and always."
"Good." The queen reached into the folds of her dress and took out a metal brooch. "I, um…I had something made for you. I'm not sure if it's right." She pinned the brooch to his jacket. "Tyrion Lannister, I name you Hand of the Queen."
Tyrion looked at the ground, appearing to be at the point of tears. How sad his life must have been, Olene thought, that the notion of someone showing faith in him produced such a strong reaction. He then knelt before her, affirming the loyalty of the world's smartest dwarf to the world's best queen.
"The last time we saw each other was at Winterfell, yes?" Tyrion asked. "You were the Starks' ward, and I was a drunken lecher."
He stood at Queen Daenerys' right, while Olene stood to her left. With the Second Siege of Meereen finished, a sense of normalcy had returned to the city. Unsullied stood along the edge of the throne room while the queen received her guests. Yara and Theon Greyjoy were from Westeros, like Tyrion, only they belonged to the Ironborn. They were both garbed in grey armour with a yellow kraken emblazoned on the chest piece.
"That was a long time ago," Theon said. Though he stood tall and straight, his demeanor was quiet and reserved like a small child, or a beat dog careful not to anger its master.
"It was," Tyrion agreed. "And how have things been going for you since then?"
Theon said nothing.
"Not so well, I gather. Can't imagine you would have murdered the Stark boys if things had been going well."
"I didn't murder the Stark boys. But I did things that were just as bad, or worse."
"And he paid for them," Yara said, coming to his defense.
Tyrion nodded. "It was complicated for you, I'm sure, growing up in Winterfell. Never quite knowing who you were. But then, we all live complicated lives, don't we?"
"Edwyn Blackfyre and Randyll Tarly came here searching for you and your ships," the queen said. "It led to a series of…unfortunate events."
"Oh, we know," Yara said. "They chased us all the way from the Iron Islands. Unfortunately for them, the Ironborn have always been better sailors."
"Until Stannis Baratheon smashed the Iron Fleet during your father's rebellion," Tyrion reminded her.
She gave him a brief glare, but did not argue the point.
"You've brought us 100 ships from the Iron Fleet," the queen said. "With men to sail them. In return, I expect you want me to support your claim to the throne of the Iron Islands?"
"Not my claim. Hers."
Olene glanced at the queen, who sat back in slight surprise. "And what's wrong with you?"
"I'm not fit to rule," Theon replied.
"Has the Iron Islands ever had a queen before?"
Yara shook her head. "No more than Westeros."
The queen smirked.
"Drakon Blackfyre chased us out of the Iron Islands," Theon said. "Then, we learned that our Uncle Euron returned home after a long absence. Both of them will murder us the first chance they get."
Olene stiffened at the mention of her lover's murderer.
"Lord Tyrion tells me your father was a terrible king."
"You and I have that in common," Yara said.
"We do. And both were murdered by usurpers, as well. Tell me, in return for supporting your claim to your family's throne, you want to have Drakon Blackfyre killed?"
"We want our home back," Yara clarified. "It was stolen from us, first by Drakon and then by our uncle. We were driven out, hunted across the world because of the actions of our father. All we want is to take it back. I'm sure you can understand that."
"Yes, I can," the queen agreed. She turned to Tyrion and asked "Will their ships be enough?"
The dwarf thought it over, then replied "With the former Masters' fleet…possibly. Barely."
"I think I can help with that."
All eyes turned to the throne room's entrance, where Lord Varys strode in. A young man walked beside him, dark-skinned and handsome, with curly black hair.
"Lord Varys?" the queen prompted.
"Apologies for the interruption, Your Grace, but I thought you might like to meet someone. While I must confess that I did not sway as many in Westeros to your cause as I'd hoped, there was one important friend I made. His emissary has come to speak with you."
The young man stepped forward. "My name is Trystane Martell, son of Prince Doran. My aunt, Princess Elia, was your brother's wife. Their children were my cousins. Our Houses were joined through sacred oath, and my father wishes to renew that bond. Long have we waited for the rightful heir to the Iron Throne to take her place." He drew his sword, and Daenerys held up a hand to stop the Unsullied who leveled their spears. Trystane knelt at the foot of the steps leading to the throne and, holding out his sword, said "Dorne is yours, my queen."
Olene smiled. Already she could envision the queen's army trampling Drakon Blackfyre's forces underfoot. Her vengeance would be close at hand.
"I feel I should point out that the young Prince brought the entire Dornish fleet with him," Lord Varys said, a satisfied smile on his face. "His father has spent decades building it."
The queen stood, then walked over to Yara. She glanced at Tyrion, then said "Our fathers were evil men, all of us. They left the world worse than they found it. We're not going to do that. We're going to leave the world better than we found it. You will support my claim as Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, and respect the integrity of the Seven Kingdoms. In return, you will be made Queen of the Iron Islands. The sovereignty of your lands will be respected, so long as you swear to never rebel against me or my people."
Yara nodded, then held out her arm. The queen glanced at Tyrion, who nodded. She grasped her arm, and they sealed their pact.
The Water Gardens…
Visenya held her newborn son. She had given birth on the ship as it sailed south, labouring for a full day. The babe slept soundly as she held him, while his older sister and brother were held by handmaidens. Visenya chose to name him Maelys, after her and Drakon's father. With a name like that, he would grow to be a strong warrior, a champion of House Blackfyre.
The carriage shook as it ran over a bump in the road. Maelys began to fuss, and Visenya whispered to him in Valyrian.
They had been riding from the docks for some time, and their destination was not far off. Prince Doran was expecting her, and Visenya fully expected him to show her the deference afforded to the queen. He was a loyal vassal of the Iron Throne, unlike the Darklytes and the traitorous Houses that joined them. No matter; the survival of Visenya and her children was paramount, while the rest of Westeros could burn for all she cared.
The carriage started to slow, and Visenya gazed out the carriage window. The Water Gardens were said to be one of the most beautiful places in all of Westeros. Seeing it with her own eyes, Visenya felt compelled to agree. The architecture was stunning, so unlike anything in the other six kingdoms, with pools of crystal blue water shaded by tall palm trees and surrounded by pristine hedge mazes. House Martell men-at-arms stood guard at all the entrances, most carrying sharp spears.
The carriage came to a stop, and the driver hopped down before opening the door. Visenya stepped out into the open, standing as straight and regal as she could. She was the queen, after all. Obedience was expected.
A Martell soldier approached her and her handmaidens. "Your Grace," he greeted, his accent smooth and exotic. "Prince Doran welcomes you. He has sent me to escort you to him."
"By all means, do," Visenya replied. The four Kingsguard formed around her and her children, their midnight Blackfyre armour in stark contrast with the bright, warm colours surrounding them. The three Sand Snakes walked behind them
The soldier led them through the expansive gardens and courtyards. Once inside the palace, they soon entered a grand reception area. The walls were awash with intricate tiles and decorations, and a number of couches were arranged in parallel around a glass table with wooden legs carved in the shape of coiled serpents.
In the centre of one couch sat Doran Martell, Prince of Dorne and Lord of Sunspear. He was a thin man, in his mid-fifties, dressed in a fine silk robe that left part of his chest exposed. That seemed to be common for Dornish men's fashion. His beard was finely trimmed, and his fingers bore several jeweled rings. He had a warm, welcoming smile.
Beside him sat his daughter, Arianne. The young woman, in her early twenties, was curvaceous and beautiful, dressed in shimmering silk and fine jewels. She was nowhere near as beautiful as Visenya, of course, but for a Dornish woman, she was well above her peers.
A large, imposing man stood behind them. His bald, black head almost glimmered in the sunlight, and he wielded a long, magnificent spear in one hand. Areo Hotah, Prince Doran's bodyguard.
"Your Grace," Prince Doran greeted. "Welcome to the Water Gardens."
Visenya sat on the opposite couch. "Thank you for receiving us, Prince Doran."
"I trust your journey was pleasant?"
Maelys cooed in Visenya's arms, and she let him grasp her finger in his tiny hands. "Pleasant enough. I only wish my husband were alive to see his second son born."
"Yes. Having a child is life's greatest joy," Prince Doran said, patting his daughter on the knee. "My own son, Trystane, is sailing abroad, adventuring like his uncle Oberyn used to. He has grown into a fine young man."
Visenya smiled. In truth, she cared little for the Dornishman and his family, as long as they showed her the respect she was owed. "Your hospitality is most appreciated. The civil strife we face is unfortunate, but as long as my son Daemon grows to become king, that will not matter."
"I am sorry to say that your son will not become king."
Visenya's eyes widened in shock. "What did you say?"
"I am happy to host you and your children in the Water Gardens, but I cannot allow you to leave. You will be cared for, and your children given a life that very few on this continent get to enjoy. But I am afraid your family's claim to the Iron Throne has come to its end."
Visenya shot to her feet, and the Kingsguard gripped their swords tightly. "You treasonous cur! Were my husband alive, he would have you—"
She stopped as a young woman entered the reception area. She was no older than twenty, with long, flowing golden hair that ran down to her back. The girl wore a golden dress that left her upper chest exposed, and around her neck she wore a necklace depicting a golden lion.
"Forgive me, Prince Doran," the girl said. "I did not know you had guests."
"There's no need to apologize, Myrcella," he said. "I was simply extending my hospitality to Lady Blackfyre and her children."
Visenya felt herself boiling with raw hatred. "You let this Lannister bitch live?" She turned to the Sand Snakes and said "You told me she was dead!"
Obara shared a shocked glance with her sisters, then replied "We thought she was!" The Sand Snake leader glared at Doran and demanded "Why did you not tell us?"
"I did not tell you because you did not need to know," he replied coldly. "My son deserves happiness, and she makes him happy."
Visenya looked at Ser Eustace and hissed "Kill her!"
The Kingsguard drew his sword, but before he could take two steps, Areo Hotah suddenly appeared. He parried a sword slash in one move, then beheaded the knight in another with a single swing of his spear. Ser Eustace's head rolled across the floor, stopping by Visenya's feet.
"Unlike you, Your Grace," Prince Doran said, uttering the last words with disgust, "we do not murder children."
"My brother was on his way to the Wall," Myrcella Baratheon said. "He would have lived, but you had him killed!"
"He was a Lannister," Visenya spat. "All of Drakon's enemies needed to die, and allowing Tommen to live was a moment of weakness. I did what needed to be done so my husband could rule as he was meant to! All of you are pathetic; you're nothing before me. I am the Queen of Westeros!"
"No, you are not," Prince Doran countered. "Daenerys Targaryen is the rightful queen. I admit, your husband would have made a great king. But too often, great kings sit on thrones of skulls before lakes of blood. The time has come for a wise, kind ruler to sit on the Iron Throne."
Martell soldiers surrounded them, taking the Kingsguard and Sand Snake weapons. "You will pay for letting that Lannister girl live, Prince Doran. I promise you."
"It was not I who spared her life and kept her here for her own safety, thought I would have done that regardless."
"Then who was it?" Visenya demanded.
"Your husband."
Visenya felt the colour draining from her face, and she could think of nothing more to say as she and her companions were escorted away, prisoners of the traitorous Martells.
The Cockleswent River…
Saernys didn't know why her brother felt so disturbed by Euron Greyjoy. After all, the man was just another pirate, one of a thousand men who'd chosen to sail the seas and plunder what they could. The King of the Iron Islands, whatever quirks he had, was a powerful ally. They would need him to conquer Westeros.
After riding in a longboat with him for two days, Saernys understood why Gae was so unsettled.
Euron never seemed to sleep. When Saernys awoke each morning, she found him the same way she had left him the night before: leaning against the port railing, staring into the water below. She thought only having one eye would limit his vision, as she heard it did for Edric Blackfyre, but not so with the pirate lord. He acted as if he still had both eyes, which made Saernys curious as to what the eye beneath the eyepatch looked like.
"Do you hear them?" he asked as she approached. The same question for two days.
"Hear what?"
Euron looked at her, his visible eye almost gleaming as his blue-stained lips curled in a smile. "The spirits of water. We're far from the sea, but I still hear them whispering in my mind."
Saernys glanced over the edge of the longboat. As always, all she saw was the river and the surrounding countryside. Looking back at Euron, she asked "These…spirits. What are they?"
"They are ancient, my Lady Darklyte. Very ancient. Older than the First Men, the Children of the Forest, and even the first Dragonlords. The black depths of the ocean is where they make their home. Not quite Man, nor Creature of the Deep, they pray to forces that shaped this world. They know I follow the Drowned God like no other, and they lend me their strength so one of pure faith can return them to glory."
Saernys recognized the entities he spoke of. The Darklytes prided themselves on their familiarity with arcane lore, and part of her education as a child included stories about the ancient races. Among them were the Deep Ones, foul, half-fish, half-human folk who lurked in the world's oceans to harass and kidnap human victims.
"How do you know these spirits are real?" Saernys asked cautiously. "How are they any different from the Seven or the Old Gods?"
"Because I've met them, my lady. I fed many sailors from ships I captured to them while at sea."
Saernys shivered.
Euron looked down at the water, lost in his world of horrors and monsters. The man was insane, there was no doubt about it. Years spent sailing the seas among mutes, drinking Shade of the Evening, had rotted his mind away, leaving nothing but a black expanse within his skull. Once this was all over, he would have to be eliminated; Saernys knew her family could not afford to let such a madman live to haunt them down the road.
But for now, they needed him.
Saernys' thoughts turned to Drakon Blackfyre. Clearly, news of his demise was greatly exaggerated. She couldn't imagine a worse turn of events. The Black Dragon was alive; he was a fearsome warrior, a cunning strategist, and if even one of his Dragons returned to Westeros with him…
Thus far, Saernys' greatest obstacles had come in the form of Edwyn Blackfyre and all those still loyal to House Blackfyre. Drakon had two other children at the head of Great Houses, and many across the Seven Kingdoms owed their positions to him. Now that their great leader had returned, they would flock to his banner in droves, uniting to finish off what gains House Darklyte had made.
No, she thought, gazing out at the fertile lands of the Reach. Her father would sit on the Iron Throne, and her family would finally claim the glory it had been so long denied. The first step was to claim Cider Hall. While Saernys accompanied ships from the Iron Fleet that would strike from the river, the rest of her army moved by land. The castle would fall with a pincer movement. With enough strongholds claimed, they could conceivably launch a siege of Highgarden by year's end.
A monstrous roar thundered from the heavens.
Saernys' breath hitched, and she looked up at the sky. Amongst the clouds, a large shape weaved this way and that, flapping large wings. Against the blood-red backdrop of the setting sun, the shape gleamed like a precious gem. Its body was bronze, while the large, canvas-like wings shone a brilliant gold. As it flew closer, Saernys saw the neck frills were gold as well, while its bone-white horns formed a natural crown, befitting such a majestic creature.
"Zaldrīzes!" Saernys whispered.
All her life, she learned of the Dragons that gave her ancestors their power. As a girl, she would scour the wilderness around her family's estate in search of a Dragon egg of her own. The day her father told her all the Dragons were dead, she cried all night long. Whatever else Drakon Blackfyre did, he helped bring them back into the world.
She now stared at one of them.
Euron smiled, a laugh bubbling up from inside. "I always knew this would be useful," he said. Saernys looked at him as one of his mutes brought his Dragon horn. "Who better than a future queen?" he asked, holding it out to her.
Saernys took the horn, her heart pounding in her chest. Her hands shook; she was about to accomplish a lifelong dream, for her and her family. The chance to ride on a Dragon's back…
She blew the horn.
The runes carved on its surface glowed a fierce crimson, and Saernys felt an otherworldly energy as the horn call echoed across the land. The Dragon roared, its wings flapping madly as it thrashed from side to side. The beautiful bronze creature tumbled through the air, unable to course correct in time to avoid crashing into the ground.
"Take us ashore!" Saernys ordered. "Take us ashore!" she repeated at the top of her lungs. The crew hurried to obey, directing the longboat to beach as soon as possible.
"Time to make that thing your slave," Euron said, a feral grin on his face.
Saernys countered "Zaldrīzes buzdari iksos daor."
She hopped onto the shore, then ran over to where the Dragon crashed, ignoring the Ironborn. It had carved grass from the soil, creating a long, black scar on the field. The Dragon laid on its side, its breathing laboured. Upon seeing her, it raised its head and growled, baring fangs that were as long as her arm. Saernys skidded to a halt, panting. The lingering echo of the horn's call rang in her mind; she felt it linking her to the creature.
Intoning a prayer to her ancestors, Saernys slowly walked forward.
The Dragon's growls ceased, and she felt its powerful gaze on her. From its demeanor, she guessed it wanted to attack her, but could not. It was stuck in place, awaiting her command. Deciding to test her theory, she told it "Ioratis."
Its claws digging into the ground, the Dragon pushed itself onto both back feet. It towered over her by a significant margin. Before such strength, such power, Saernys Darklyte, heir to her father's position and descendent of kings and conquerors, was nothing. If it wanted to, this mighty being could snuff her life in an instant. But through the power of Euron Greyjoy's Dragon horn, it served her now.
Pointing to a stretch of grass nearby, Saernys said "Dracarys."
The Dragon turned its large, spiked head, reared back, and belched a great plume of blinding Dragonfire that consumed a large portion of grass, blackening it in an instant. The flames twinkled in Saernys' vision, promising a thousand glories at the tip of her fingers. She approached the Dragon, and it did not move as she climbed a wing onto its back.
Euron and his Ironborn finally caught up with her, panting from the run. "A fine prize," he said, leering at her mount. "A fine prize, indeed. So what now?"
"Get back on your ship," Saernys told him, a smirk tugging at her lips. "We keep moving to Cider Hall." She leaned in close to the Dragon's head and whispered "Sovetis." It took a running start, flapping its wings until, a few seconds later, it lifted from the ground.
Cider Hall fell in two minutes.
As soon as Saernys appeared, on the back of Drakon Blackfyre's Dragon, no less, the castle's defenders surrendered without a single show of defiance. It took the better part of a day to secure it with the Ironborn and what troops Saernys had with her from the Battle of Bitterbridge. Over the next two days, more of her army gathered there, creating a bastion from which they might soon strike at Highgarden.
Saernys found herself in the courtyard, discussing supply needs with Ser Ronnet and Ser Addam, when a familiar voice said "You've certainly achieved much since last I saw you, Saernys."
She gasped, turning to see a tall man dismounting a horse. He pulled back his hood, revealing his face. It was just as she remembered: angular and well-defined, framed by long silver hair. The roots of his hair were brown from a lifetime of dying it to hide his family's true nature. His eyes were purple, the kind that she and her siblings inherited, and his thin lips were pulled back in a tight smile.
"Father!" Saernys said, joy flooding her heart. Realizing she was not alone, she turned to Ser Ronnet, Ser Addam, and all the soldiers present. "Kneel before your king!"
They all did so.
Saernys knelt, drawing Dark Drinker and holding it out to her father, Aelyx Darklyte. "Your Grace, Cider Hall is yours."
"Rise, daughter. My heir should not kneel, even to me."
She stood, sheathing their family's ancestral blade.
Before she could say any more, another voice cried out "Sae!" Saernys barely had time to react as her little sister barreled into her with a crushing embrace. Kae seemed so much bigger than before, even though she only reached Saernys' chest. She had inherited their father's silver hair and their mother's deep purple eyes, darker than father's, Gae's or Saernys' eyes. One could almost lose themselves in those dark irises.
"Kae! You've grown."
Kae broke the embrace and took a step back. The fifteen year-old was so beautiful, just like their mother. "Father's told me all about your battles. He said the Harpy's Bile I invented came in handy!"
"It certainly did," Saernys admitted with a smile. "It allowed us to take several castles and towns without a prolonged siege."
Kae beamed at the praise.
"By Aegon's sword…" their father said. He stared up at the top of the castle, mouth agape. It was a rare occasion when Aelyx Darklyte was truly surprised by something. Saernys had done just that.
"A Dragon!" Kae exclaimed, bouncing with joy. The bronze and gold creature sat atop the towers and battlements like a bird on a perch, lazily observing the surrounding land. "I never thought I'd see one! How did you tame it?"
"With Euron Greyjoy's Dragon horn," Saernys replied, mention of the Ironborn king leaving a bad taste in her mouth.
She saw her father frown, but Kae's excitement was impossible to contain. "Of course! The old Dragonlords used them to enthrall their mounts. I've read that they would dominate the Dragons of their fallen enemies to avoid years of re-training. According to legend, all the horns were destroyed shortly after the Doom of Valyria. Our great-great-grandmother theorized that a few survived, passed around as treasures." Her brow creased in thought. "I know that Drakon Blackfyre used a similar horn to train his Dragons, but if his is the same as Euron Greyjoy's, then why couldn't he take control of Daenerys Targaryen's Dragons in Meereen when they fought?"
Saernys had been thinking of that very issue, but could not find an adequate answer.
"Perhaps," their father said, crossing his arms, "it's not a question of intent, but of blood. Drakon Blackfyre's mother was some Essosi whore, and the Blackfyres bred with foreigners during their years of exile. His blood is watered down. Whereas ours…"
"Is not," Saernys finished, seeing where her father was going. "Mother was of Valyrian stock, and most of our family have cultivated Valyrian blood."
"We are descendants of kings," their father said. "And there is power in king's blood."
Saernys nodded. She then asked him "Do you know where Gae is? I thought he would return to the west once he crossed the Narrow Sea."
"Your brother returned a few days ago. I sent him on an important mission with an agent of mine, Simon Groat. If they succeed, and I have every indication they will, then we will be in a position to claim the entire North."
The Twins…
It took the better part of a day to fly to the Twins. Rhaegon had grown to gargantuan size ever since his hatching, but even with his great wings, crossing from the Crownlands to the Riverlands took time.
Drakon doubted they would have much.
Arya held onto him tightly, likely nervous due to never flying before. "Why is my brother at the Twins?" she asked, almost shouting to be heard over the rushing wind.
Drakon carefully formulated a response before speaking. "Your brother Brandon sent him to safety with House Umber before he ventured North of the Wall. My Spymaster, Rona, learned that the Umbers were planning to hand Rickon over to the Boltons as a gesture of faith."
"That's not possible," Arya countered. "The Umbers have been loyal to the Starks for centuries; they'd never do something like that."
"Perhaps. Regardless, they killed the Wildling retainer guarding him and his Direwolf. They then took him in a caravan heading for Winterfell. At the time, I was busy re-conquering Westeros with my armies. I could not let the Boltons have the last trueborn son of Ned Stark, so I dispatched my agents to retrieve him. They rescued him from the caravan and smuggled him south. I had Rickon placed under the protection of a minor lord I installed at the Twins."
Arya asked "And what about after? You won the war, killed all the Boltons. Why didn't you send my brother home?"
Drakon tried to think of an answer, but thankfully their destination came within sight. "We've arrived," he said. Despite knowing Arya for a limited time, he knew she was determined, and questions about his hiding Rickon away would come again.
He guided Rhaegon to the top of the eastern tower. The mighty Dragon flapped his wings as he landed on top, almost completely encircling this half of the castle. Rhaegon dipped his head onto the roof, and Drakon and Arya dismounted. A few guards rushed up the stairs, brandishing their weapons. They froze at the sight of Rhaegon, and their eyes shifted to Drakon.
"Y-Your Grace?" one of the men asked, dumbfounded.
"Yes, I have come home," Drakon told them. "Our country will soon be re-united under proper rule. Now, take me to Gerold Halfhand."
"Of course, Your Grace. As you command."
The guards walked back down the stairs. Before he followed them down, Drakon saw Arya gaze out at either side of the Green Fork. Her mother, brother, his wife and unborn child, and thousands of Northern soldiers had been slaughtered here three years ago. Taken under sacred protection of guest-right, they had all been butchered like cattle, their bodies defiled and mutilated.
"You said that my Great-Uncle Brynden tied Walder Frey to four horses and had him torn apart?" she asked him quietly.
"Yes."
"He deserved worse."
Drakon understood her pain all too well, and the need to deliver vengeance on her family's killers. "He did. His sons Black Walder and Lothar helped him plan and carry out the Red Wedding. I fed them to my Dragons."
"Good."
They followed the guards inside the castle. Everyone was shocked to see Drakon; it had only been a day since he pacified King's Landing, and flying by Dragon was evidently faster than receiving news from a raven. As they descended levels, Drakon could hear music ringing from below, as well as raucous laughter. All signs of a feast.
Entering the great hall, he saw that he was right. Music, laughter, and conversation echoed across the room. Men lined the walls and sat at tables, drinking and eating with abandon. Whores in various states of undress pranced about, some freely fornicating in certain corners or even on a table. At the head of the room, sitting at the high table, Gerold Halfhand blissfully sat, his eyes closed as a blonde whore on her knees serviced his cock.
Drakon glared at his former spy. He shoved his way past the guards and the partygoers until he reached Gerold. Grabbing the whore by her hair, he pulled her back and shoved her to the floor.
Gerold, disturbed from his bliss, opened his eyes. "Who the fuck do you—" He stopped upon seeing Drakon's face, his own blanching rather quickly.
The music stopped, and everyone grew silent as all eyes focused on the miraculously returned king.
"My king, I didn't expect—"
"When I gifted you this castle," Drakon began, his voice low as he tried to contain his fury, "I did not expect you to turn it into a drunken whorehouse."
Gerold gulped, shoving his cock in his pants. "Of course, Your Grace, I was merely—"
"Be silent!" Drakon barked. Gerold recoiled in fear. "Rickon Stark. I've come to collect him. Where is he?"
"Rickon S…Your Grace, is that wise? You told me to—"
Arya appeared beside him, Valyrian Steel dagger pressed against his throat. "Where is my brother? If you don't answer, I'll cut you open like a lobster and search this entire castle by myself."
Gerold, gripping his chair's armrests out of fear, replied "He's not here. I handed him over as commanded."
Drakon narrowed his eyes. "What do you mean 'commanded'?"
"Simon came here, Your Grace, bearing a royal seal. He said the queen wanted Rickon Stark moved for fear of his safety."
"You fucking idiot," Drakon snarled. "The queen fled King's Landing for her life. Simon is a traitor. When I left Rickon Stark in your care, I expressly forbade you from handing him over to anyone except me. I made a mistake in giving you this appointment."
"I swear, I was just doing as commanded," Gerold said, staring at the blade at his throat. "Simon was here only a few minutes ago. He should still be in the castle."
Drakon and Arya shared a glance. She started walking, and he punched Gerold in the face. "We will discuss your incompetence later," he said. "You will not enjoy the conversation." He hurried towards the doors and cried out "Seal the castle! No one is allowed to leave! Bring me Simon and Rickon alive!"
Gae found himself surprised that the plan actually worked.
He was not surprised that his father had turned one of Drakon Blackfyre's council members into his agent; after all, he had spent years planning for the Darklyte assumption of the throne. Simon Groat was a greasy little toad who would sell his own mother for a few Gold Dragons. The man had no honour, no scruples whatsoever. While that made it easy to sway him, it also made him potentially dangerous.
Nevertheless, his plan to retrieve Rickon Stark was working. Gae, along with half a dozen soldiers, had disguised themselves as loyal Blackfyre soldiers acting as Simon's bodyguards. With a royal seal in hand, he convinced the drunken whoremonger of a lord to hand the youngest Stark boy over to him, ostensibly to move him somewhere safer.
In actuality, young Rickon was the key to claiming the North in one fell swoop.
As they walked through the castle hallways, Gae ruminated on the boy's situation. His very existence was a threat to anyone not a Stark, in this case Drakon Blackfyre. During the Second War of Conquest, Drakon had installed his son Edric as Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North. The Northerners were a suspicious lot, loyal to their own. Their gratitude for removing the Boltons would only go so far; if they knew a Stark son yet lived, they would rush to install him to his rightful place in Winterfell. At the very least, revealing his survival would catalyze further conflict between Edric Blackfyre's loyalists and those Northern Houses wanting to restore their rightful liege.
Rickon was young, and Gae had no doubt he would be persuaded to benefit the Darklyte cause if he could go home after all these years.
The sound of ringing bells shattered his thoughts.
Keeping a grip on Rickon's shoulder, Gae looked at Simon. "I thought you said they wouldn't notice!"
"They could barely stand, much less have the wherewithal to sound an alarm."
Gae started walking. As the others did the same, he said "You better hope we find a way out of here before they catch up with us. I have no problem handing you over to get back to my family."
Simon flashed him a feral grin. "I'm a survivor, my lord Darklyte. Kings, lords, ladies, all of them die around me while I keep on living."
"We'll see about that, won't we?"
They hurried along, the guards' hands on their swords. Gae picked up Rickon and carried him over his shoulder, a hand on the knife at his belt. All around them, the castle stirred into action; servants hurried to and fro, letting their fright guide them, while what little guards they saw ran this way and that, unsure as to how they should respond.
Finally, Gae and the others closed in on a set of doors that would take them out of the castle. From there, they would mount their horses and hopefully be far from the Twins before anyone caught onto the deception.
The gods saw fit to shit on them.
The doors slammed shut, and a number of guards emerged from a side hallway, weapons drawn. As Gae's men attacked them, he handed Rickon over to Simon. "Hold him!" He drew his flamberge, cutting down three men in quick succession. With his blade coated in blood, he turned upon hearing approaching footsteps.
The amber eyes of Drakon Blackfyre greeted him.
He stood beside a dozen soldiers, face contorted in an expression of pure, destructive rage. "You murdered Rona," he growled.
"It wasn't personal," Simon retorted. "Just business. The bitch got in over her head, and once she took the fall, I had to eliminate her. It really was fascinating, watching her skin melt when I forced that Wildfire down her throat. I've never seen anyone die like that."
Drakon drew both his Valyrian Steel swords and advanced on them like an oncoming tempest.
Gae huffed, then told his men "Kill him!" As they attacked Drakon, Gae and Simon hurried up a nearby set of stairs. The soldiers' dying screams followed them up to the next level of the castle. "Now I know you're an idiot! What possible benefit could antagonizing a man that dangerous get us?"
"It was fun!" Simon said.
They kept moving, never looking back as they ascended another level. Rickon started screaming, and Simon had to clamp a hand over the boy's mouth to keep him quiet. They passed by a set of windows looking out at the river, and Gae heard Simon cry out in pain before he collapsed onto the floor.
Gae stopped, turning to see a small young woman flipping through the window and onto the floor. She wielded what looked like a Valyrian Steel dagger in one hand. A line of scarlet ran across the blade.
"Let my brother go!" she warned. Despite her young age, Gae knew she was dangerous.
"Just how many Starks are returning from the grave?" Gae asked incredulously. The young woman, Arya Stark, began moving towards them, twirling the dagger in her hand.
"One more step, and he dies!" Simon shouted. He held a knife to Rickon's throat, standing with a noticeable limp.
Gae glared at his companion. Threatening a child was reprehensible, no matter the circumstance. However, in this instance it bought them a much needed reprieve. The two of them stepped back, and Arya followed them step for step. Rickon, growling like the Direwolf of his House's sigil, managed to kick Simon in the groin. The bald man cried out, his grip loosening enough for Rickon to pry himself free and run towards his sister.
Gae wanted to attack and potentially claim two Stark children for his family's plans, but the sight of approaching guards and Drakon Blackfyre made him abandon that idea.
"Come on!" he said, hauling Simon through a door. He slammed it shut, then jammed a nearby chair against it, buying them a small measure of time. They ran up more stairs, until they breached into the fading light of the evening onto the castle roof. Gae knew they could not reach the other half of the castle from here, but maybe they could climb down and reach the river…
Something growled.
Gae's bones froze as his heart seemed to stop. He turned, as did Simon, and gaped at the sight of Drakon Blackfyre's massive Dragon gripping the sides of the castle. The silver and gold beast glared at them, baring its large, glistening fangs. Reacting on pure instinct, Gae ran for the edge of the battlement and leaped with all his might as the Dragon breathed a great plume of flames. Simon's shriek of agony was quickly drowned out as the flames consumed him in seconds.
As he fell, Gae felt the searing heat of Dragonfire kissing his body, melting his hair and skin as his armour felt like it fused onto his body. He plummeted for some time, then plunged into the Green Fork. His vision darkened as the current swept him away.
Drakon followed Arya out of the castle. Two horses were waiting for them, their reins held by a pair of Blackfyre men-at-arms. Arya had not let go of Rickon since getting him back. For his part, the boy was quiet, subdued. Years of being away from family, on his own, had done their damage.
"Are you certain you don't want an escort?" Drakon asked Arya. "I can fly you to Castle Black in no time at all."
They stopped by the horses. Arya replied "No, thank you. I think it's better if we go there alone." She looked at him differently; respect was now replaced with suspicion and a slight hint of warning. Arya doubted the veracity of his explanation of hiding Rickon away.
"I'll get you some supplies for your journey," he told her.
"I already took what we needed," Arya countered, gesturing to the second horse. Drakon noticed the saddle bags of the second horse, laden with food and traveling gear.
He could not help but smirk. "Of course you did."
Arya hesitated to speak, then said "I want to thank you, for bringing me home. I wouldn't have gotten here so soon if not for you. Whatever you did before, my brother owes his life to you. Thank you for saving him."
"It was the least I could do."
Rickon looked at Arya, his head low. "Can we go home now?" he asked. His voice was weary, full of pain. He bore the weight of his family's losses, a terrible burden for one so young.
Arya mounted the first horse, then helped Rickon climb on behind her.
"Farewell, Arya Stark," Drakon said. "It has been a privilege to know you."
He thought he saw her smile, but it was too quick to tell. "Thank you for your lessons. I'll always remember them." She kicked the horse, then said "Valar Morghulis," as they rode north, back to their home.
"Valar Dohaeris," Drakon said, watching her fade into the distance.
The Kingsroad…
"Fuck this cold!" Sandor Clegane muttered, hugging himself tighter. Even dressed in layers of thick furs, the biting chill of winter winds pricked his skin.
Thoros chuckled. "If you want to keep warm, sit closer to the fire, dog."
Sandor glanced at the campfire. The Brotherhood Without Banners, what was left of them, were gathered around it, rubbing their hands or curling on the ground to stave off the cold. Thoros, his red beard and topknot somehow standing out in the darkness, chugged that horse piss rum he liked. The Red Priest didn't seem all that bothered by the cold.
"Freezing my arse off with a bunch of fire worshippers," Sandor muttered. "Just my fucking luck."
He flashed back to the farm in the Riverlands where they'd stayed a few nights the month before. The man who lived there, with his daughter, were nothing but decaying skeletons. Just as he'd predicted when he and Arya stayed there, back when the War of Five Kings still raged. He couldn't get the sight of their bodies out of his head, even after staying up all night to bury them.
"Sit by the fire, Clegane," Beric Dondarrion said, his voice gentle. "You'll be no use to anyone if you freeze to death."
Sandor grumbled, but privately admitted the undead man was right. He moved into the circle, shoving one of the Brotherhood off a tree stump to sit down. "How much fucking longer are we going, anyway? It seems like we've been traveling forever."
"Getting tired of us, are you?" Thoros teased. "Why don't you be off on your merry way, then?"
"I've got nothing better to do."
Beric glanced at the sky, though Sandor didn't know if the man could see anything with only one working eye. "We should reach Winterfell by tomorrow. After that—"
"After that, you lead us Beyond the Wall to our deaths over visions the drunk ginger saw in the flames," Sandor interjected.
"The Lord of Light has a mission for us, Clegane. It is our duty to see it through."
"Your precious Lord can go fuck himself, for all I care," Sandor said, breathing warm air onto his fingers. "As long as I can find a warm bed sometime before I die."
Bay of Dragons…
Everything was prepared.
After so long in exile, dreaming of the home that had been taken from her, Daenerys was finally ready to leave Essos behind. With the Sons of the Harpy exterminated, and the Masters pacified, the newly renamed Bay of Dragons was secure. Daenerys had left a ruling council in Meereen, as well as Astapor and Yunkai. The Second Sons elected a new leader and would serve as a peacekeeping force in the queen's stead.
Standing on the deck of her flagship, Aegon's Heir, Daenerys gazed out at her fleet. Between the Masters' captured armada, the Ironborn ships under the Greyjoy siblings, and the Dornish fleet, she had more than enough ships to transport her armies. Behind her stood Theon and Yara Greyjoy, Grey Worm, Missandei, Trystane Martell, Lord Varys, and Olene.
A cry from above drew Daenerys' gaze. Drogon, Rhaegal, and Viserion flew in circles as the fleet sailed out of the bay, accompanying their mother.
Daenerys Targaryen was going home.
Phew, longest chapter ever!
Apologies for the delay, folks. I went back to working on my novel, and then I kept hitting a wall with the editing. So, for the time being, I've decided to set it aside and work on other projects. For now, that means fanfiction, but I have another novel in mind to start working on before long. I just need a break from this novel, as much as I love it.
So, quite a lot happens here! I didn't expect the damn thing would be this long when I started writing it, but it just sort of turned out that way. Certain arcs had to finish, and I had to plant seeds for upcoming plotlines. The Darklytes are steadily gaining steam, but their conquest of Westeros won't quite go according to plan now that Drakon's long-awaited return has taken place. It felt good to kill off Simon (justice for Rona!).
I really enjoyed Drakon and Arya's relationship. They're two people who understand each other, and his fatherly instincts kicked in when he started training her. They'll meet again before long, as the cold winds in the North keep rising.
I was so excited for Dorne in the show. I wanted Doran to be a Tywin-level chess master (also, I always enjoy seeing Julian Bashir onscreen!), as well as Oberyn's badass daughters. As we saw, Dorne was by far the weakest plotline in the entire series (at least the region-specific ones), and Ellaria and the Sand Snakes pissed me off with their overbearing 'girl-power' crusade as they engaged in casual Kinslaying and murdering young girls who had nothing to do with their enemies' plots. So, I set out to correct all that! Here, Prince Doran is a schemer who's setting everything into motion for Daenerys' arrival, and Ellaria is nowhere to be seen (in this story, she simply mourns Oberyn and doesn't have any of the irrational hatred we saw on the show). Also, Areo Hotah actually gets to show how badass he is, not get stabbed in the back by Tyene like an idiot when he's supposed to be the head of security.
I think we can all agree that the show's final season was weak. It was rushed, and the characters/plot suffered for it. There were some good moments, such as most of the second episode (holy balls Podrick can sing, eh?), and I'm actually happy with where most characters ended up. The majority of the final three episodes pissed me off, but that doesn't detract from my love of one of the greatest shows on television. We were all truly blessed to be around to see such an amazing tale unfold, regardless of how the ending left a sour taste in our mouths.
That's what fanfiction is for, after all!
Anywho, this brings us to the end of Season 6. I hope you all enjoy this chapter, and once again I apologize for the delay. Please review and favourite, as each notification I get brings a smile to my face!
Valar Morghulis!
P.S. To all my fellow Canadians, Happy Canada Day! As always, I am so proud to live in such a great country.
BigWilly526: That's definitely in the cards, now that Ramsay is dead and the civil war in the North is over.
South Down: I feel your pain! That was really difficult to write.
TheOnlyKing: It makes me happy that that caught you by surprise, but I apologize for causing you such distress. Jon would be inclined to do everything he could for Sansa's child, since A) it's the right thing to do, and B) he/she would be family.
TheIronEmperor: I know! I feel so honoured by your review; whenever I write a fanfic, it's to add my own ideas/characters to an already great story and, perhaps, correcting what I see as narrative mistakes. So thank you very much for your kind words. Also, Edric is my personal favourite of Drakon's children.
Lord Feunoyr: First of all, I'm touched that you translated my story so you could read it! Thank you! Now, if I've translated your reviews correctly, here are my answers: the Darklytes have around 14,000 soldiers from the Westerlands, several hundred from castles/towns they've taken in the Reach, and now around 8,000 Stormlanders. The Blackfyre loyalists in the North are the Umbers, Karstarks, Whitehills, Cerwyns, Dustins, and the Glovers, though it's kind of moot now that the civil war is over. As we just saw, Dorne is loyal to Daenerys. In the books, the Golden Company had 10,000 men, which I've carried over here; they only had 20,000 in the show, not that they did anything. Rhaegon is with Drakon, and Maelion has been taken as Saernys' mount. Drakon is planning for Daenerys' arrival, but what his plans are is a mystery for the moment. Edric/Edwyn/Jayne are heads of Great Houses, assuring the loyalty of three kingdoms and allowing them to be their own people. Visenya is the queen, and her children are princes and princess. Sparrows are now dead and gone, while everyone else who betrayed Drakon in King's Landing is dead, too. Daenerys has plans to retake her home, but like Drakon's, they are a bit of a mystery.
Rona's actions were very much a calculated risk, but it was all about getting rid of Visenya as cleanly as possible. Simon upended all those plans for his new employer. Drakon is in his 40s, as he was born 258 AC. He was 40 in Season 1, so now he's 45 now. I also enjoy House Blackfyre (obviously, hehe!). 98 percent of the stories on this site are about a Stark OC, a trueborn Baratheon OC, or a Lannister OC. There's almost nothing out there for a Targaryen/Valyrian OC, and I felt compelled to write about the Blackfyres once I read about them.
Lord Pyrus: Yep, his homecoming won't be as joyous as he was expecting. He's going to be PISSED when he hears about Edric's death. Thanks! I'm so glad it took everyone by surprise, and I'm flattered by the sadness of Edric's passing.
Guest: Me too. It's always hard when a child doesn't get to know a parent as they grow.