A/N: Hey guys! Managed not to be delayed for this chapter, so enjoy!

A brief note. Based on the most recent criticism, I find inspiration for my story in many corners. From history, from modern culture, from novels, anything in order to create an entertaining and exciting storyline for my readers. I make sure to make it my own, though, and to adapt any inspiration I have to the Game of Thrones world.

Please review!

Even with the cacophony of steel, hoofbeats, and screams, Edmure could still pick up the low whoosh of a volley descending on its mission of death. "SHIELDS UP!" he bellowed, heaving the massive polygon of wood and metal emblazoned with the blue river fish of House Tully in front of his face. All around him, his men did the same as the wave of arrows slammed into the dead winter grass below them.

Clunks filled his ears from the sharp metal points hitting his shield, the occasional scream or wet slap ringing out from a successful hit. To his right the Unsullied moved in fluid formation, silent despite the deadly rain. It both unnerved Edmure and filled him with courage. Many a Tully bannerman fought like a wildcat to keep toe to toe with the indefatigable Unsullied. The Lannisters would face a formidable crack force in future battles - if they escaped the Westerlands, that is.

It was over in what had to be several seconds, though it felt like hours for Edmure. "Back in formation! Move your peckers! Formation!" Once again Grey Worm managed to secure the same without making a sound. 'Cheeky bastard,' Edmure thought, shifting his gaze from the hardened Unsullied commander to the enemy. Hoofbeats slamming into the ground, kicking up a massive dust storm, the horse archers were doubling back in a narrow arc. "Damn!" It had been the same for the last day. The Southern Westerlands produced some of the best horsemen in Westeros, and some bright Lannister cunt created an army of thousands of horse archers to complement the men at arms. "Get ready men! Another charge comin!" He drew his sword.

Every time the archers would unload volleys of arrows to soften them up, and every time they bugged out an infantry charge surged forth. Facing losses, needed speed forced the army to abandon all their siege weapons and most of their baggage train closer to the now burnt husk of Casterly Rock. Edmure and Grey Worm - though the nobleman didn't know what the tight lipped Essosi freedman's mind thought - didn't figure they could last much longer.

But fight they would. "Think this is the end, brother?" he asked Grey Worm, who had his spear at the ready.

"No. I think last once, maybe two more."

Edmure laughed. The Unsullied's face remained impassive, it common knowledge that only Her Majesty's striking translator could decipher what one would call emotion from him. "First time I figured you an optimist." Already, the Lannister infantry formed up. "See you in hells, my friend."

Trumpets blared from the opposing force, glinting armor and waving banners beginning the steady surge towards the ragged Imperial lines. But the faint screech - clear to all a deafening sound dampened by distance - stilled the lines. Troops on both sides turned their heads skyward, toward the horizon out of puzzlement or curiosity. It dawned on the Imperials first, confusion turning to ragged cheers as the bellows and roars grew ever closer.

Veterans of battles long past - of the fighting long joined by the awesome magic of legend - all in the Imperial army recognized the screech of Her Majesty's dragons.

But a split second later, the red-black specter of impending fire and blood crested over the hills marring the flat horizon. Bat-like wings beat with the power of a thousand men, propelling the giant beast forward. Three small birds hovered close… only they were not birds. Each colored their distinctive hue, the horror of one massive dragon turned to the terror of four. Further shouts and war cries left the exultant Tullys, while the Lannisters stood stock still from fear and mortal terror.

Gloved hands wrapped tight around Balerion's spines, Daenerys made sure to look the part of a Targaryen conqueror. Her hair, knotted sparingly, flowed free in silver waves behind her - conjuring memories of the legends of Visenya and Lyanna Stark. A dress of all black leather was topped off with a red sash around her waist. Saracen was clipped to her hip, all joined by the undeniable fierceness of Balerion the Dread reborn upon the earth, joined by his young sisters on their first taste of battle. Slowly, Dany gave the mental orders for her children to bank towards the shocked still Lannister forces.

Swarmed like ants, men and horse grew bigger in her vision. She stared with fire and blood in her eyes. Death came with a single word. "Dracarys!"

Maw opening with a glow, the red-orange tongue of flame erupted from Balerion towards the snow-covered plains of the Westerlands. Screams ended as soon as they were began as the fires engulfed them, Balerion beating his massive wings down a single line. Arrows arced upward but failed to pierce his thickly scaled belly. On the fringes, the horse archers found themselves the targets of Rhealla, Sansenya, and Lyanarys. Small as they were, their bodies contained enough fire to deliver upon the enemy as their big brother did upon the Good Masters of Astapor so many years ago.

It was over within minutes. The fields were filled with the detritus of a defeated army. Some fled on horseback or on foot, stripping off their armor and abandoning their weapons to increase speed. Many others gathered around men holding aloft makeshift white cloth flags, praying to the Seven that the dreaded Unsullied wouldn't slay them outright - though the intelligent among them would fear the Tully bannermen more. Most, however, laid upon the battlefield. Bodies charred beyond recognition. Armor melted away. Gentle winds turning their bones to pure ash as they disintegrated before the very eyes of the survivors. Dragonfire knew no Houses. No distinctions. Anyone within the range of the dragons' blast would be wiped off the face of the earth. Such was the legendary Targaryen Fire and Blood, so diluted by the lesser men and women who tarnished the legacy of Aegon the Conqueror.

Glancing behind her, spotting hundreds of enemy soldiers toss down their weapons in surrender, Daenerys felt the surge of energy course through her. A small victory, but one heralded across the land of Westeros with symbolic trumpets. Tywin had the second round victory, recovering his position and dealing a stinging blow right to the Empire's gut, but the Dragon Empress was not out of the fight. Her dragons were not out of the fight, bringing fire and blood upon her enemies.

The message was clear. She knew it, and Tywin would know it the moment he received the news. Outside of their fortress city and armed camps their forces were nothing but ash. Once the great Dragonwolf returned from Essos, the Chimera would face the fight of its life.

A fight Daenerys intended on winning.


The midday sun beat down on the two entourages gathered outside the city of Meereen. A gentle breeze, cool due to the altitude over the city and the proximity to the sparkling waters of Slaver's Bay, provided some relief - but not enough. Podrick, Ser Barristan, and the Stark bannermen gathered to protect their sovereign all wished this would end soon. Flowing robes and olive skin protecting from the heat and light, the Masters and their conscripts had no such concerns.

"Well, well." Arms crossed, a smug, aristocratic grin draped over his face, Razdal mo Eraz of the Wise Masters of Yunkai met Jon's silent glance. Jon had requested this parlay, but knew before it even begun that any chance at negotiation was pointless. As with the parlay with Viserys and Ramsay Bolton, he was proven correct. "Here we are, at the culmination of years of chaos and despair. I'm not sure if your wife stoops low enough to inform her country bumpkin of a husband about pressing matters, but she could have left from the gates of Yunkai with a fleet of ships. And yet here we are, where you will flee to her skirts with a single sloop."

"We are here to discuss terms of surrender," Podrick stated, jumping in before Jon could. "Not trade insults. He is the Emperor of the Targaryen Empire, and you shall treat him with respect."

Mo Eraz glanced at his companions, snickering. "Are we to address a whelp like you? Barely old enough to shave?!" Aristocratic protocol broke for a moment as he laughed.

"You will address yourself to me, Razdal mo Eraz," Jon replied, voice firm but emotionless. "State your terms, for the Essosi sun aggravates my fair, 'country bumpkin' skin."

If the three masters caught his sarcasm. They did not show it. "Our terms are simple," Yezzan zo Qaggaz stated. Wrapped in a dark cotton cloak and with the drab colors of the simple merchant he was, he made a departure from the patrician arrogance of the other two - and likely from the entirety of the Masters Alliance. He was all business, which Jon noted. "You and your foreign friends will leave the Great Pyramid and the city of Meereen and return to Westeros, as you have no business in Slaver's Bay. Since the Unsullied your wife stole from Kraznys mo Nakloz are not here, you shall leave your northern bannermen here to be sold to the highest bidder. The two dragons you have with you will be slaughtered so that Slaver's Bay shall never be threatened again. Be thankful, for that is all we are asking of you."

Staring straight ahead at them, cocking his head, Jon began to chuckle. "Oh, my friends. I believe you have misunderstood my intentions. No, this parlay was to discuss the terms of your surrender to the Empire."

It was the turn of the Masters to be puzzled and amused. "Our surrender?" mo Eraz asked dismissively. "You must be joking."

"I only joke to persons I find in esteem," the Emperor replied. "Here are my terms, and they are a one time offer for the lot of you." Hands behind his back, Jon began to pace in front of them, eyes darting every ten seconds or so from one Master to the other. Rather average height for a Westerosi, the shorter stature of those on the larger continent let him be far more intimidating. "You will get on a ship, and head for Qarth. There you will live in exile for the remainder of your lives. I will allow you to keep your gold and your riches, but all slaves will be left behind. Yunkai, Astapor, and Volantis will become open cities for my arrival, as they all belong to the Empire as crown domains."

Looking amongst each other, mere seconds passed before chuckles left their throats. "You jest, correct?" Belicho Paenymion had been silent so far - watching the negotiations with a smirk as mo Eraz and zo Qaggaz did the talking - but this was too ludicrous to pass up. "We are not defenseless prisoners that you may slaughter with impunity, Bastard of House Stark. Adjusting to the new reality seems as hard for you as it was for your wife."

"At least the Dragon Bitch had blowjob lips and a set of tits pleasant to look at," mo Eraz said to his comrades, the other two laughing. "This one looks like a boy, and not one of the good ones."

Jon bit his tongue, trying not to react. "I shudder to think what happens to the boys you consider 'good ones.'" He replied nonchalantly. Podrick and Ser Barristan hid smirks as slight surprise crossed the faces of the three masters. Underestimate him, they did - just like with Daenerys. "Joffrey and Tywin promise you the moon, but mark my words, they will be your undoing."

Stepping forward, Jon's hands were plastered behind his back. Behind him, the northern bannermen tightened their hold on their pikes. "In the North, there is an old saying. 'He who passes the sentence, swings the sword.' My father, Ned Stark, would often tell my brothers and I that the true meaning was that a Lord must sacrifice for his men. Fight alongside his men in whatever battles or struggles arise." He stared at each of the masters, then turning towards the troops behind them. They clutched at their swords, unsure of what was happening. "I fight alongside my men in battle. Fight for my men in battle." Accented, Jon's Valyrian was passable. He couldn't wait to see Dany's reaction. "It is always abstract, others dying at your order. Others being sold into bondage on your order. But tell me, when would any of you be willing to die for the men standing behind you?" An awkward silence fell, hushed whispers from some of the Yunkai soldiers filling the void.

The silence was broken by zo Qaggaz, confirming Jon's hunch. "I need not defend myself to you, bastard."

It was telling to the Emperor that the self-made 'New Man' had answered him, feeling the need for defending himself. The others were nobles, highborn of the most illustrious order. Zo Qaggaz was the son of a slaver and the grandson of an overseer, as low on the rungs of the ladder as any freeborn in Slaver's Bay - only his wealth brought him to where he was. If there was any weak link who could be broken from the chain and added to Jon's, it was him.

Stepping directly in front of him, Jon's grey eyes bored deeply into the hazel of the slaver turned Good Master. "Zhoggaz zo Zartal speaks highly of you, Yezzan zo Qaggaz. Commented on your honor, your scruples, your… benevolence in dealing with your slaves. For someone of such high birth to comment in that manner for the grandson of an overseer is quite high praise indeed."

Confused, the Good Master blinked. Opening his mouth, no words came out. Mo Eraz and Paenymion watched with interest to the side. No one knew where Jon was going with this, not even Ser Barristan. The Dragonwolf was an enigma to most, his northern features giving away nothing. He had learned from his youth.

A hand reached out to clasp zo Qaggaz's shoulder. "Do you honestly think there is a place," Jon whispered, low enough for only the two of them to hear. "A place for you in Joffrey's New Slavery? That you are one of the lucky few that will keep his freedom."

"I control Astapor. They wouldn't dare," he replied, though there was a slight waver in his attempt to be haughty.

Jon smiled - only those born and raised as highborn could succeed at the imperious arrogance. "Your money secured Astapor for yourself, not your birth. Is it wise to believe that will keep you at the top in the Chimera's world." With that he stepped back to his group, nodding. "It is a shame, noble Masters, that I will have to reject your offers. They are not serious, as you have clearly made your mind up on war. We free people will not go gently into the eternal darkness of bondage."

While zo Qaggaz was quiet, the other two sneered. "You will regret this, Jon Snow." Any that still used his defunct bastard name - much as Jon still habitually saw himself as such, given it was his identity for so long - showed himself as an enemy. Mo Eraz was close to spitting from disrespect. "The Dragon Bitch must realize that her reign is over."

Eyes narrowing, Jon met their stares for the final time. "Our reign has just begun."


"No water for him!"

The crackle of the whip and the cry of agony from the emaciated man sent Arya flinching back - more from instinct than any real fear. 'A girl has no fear.' It was wise to give the overseers a wide berth. The rough wooden cup clattered to the ground, life-giving liquid seeping out onto the dusty stone below. "Pick it up, cunt!"

With his eloquent command given, the overseer dragged the hapless wraith out of the ragged water line and began thrashing him within an inch of his life. Picking up the cup and dipping it in the water trough, Arya sent an unseen hateful glare at the cruel brute. The poor slave, babbling on in Volantian Valyrian, wouldn't last the hour. She had seen plenty of others in the same malnourished and broken condition in the mere weeks since arriving to know what would happen.

Arya squinted as the glint of blinding sunlight from the golden statue of the bane of House Stark hit her eyes. 'Damn Joffrey. Damn him to hells.' He must have been so smug, preening in that den of scumtitude of his at how the illustrious Arya Stark was laboring as a common water wench in the shadows of the Great Pyramid of the Holy Chimera. Wiping the sweat off her brow as a grateful young laborer greedily sipped at the nourishing liquid, Arya shrugged off the blisters on her soles and burns on her shoulders.

'Joffrey, Cersei, Ilyn Payne, Littlefinger, the Mountain, the Waif, Tycho Nestoris, Viserys Targaryen, Daario Naharis.' Again and again she stated the list in her head, contracted by two and expanded by one. Joffrey thought he had broken her, beaten her, but it would be he in the end who would reap the icy whirlwind of the North.

Filling up her serving cup with another offering of water, Arya was too lost in her thoughts of vengeance to notice the identity of who had arrived in front of her. Such ignorance would not last long.

"Well fuck me blind." Head jerking around, sparkling drops of water spilling from the cup onto the dusty stone below, Arya found herself staring up at the scarred form of her former protector… and former resident on her list. "Whatever god is out there must hate my fuckin' guts."

Scowling, she thrust the cup into his hands. "And how the fuck are you still alive?"

Head thrown back, Sandor Clegane laughed uproariously. "Funny, I asked your fuck buddy the same damn thing when I saw him last. Did he finally die?"

Rolling her eyes, Arya snatched the cup back. "Fuck off." Further laughs leaving the Hound's throat, he winked at her and strode off.

"Hello there." Arya looked up to see a Dornishman, eyes undressing her with obvious hunger.

Her alarms immediately began blaring in warning, muscles tensing. "Here," she grunted, shoving the cup into his hand. Arya hoped he would head out and back to the backbreaking work lines.

The laborer downed the life-giving liquid. "Thank you, beautiful lady," he drawled. Leaning down to return the cup back, a wandering hand slithered quickly to grope between her legs.

Before Arya could punch the man in the throat - she knew that one quick jab could send someone any size to the ground writhing in seconds flat - a massive hand wrapped around the man's neck, lifting him up. "Didn't your momma tell you not to touch a woman's cunt lest she wants it? Last person I saw that did so, I smashed his fuckin' head into the wall."

Suddenly a flogger smacked into Clegane's back with a wet slap, drawing blood. He hissed, releasing the other man to the ground with a thud. "Back to work!" A seething overseer paled when faced with the massive bear of a man, burn scar on his head only adding to the intimidating scowl that could wither even the strongest of men. "Now… Now!"

"Al'ight," said the Hound, inwardly satisfied as the overseer fled for easier pastures.

Staring up at him, Arya scowled herself. "I'm not some defenseless damsel. I can defend myself, you know."

"Never said you couldn't." The Hound shrugged, bending over to toss a sack of rocks over his muscled shoulder. "Out of all the pains in my ass I encountered in my miserable life, I knew you'd survive."

Arya snorted. "I'll take that as a compliment… I think." Offering him a crack of a smile, she then turned to begin the process of filling her cup yet again. Perhaps her still formulating strategy would be easier than she realized.


Heated air pushing against his tent, the flaps fluttering fiercely, Jon's eyes remained closed in thought. In calming thought. The quick fingers of Ollie fastened his cuirass tight around his toned torso. Leather emblazoned with the seal of the dragonwolf, what it lacked in ostentation it made up for in spartan fierceness. There was a reason for such, a reason for the closed eyes and calming thoughts.

The Emperor, Jaehaerys Targaryen, Jon Stark, Jon Snow, was marching to war once more.

"All done, sire," Ollie replied, bowing.

Jon rolled his eyes. "Enough of that, Ollie. You've known me long enough to avoid that shit in private." The boy gave him a splendid grin. A laugh left Jon, admiring the boy's exuberance at the cause. Reminded him a lot of himself. "You have grown into a strong lad, Ollie. Which is why you will be marching with me into battle." If the boy had been happy before, the smile on his face was close to ripping his cheeks in half. "Go choose a sword and get into formation with Podrick. He'll find a place for you." The young squire dashed off.

Sighing, the Emperor sheathed Longclaw and tied his hair back into a riding bun, a look Daenerys found quite dashing on him - though she often voiced her preference for the long curls she could run her fingers through and grip as they made love… He chastised his mind, the thoughts taking him places that both warmed and frustrated him in more ways than one. 'For you, Dany. I am fighting to return to you.' With that, he brushed back the flaps of the tent and emerged into the world.

"Battalion! Present to your Emperor!" The line of hoplites came to formation, pikes clattering against shields as they stood in a double line surrounding Jon's path. Nodding, Jon began to walk along the dusty earth. It had been a week since the parlay with the Masters, and the day after Jon had moved his army out of Meereen and onto the plains overlooking the city along the coast. Perfect to prepare.

To the right, he saw Hodor… no, Willas, help a certain cripple onto Edderon's back. The white dragon looked displeased, missing out on the coming action. "Be careful Bran!" he called to his brother. "Make sure he doesn't dismount anywhere but Winterfell," Jon added to Meera.

"I'll make sure of that, sire," Meera replied, looking at Bran intently. The young Stark said nothing, smiling softly. 'Fly straight, my child.' Edderon nodded imperceptibly at his father, then roared once, ascending into the air with the beat of his mighty wings. Jon covered his face as a cloud of dust swirled for several seconds in Edderon's wake.

"We're with you, sire!" one bannerman yelled from formation.

"No slaver cur can stop the dragonwolf!" another shouted.

"Victory shall be ours!" Catching a glimpse of where the last comment came from, Jon met the utterer's eyes as he strode forward. The young man - no more than a year older than Jon - gulped. "Sire."

"You a Bolton man?" the Emperor asked simply.

There was no sense in lying, and even if he could the boy was too intimidated by the legendary White Dragonwolf to do so. "Aye."

An eyebrow went up. "Fought at Winterfell?"

"Aye."

Nodding, Jon clicked his tongue. "Fought well that day. Give your same all against the masters, you'll surely win." The boy gave a relieved, smiling breath as the others hooted around him. "What is your name, lad?"

"Jon, sire. Jon Smith, son of the assistant smith of the Dreadfort."

"Ah, Jon you say. An auspicious name." He clasped Jon Smith's shoulder, looking out at the rest of the hoplites. "There's a man named Jon I know of, never lost a battle? Heard of him boys?!" Cheers rang out, the men smacking their pikes against their shields in wild applause. "Well make sure he doesn't break that streak."

The cheers grew louder. "Dragonwolf! Dragonwolf! Dragonwolf!"

With a thud, Rhaegal landed before his father, lowering his wing so that Jon could limb atop him. 'It is time, boy. Don't let me die.' The dragon let out a growl, as if chiding him for even suggesting it. Settling on dragonback, with a mere mental command Rhaegal ascended into the air. Below, formations in the thousands began the march along the coastal road.

'Time to end this, once and for all.'

AN: Daenerys brings the Fire and Blood. Even though it's a small victory, using Balerion will send a message to Westeros that the Dragon Empress will not stand down.

Couldn't not put a Hound/Arya reunion.

If the Masters would disrespect Daenerys, they would despise the "Northern Bastard."

Next up, the Battle of the Coast Road ;)