A/N: Hope all y'all are doing well.
Great news! My new story about Maegor and the Conquerors have been posted. It's called Dragonshield and I would be so stoked if you guys checked it out!
Also, a new short story involving our favorite Targaryens will be coming out on Wednesday to commemorate the absolute shitshow that was "Last of the Starks." Fuck season 8. What better way to detoxify than through something perfectly Targaryen? It'll be called Bet of Dragons and I hope to catch you there!
Time for the Counterattack to begin :D
Enjoy.
Chapter 73: Kings and Generals
The mood was solemn in Winterfell. A pallor of loss and grief hanging over it like a summer fog. For all present in the courtyard as the called banners of the Stark Household guard prepared to leave their home for the second time in five years, direwolf banners fluttering in the wind, a sense of foreboding clung to them all - as it did their mothers, wives, and daughters watching them with tears in their eyes.
When they marched south to avenge their lord and rescue their beloved Queen Lyanna, they marched with laughs on their lips and adventure in their hearts. Now, many of their brothers in arms dead in the fields of the south, there was none such excitement. Rage would come for the Kraken scum, but not now.
Given the sense of grief, it served as a mask for the fact that only a handful mourned the actual loss of the keep rather than the potential loss of future moons. A cast of pallbearers - all of Riverrun - slowly easing the casket of Lady Catelyn Stark into a covered wagon. Horsemen bearing the Tully sigil surrounded it, while those handful that did mourn the late Lady of Winterfell clustered around the Lord.
Soft weeps made Ned's heart break, ignoring propriety in order to heft Sansa into his arms and hug her close. Her arms looped his neck almost immediately. "I's sorry, poppa," she murmured, over and over again.
He sighed, face stoic as he mourned Catelyn. Much as they quarreled - much as he did not truly love her, or even like her most times - she had given him this beautiful angel and for such he'd be forever grateful. "It wasn't your fault, pup."
"It was…" Sansa was much like his sister in that regard. Fierce and wild, but always hard on herself. Loves hard, fights hard, cries hard. Brandon coined it for Lyanna and so to did he coin it for Sansa. "I say I hate her… I don't hate her, poppa. She my momma…" The words brought her further tears.
"I know, Sansa, I know." He kissed her brow, feeling the shame in his heart. The horrible things he said to her… all words sincerely felt, but mired in the morass of guilt when his guards rushed to him. Informing him of Catelyn's tumble down the stairs. Forty hours of labor followed, in which a catastrophic breech birth taxed Luwin and the midwives of Winterfell to the point of near exhaustion.
One survived the ordeal, and another didn't.
Ned looked Sansa in the eye. "Be brave, Sansa. You are a daughter, yet you are a wolf also." She nodded tearfully, but didn't make a sound as he set her down and Septa Mordane led her a few paces away. Ned then walked to Luwin. "Is he awake?"
Luwin shook his head, the maester offering a small smile. "Sleeping soundly, my Lord."
Gingerly, Ned took the bundle from Luwin and cradled it close. "My son." Rickard Stark, born with the auburn hair and blue eyes of his mother, slept soundly - unaware of the gloom around him. "I love you." He kissed Rickard's cheek before handing him back to Luwin. This time Ned held his newborn child, a blessing he hadn't been afforded with Sansa.
Or my other son… my eldest son… Cersei's boy… Ned shook his head. I couldn't save Sansa and Rickard from becoming orphans. What would Cersei say? Would she be ashamed of him, unable to save those of his family.
He shook his head. I have to be strong. "Watch over him, Luwin."
"I will, my Lord." The Maester took Rickard from Ned.
Walking to where Sansa stood next to Septa Mordane, Ned ignored the Septa and knelt before his daughter. "I have to go now, pup."
"Don't go, poppa." She sniffled, trying to stay composed.
"I must. It is my duty to your uncle and aunts, the King and Queens."
"Come back… I can't lose you like momma." Sansa's lip quivered.
"Quiet, child. Do not bother your father," Mordane scolded.
Shooting her a glare of a wolf roused, Ned hugged his daughter again - she was never a bother to him. "Your brother will need you to be strong, and there must always be a Stark in Winterfell. Can I trust you, pup?"
Her grey eyes found his - red rimmed, but strong like the land of her birth. "I will, poppa."
There was absolute silence in the official chambers of the war council. Built by King Maegor for the express purpose of plotting the various battles and campaigns he expected to plague himself and his successors much in the same way that his father Aegon the Conqueror built the Painted Table, all those present were gathered for yet another war to plague the continent. Only they did not speak - not even the Queens dared to voice themselves while the King glared darkly at the table.
Rhaegar rubbed his temples, violet orbs narrowed and darkened in a brooding anger. He glared at the kraken markers that seemed to metastasize like the tentacles of the creature they belonged to. They wrapped around the entire western coastline, malevolent and pervasive in their campaign of terror.
Gazing at it, at the anger he felt for the so-called King Balon IX Greyjoy, doubt welled in Rhaegar. Did my father plan the war against me from these chambers? Likely not. Aerys hadn't been truly interested in such mundane matters, but the sentiment still existed. Am I no better than him? Seeking the destruction of my enemies with fire and blood.
As if feeling their presence, Rhaegar looked up at each of his Queens. Elia watched him warmly with the most supreme love. Lyanna looked at him with a greater might but with no less warmth or love. It filled his heart with strength - no man who earned the love of Elia Martell and Lyanna Stark could be truly malevolent.
"My Lords," he acknowledged his council. Pared down from the Small Council, only those he sought for advice concerning the conduct of the war itself. In addition to his brides and mother, Master of War Ser Richard Lonmouth was present, as were Lords Manderly, Peake, Varys, and Thorne. Ser Barristan stood close to the King beside Queen Rhaella, as did Ser Gerion Lannister. Lastly, a newcomer was present, one that most others looked at with a haughty confusion… Ser Davos Seaworth, who looked quite surprised to be there himself. "Richard, give me their dispositions."
Richard nodded. "Your Grace, we've all lived to stories of Ironborn savagery, but the level of aggression they've put on display hasn't been seen since Harwyn Hoare took the Riverlands." He gestured to the various positions, and the boldness to undertake them obvious. "Lannisport has fallen completely, as have Fair Isle, Kayce, the Crag, and Banefort. With the destruction of the Lannister fleet on the first day of the war, Casterly Rock is under siege."
Some groaned, some muttered insults at Tywin Lannister for failing to toss the Ironborn back into the sea - Tygett Lannister's death in such a regard was well known the realm over, as was Tywin's raven foisting the blame on him. Rhaegar, for his part, remained stoic. "Continue."
"The Redwyne fleet is crippled and at only a third of pre-war capacity." That was a disaster - aside from House Velaryon, they had the largest fleet in the Realm. The council looked upon each other with fear… apart from Ser Davos, who simply studied the map with a neutral expression. "Oldtown's docks have burned, and Lord Leyton is estimating at least three moons to repair them."
"What of the Riverlands?" Lyanna asked with a scowl.
"Seaguard has fallen to Rodrik Greyjoy. Lord Hoster has called his banners but the Ironborn reavers have already been spotted as far inland as Stone Hedge. We should move our personal banners to the Riverlands immediately to beat them back."
Lyanna shook her head. "No, Ser Richard." She took a staff from one of the servants and pushed the markers of Rhaegar's personal command straight to Casterly Rock. "Lord Hoster can hold them back until my brother marches south with his banners. It is Casterly Rock that needs the support of the Crown at the moment, as they are under siege from the entire Ironborn land army under Victarion Greyjoy." The Queen wouldn't under any circumstances legitimize House Greyjoy as a royal house.
Lord Alliser Thorne of Duskendale, one of Rhaegar's senior commanders in the Crownlands, frowned. "The Westermen have a martial tradition and well-defensible fortifications." He crossed his arms, not particularly keen on defending the Johnny Come Latelies. "They can hold till we finish off Rodrik Greyjoy."
"I beg your pardon, Lord Thorne," Master-at-Arms Gerion Lannister observed. "But the source of our manpower at Lannisport is currently under Ironborn occupation."
"Tossing our best forces at the strongest enemy force and prepared defenses is suicide," Thorne countered. "Best to blood our men on the weaker force and then relieve Casterly Rock with Lord Stark and Lord Tyrell's men when they arrive." No one held their breath for Elbert Arryn, Doran Martell, or Robert Baratheon. The former was unserious, the middle was devious, and the latter was even more unserious.
Rhaella - her strategic concerns augmented by the desire to protect her youngest daughter's paternal family, though not overpoweringly so - shook her head. "It is the largest enemy force you seek to destroy. Pin them down against the defenses of Casterly Rock and burn them with dragonfire."
That surprised all the non-Targaryens present. "Dragonfire, your Grace?" asked Lord Peake.
Meeting his mother's eyes, Rhaegar nodded. "Aegarax is large enough to ride into battle, and I believe Jaimexes is as well."
"I advise you to be cautious, your Grace," Barristan said. "Only the largest dragons are truly invulnerable to ranged weaponry according to the histories… though it only takes one good shot." The story of Rhaenys Targaryen and Meraxes needed not be said.
"That's right, your Grace," interjected Varys, who seemed quite keen on not allowing the dragons to fly into battle. "My birds have finally began to speak about the Ironborn high command." This drew Elia's attention, though her eyes gave away nothing as she scrutinized the Spider for sincerity or the lack of it. "Euron Greyjoy, the man who defeated the Redwynes and burned Oldtown, is the strategic mind behind the entire attack."
"It was he that undertook the bold attack?" Davos spoke up for the first time.
"Yes, Ser Davos," Varys replied. "He is known to dabble in the occult and is as cunning as he is without morals. I would not risk dragons against him."
Rhaegar sighed. "What use is a dragon if all they do is sit in the dragonpit for their entire lives?" He loved Aegarax - they shared a bond indescribable to any not blood of the dragon - but he was the King and his mount was the royal dragon. They had their duties. "We will ride into battle."
Lord Peake seemed curious. "But who will lead the army into battle on the ground?"
"That would be me, Lord Peake," replied Queen Lyanna. Her eyes were set in determination, even after an entire night of arguments with her loves over the decision. Naturally, the she-wolf won out.
While many were inclined to speak against the Queen's… disregard of propriety, none dared to draw the she-wolf's ire. "Where is Lord Lucerys?" commented Davos. "Shouldn't the Master of Ships be here?"
"He has been sent to move the Royal Fleet to Storm's End for assembly as the Manderly and Gulltown fleets trickle in," said Rhaella, letting the servant move the markers of House Velaryon into place. "Besides, we have found another Master of Ships, one his Grace, their Graces, and I believe would be far bolder against Euron Greyjoy."
Brows rose among the council. Only the royals knew of this decision. "Who?" Davos asked.
Lyanna met the gaze of her friend. "You, Ser Davos. Do not fail us." The newfound noble didn't hide his shock.
An hour later, the royals were the only ones left in the room. "Eventful," mused Rhaegar, finally allowing himself to slump from the stress.
"Davos will not fail you, husband," Lyanna said with conviction. "Do you trust me on this?"
"It is not on this that our trust wavers, my love," Elia observed across from her.
Frowning, Lyanna was more drained than angry. "I sat out the last war. I will not sit out this one."
Elia gave her another frown. "That's not fair… you carried our child inside you."
"To which I took my leave and stayed at Starfall to protect him, but now I cannot allow our husband to go into battle without me. Do you doubt my skills?"
"No one does, Lya," Rhaegar said. "We just worry for you. The Ironborn… female prisoners are particular favorites of theirs."
This she had to acknowledge. "I will not fall prisoner… but if it pleases your worries, I shall have Benjen, Arthur, and Jaime beside me the entire time." They just better keep up with me.
"All we ask." Elia rounded the table and took her wife in a tight hug, kissing her tenderly. "I wish not to be alone for too long."
Rhaegar chuckled. "Now you'll know how I suffered." He soon rubbed his shoulder after both women smacked him upon it.
"Loose!"
In one fluid movement, two dozen archers atop the sleek trireme unleashed their flaming projectiles upon the Ironborn longship. Peering out, Lord Gregor Forrester felt like whooping as the kraken sigil emblazoned upon the enemy ship's mast catching fire - flames that began to lick and spread across the entire longship. Slowly it began to groan in death throes, dead in the water as the screams of ironborn warriors were audible even aboard the Northern ship.
"My Lord! Starboard side!"
Gregor swiveled his head to see a bireme gunning straight for him, thick wooden ram cutting through the waves and swells in an explosion of white froth. "Hard starboard!" he bellowed, reaching out and grabbing the mizzenmast as the ship lurched from the sudden turn. "Get around em!"
Staggering along the deck, the fellow Lord's large black bear emblazoned upon his gambeson caught Gregor's eye before the man's face did. "We're faster than that fucker," Jorah Mormont breathed, his hand planted on Longclaw's hilt. "Why are you turning towards him?"
"Wheel amidships! Attack speed!" The banks of oarsmen - the finest lads of Ironrath and Bear Island - increased their pace, driving the trireme forward. "Gold crown upon the kraken," Gregor said, pointing to the sigil. "That's Maron Greyjoy's flagship."
Jorah blinked. "The young squid came out himself?" Their eyes both drifted shoreward. While the vast majority of the Ironborn ships were beached - on watch for the northern fleet they thought were nowhere near here - Ser Maron Greyjoy had clearly wanted to tangle with what he thought were just a few Mormont longships… not the entire fleet that Lord Rickard entrusted Gregor with constructing. Twenty against forty. For once the North would outnumber their enemies at sea.
"He'll get his death at sea rather than burn alive." Gregor drew his sword, taking one last glance at the beached ships being set alight by his and Jorah's land-based bannermen. They were caught completely by surprise. "Slow! Boarding speed!" A great clatter erupted as the oarsmen below retracted their oars, allowing the ship to glide along the surface. "Spears and shields!"
"With you all the way, father!" Twenty and seven and ten namedays, Rodrik and Asher were joining Gregor in their first brush with battle. They were eager with their longsword and axe respectively. Gods be with them.
Alysanne Mormont, built like an ox and hefting her longsword as if it were kindling, beat her chest. "Come at us, squids!" she screamed at the Ironborn ship, drawing ever closer. "Get a taste of the fuckin bear!" Her cousin Jorah grinned beside her, drawing Longclaw and twirling it, readying his wrists.
Gregor could see the panicked faces on the Ironborn bireme. "Rake them!" With a sudden turn, their trireme slammed into the enemy's side. Its prow tore through the bank of oars, splintering them as the hulls groaned and scraped against each other. "Drop!" Down swung the preplaced corvus gangplanks, spikes embedding into the wood of the enemy ship. "IRON FROM ICE!"
"HERE WE STAND!"
At the bellows from the northmen, the Ironborn unleashed their own scream, axes and blades glinting in the sun. "WHAT IS DEAD MAY NEVER DIE!"
Captain of the ship and admiral of the fleet, Gregor was the first to leap onto the Ironborn ship. He snarled, practically jumping the reaver in his way and skewering him through the diaphragm. Blood frothed in his mouth, the man gasping for breath as he died. Behind came the Mormonts, more marines, and then his sons, all fanning out and engaging the Ironborn.
Drawing his blade back, Gregor wheeled around and parried a swing. His fist flew out and hooked the attacker in the jaw, breaking teeth and sending the man screaming into the drink. A sudden axe assault was only barely beaten back - the hulking Ironborn attacker with the surcoat of House Volmar laughed darkly and raised the weapon for another attack, only for Alysanne Mormont to cleave him in two. "There you go, tree boy," the warrior maiden grinned.
Gregor grinned back before leaping back into the fray. It didn't take him long to find another target. "Greyjoy!" The only warrior with a helm covering his face, Maron Greyjoy turned towards Gregor. "Time to die, Kraken!"
"Fuck you, Greenlander! The sea is my domain!" No further words were exchanged as their blades met, clashing together with the fury of centuries of hatred.
Maron was skilled, but lacking experience. Gregor was stronger, Gregor was faster, and Gregor had fought men far more intimidating than the Kraken. Bellowing at the top of his lungs, it wasn't long before the second son of 'King' Balon Greyjoy was disarmed, his sword skidding on the deck only to slip underwater.
He froze. "Mercy…" the once braggart boy murmured.
Lord Forrester's eyes darkened. "You deserve no mercy." Fishing villages burned, Bear Island raided with hundreds of northern women stolen as salt wives. He would take pleasure in getting revenge for each of them upon this worthless Prince - demand for hostages be damned.
Eyes wide, Maron reacted. Sucking in a breath, he dove overboard.
"Fuckin' coward," Gregor heard Alysanne spit behind him. "The ship's ours, by the way."
Gregor blinked, turning back to the shore. The fires had spread to so many Ironborn longships that it almost glowed as bright as a full moon. "Get her back to sailing. We still have squids to kill."
The North had returned to the Sunset Sea, handing King Balon his first defeat.
Smacking his hand upon the table, Victarion Greyjoy raised his tankard of juniper wine. "To the spirit of Harwyn Hoare, may we do the dead cunt proud!"
"What is dead may never die!" Bellowed the dozen throats of the gathered commanders, their drunken revelry echoing through the cavernous dome of the Sept of Gerold - built by King Gerold III Lannister eight centuries past, it was the second largest Sept in Westeros after the Starry Sept. while originally the manse of Lord Stafford Lannister was in his sights, the prospect of defiling the sept was too tempting for Victarion.
Alone amongst the others, Aeron sipped at his juniper wine, fingers twiddling the dried seaweed in his hair. Such open disrespect was anathema to him, but his brothers approved of it so he mattered nothing in such discussions.
Balon IX Greyjoy, sporting the Driftwood Crown at the head of the large table dragged into the middle of the sept, downed a spoonful of the hearty pork stew - all of them ate well on the bounty of Tywin Lannister's domain. "A toast to the future King of the Isles and Rivers, my dear son Rodrik. The victor at Seaguard!" Another round of cheers rang out for the young Prince, his successful storming of the walls of the Malliser keep soon to be placed among the annals of Harwyn Hoare.
"He is a good lad, your Grace," said Lord Blacktyde. "Far better than Prince Marlon."
Snorting, Balon waved the concerns off. "So what if my idiot son let those loggers and bearfuckers humiliate him? The North is a backwater of ice and wolf whores, while we stand on the cusp of taking the seat of the Old Lion himself!" While the death of House Hoare rested with the dragons, it was the lions that were the traditional enemies of the Ironborn. "When Casterly Rock falls, they will have no choice but to beg me for terms!"
"You sent the peace feeler by raven, your Grace?" asked Dunstan Drumm, himself a cautious man at his age.
"Pfft, I had Euron do that, insist as he did."
Aeron supposed that made sense. Balon and Victarion relished battle even if only the latter actually fought in it, while Euron was more calculating. Enjoy the game so he did, Aeron was sure his brother understood they couldn't win a long war.
The drowned god gave us the storm that defeated Tygett and Stafford before the city, but we cannot count on the divine to win.
"What were the terms, brother?" He finally asked of Euron.
Currently eying one of the women dining beside Victarion, Euron took a moment before looking at Aeron - though he spoke less to him and more to everyone. "I bartered the life of Tywin's flock and that of Lannisport in exchange for Seaguard, Fair Isle, Kayce, and recognition of the Driftwood Crown."
"What?!" Balon glared at his brother, hard eyes narrowed in anger. "I didn't authorize you to do any of this! That gold-shitting slug won't rule over an anthill if I have anything to say about it!" There were millennia of grudges and blood feuds between the Ironborn and the Greenlanders - Balon made no compunctions in choosing the side of paying all of them back in blood and treasure.
Dispassionate - a rarity among a people known for their passion and explosive tempers - Euron shrugged. "We make peace when we can do the next war can deliver true victory. Harwyn Hoare won the Riverlands because he faced House Durrandon, not all of Westeros."
"Hogwash," snarled Ser Harras Harlow. "They can't challenge us in our element, and we rule the sea."
"Ships cannot walk on land, my son." Lord Harlow spoke with the wisdom of many decades, many of them spent as a key ally of Aeron's father. "If this war becomes that of steel against steel, we cannot win. Not against the entire Targaryen army." He did not refer to them dismissively as 'Greenlanders,' holding a respect for those of the mainland from his fostering at Old Oak in his youth.
"What forces can they bring to bear that Tywin Lannister already marched to their deaths against us?" sneered Rodrik. Aeron's eldest nephew wasn't as arrogant as his younger brother but that was the only good thing to say regarding it. "We will crush them at land, and then crush them at sea."
"They have dragons," Lord Drumm warned. "We should understand their wroth more than any other." Harrenhal existed as a monument to Ironborn hubris against the dragons.
Then again, some didn't heed historical lessons. "They are puny, too small to be a threat." Balon pounded his chest. "By the time they ready their banners, the kraken shall fly over Oldtown and Casterly Rock."
"Brother…" Aeron leaned into him, out of earshot of most of the guests. "Heed the wisdom of father's councilors. We've won many victories… seek a lenient peace before we truly tempt our fate…"
"Your Grace." They turned to see a pale messenger proffer a ravenscroll. "From King's Landing, it bears the seal of the King."
A scowl found him. "I can see that, be away, boy." The lad took the advice and scurried away - Ironborn were known to blame the messenger. Fatally so if the rumors of Euron were to be believed.
"Is that the King's seal?" Victarion asked.
"Well, there's a three-headed dragon embedded in the wax, so I'm not sure," Euron responded, rolling his eyes. Their brother could be a dolt sometimes… the man was merely good at killing and fighting.
"Shut up - let me fucking read!" Balon barked, his eyes scanning the document slowly. His reading had never been the best but eventually he caught on.
Balon Greyjoy
To you and your bannermen, I must decline your overture and remind you of the words of House Targaryen:
Fire and Blood.
It comes for you.
Rhaegar I Targaryen
Balon crumpled it in his fists with a snarl before motioning for Euron. "The rest of you, take Casterly Rock! I don't care if you must wipe out all the Greenlander lords from here to the Golden Tooth, just get it done!" With that he stormed out, not halfway to the door before he and his younger brother were engaged in a heated discussion.
Taking the crumpled parchment, by the time Aeron finished reading it, he shook his head. Dread filled his gut. Oh, what have we wrought?
Darkness had already fallen upon the city as Aeron made his way towards the docks. There were few in the streets, leaving an eerie feeling predominating in a place where normally even the Hour of the Wolf would be bustling. The torchlight of his dozen reavers accorded to escort a Prince of the Iron Islands managed to banish the darkness, but only just.
"Please…" a fearful plea rang to Aeron's left, followed by a scuffle. "She's my daughter… a maiden."
"My lucky day, fucker." Out of a well-kept house - likely belonging to a knight or merchant - emerged a man with the sigil of House Stonehouse… well-dressed enough to be the Lord himself. He dragged out a redhead by her hair. "A perfect salt wife." She was screaming. "Shut it!"
"No!" A punch to the face sent the man sprawling, leaving Lord Stonehouse free to remove his prey.
The bodyguards chuckled among each other, muttering crude comments about how sore the woman would feel the next night and the like. Aeron shook his head. Disgusting. What was a woman in one's bed worth if she didn't choose to be there? Took all the fun out of it.
Balon wished to reestablish the Iron way, so there was nothing he could do about it. Shrugging, he hurried on towards the docks.
There was more activity there, sailors and reavers unloading crates of supplies either from the stores in the Iron Islands themselves or looted from Oldtown. They ignored the thick-bearded, seaweed covered priest of the drowned god. He must've made an interesting sight in Lannisport, Aeron mused, though by far not the strangest to dwell in these parts. King Loreon Lannister used to dress as a female prostitute and roam here looking for strapping men to fuck him. Just as degenerate as his own kind.
Leaving his bodyguards, Aeron waded into the shallows of the harbor - feeling an immense calm at being among the waves. Splashing the cool seawater onto his face and hair, he closed his eyes. Oh great one, please grant the safety of my house and my family. Allow for those truly destined to lead us to greatness to grow and prosper in peace, regardless of what may transpire in this conflict.
The placid waves suddenly began to smack hard against him… then returned to the calm of high tide once more.
The rhythmic chants of the choir echoed in the dome of the Great Sept of Baelor. Low clouds of incense left a smoky, sweet scent in the air of the nearly empty structure, the massive statues of the Seven who are One watching down on the single family knelt before the altar in a well built to hold a hundred times their number. A family of nonbelievers and apostates, having offered their prayers to their own gods in private earlier that day, nevertheless supplicent before the gods of the Andals in the most public display.
It was necessary for the realm to see them, but be damned if those of House Targaryen didn't feel a spiritual stirring in their breasts as High Septon Meribald recited the Warrior's Prayer.
"Oh Almighty Father, giver of light, Almighty Mother, all honor to you. Almighty Warrior, the strength of all warriors behind you. With you on our side, who shall we fear?"
The entire family was present here. From the King himself to the babes tucked in their mother's arms, under protection from the assembled Kingsguard they sought the glory of their House in the presence of the Gods as Targaryens past did in the march to war. A war against a foreign foe for the first time since Daeron I the Young Dragon.
"Warrior, give us your strength, might, power." In his own simple robes of the purest white, only a thin line of gold parting along the sleeves, Meribald stood tall as the Seven's emissary to the world. "You disperse the enemy even as they lie in wait for us, proclaiming your sons as the brave champions to fight those that do your children harm."
Rhaegar knelt in front, clad in his scaled armor and with Blackfyre clipped to his waist. He was helmless, as was Crown Prince Baelon on his right side - the little Prince wearing a copy of his father's armor but without a blade. He was awkward in the cumbersome plate, but now knelt true as befitting a proper Targaryen dragonlord.
Such Valyrian armor was also worn by Prince Aegon - his slender frame hidden as the violet eyes and silver hair exemplified his powerful blood - and Prince Viserys, a scowl marring his face as he stood at the edge of his family. The most junior of Targaryens in rank apart from Maester Aemon in his most formal maester's attire.
"In perilous times, when everything seems dark, we have the assurance that you are indeed the light. And by faith, we will be brought to the other side, victorious."
Right beside Rhaegar, her head bowed in respect for Meribald if not the Seven, was Queen Lyanna. Wolfsbane rested at her side and her crown on her head, the full northern armor of leather and chainmail contrasting with the massive Targaryen sigil emblazoned on her surcoat - the snarling direwolves of her birth house adorned her gorget. Fierce and proud, the warrior Queen of the North.
Equally fierce and proud were the other women of House Targaryen. Queen Elia knelt beside Jon, crown atop her head and red-black outfit of her adopted house fitting her body like a glove. Dressed similarly were Princess Rhaenys and Princess Daenerys, the latter fidgeting but both taking in the ceremony. Hand of the King Rhaella Targaryen wore a red-black dress as well, though far more severe.
Both Rhaella and Elia held Alyssa and Myrcella in their arms respectively, wrapped in red linen. All were here. A symbol of their united House.
Stepping down from the altar, Meribald dipped his finger in the holy oil. "King Rhaegar of House Targaryen, the Warrior tasks you to be brave and steadfast," he spoke, drawing a seven-pointed star on his forehead. "To be loyal to your bannermen as they are loyal to you." The process was repeated with Lyanna and Rhaella, the King glad they endured it with respect.
Raising their heads, the royals rose and made their way to the massive bronze doors of the sept.. Rhaegar moved to the van alongside Lyanna, but something was amiss. Behind him stood Crown Prince Baelon. He had stood, but shifted his feet and picked at his crimson cloak in distress. "Jon?" He inquired.
Jon looked up, eyes wide and lip quivering. "Kepa…"
Sharing a quick glance with his brides, Rhaegar sighed and walked towards Jon. Kneeling next to him. "What's bothering you, my son?"
He bit his lip, the adorable mini-armor contrasting with his sorrow - a sorrow he tried to well down. "Nothing, kepa."
"Jon." A comforting hand clasped his shoulder. "You may tell me anything."
"No, I's a strong dragon."
Of course. Rhaegar hugged him close. "Please, just tell me."
A single tear fell from Jon's eyes. "Dany hear grandmother talk… she say munas rule for me if you die." His voice quivered, clutching him tighter. "I no want to be King. You King."
They spoke only loud enough for each other to hear, but it was enough for Rhaegar's heart to clench. "I know you're scared, Jon. I am too." The Prince seemed shocked. "But I won't fall."
"Pwomise?"
A new voice spoke up. "Do not fret, young Baelon." The old maester ruffled his hair. "It is quite hard to kill a dragon."
Jon looked kindly at his uncle Aemon, disentangling from Rhaegar and hugging his legs. "Kepa is bestest dragon." A surge of pride coursed through Rhaegar at hearing his son's praise for him. I hope to live up to his admiration.
Rising, he took Jon by his shoulder and guided him to where the rest of the family waited - seeing them approach, they began to exit the sept with the Kingsguard screening them, blinding sunlight streaming through the entrance. Outside the roar of the crowd already echoed through the cavernous sept. Mollified as he was, Jon hesitated. The crowd and attention almost intimidating. Rhaegar glanced down. "Ready, pup?"
Even only just over three namedays, Jon sucked in a breath - standing straighter. He nodded, letting his father guide him out into the light. I's a dragon… I's a dragon… By the gods, he would make his family proud.
Outward House Targaryen spread out upon the dias, letting them be seen by the gathered crowd. Tens of thousands watched from behind the partitions of Goldcloaks, while columns of fully-armored soldiers all fell to their knees. The ten-thousand strong Targaryen Household Guard, joined with the collected banners of the Crownlands. All sworn to House Targaryen, ready to march for the Westerlands and crush the Ironborn menace.
Arm extending, Rhaegar motioned for them to rise. And rise they did, shooting their fists in the air. "LONG MAY HE REIGN! LONG MAY HE REIGN!" And a hundred thousand throats begun cheering for the royals, standing before them in the supreme beauty of Old Valyria, the First Men, and Mother Rhoyne.
Wingbeats cracking in the cloudless sky, Jaimexes and Maerys swept around the Sept of Baelor while Aegarax landed among the spires, neck craned out as he roared.
A/N: So Catelyn is dead, but her child Rickard Stark survives. Poor Sansa though :(
Davos is now master of ships. Good luck, dear boy.
House Forrester makes its appearance.
Little Baelon is adorable isn't he?
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