Land of the King
Chapter 70: The Red Feast
4444 E.L
It was evening in Braavos. Gaemon Gryvetheon, Archon of Braavos, one of and leader of fifteen dragonlords assigned to the defense of the Valyrian colony of Braavos was seeing to his dragon.
He stroked Aegion's grey-white scales gently as his dragon nudged her snout into hands. The bond between rider and dragon was a strange one, one that linked emotions, feelings, and thoughts. A dragon would respond to its rider's need and a rider could be affected by any harm done to their dragon. Some said that those who had lost their dragons were never truly the same and he dearly hoped he need never find out how exactly they were.
"Not live prey this time?" he asked the Dragonkeepers bringing in the food for Aegion.
"No sir, it's bacon and ham. We had the idea that the dragons would enjoy the treat so we had the cooks butcher and smoke the animals we were planning to feed them. Lord Azantys approved it."
Gaemon smirked, "Is that so? Good on you then, yes the dragons will love it, and they'll love all of you for it as well.
"Just don't do it too often, we don't want them getting too fat. They'll be easier for the Arnorians to hit!" he joked.
The Dragonkeepers smiled in response, "Of course sir."
Curious to see her reaction, Gaemon stayed and watched as his gluttonous dragon eagerly devoured the fatty, tasty, treats the Dragonkeepers were giving her. He could feel her excitement and enjoyment as she roasted some of the ham to her liking and swallowed it up.
"Well then, I'll leave you all to it. I have my own dinner to attend," Gaemon said before leaving for the palace.
In the Burning of Braavos, entire neighborhoods had been reduced to rubble and ash as a consequence of the dragonfire which had been used. It was a strong reason for the survivor's hatred of their new overlords but Gaemon could only shrug at that. In time the mongrels will learn that it was simply the way of war and until then their dragons would have much room to nest in and rest when they were not being flown on patrol.
As he rode back to the palace, he could not help but feel strange as he always did when riding anything that was not Aegion. It was simply too strange and different to ride a beast like a mere horse.
Long ago, before the War for the Stepstones, before the War of Humiliation, it had been the norm for dragonlords to eschew horses entirely, being carried on palanquins whenever they did not ride their dragons. Now in the present Valyria and its militarization, such laziness was derided and notably only the weak, corrupt, and lazy members of the Forty that constituted the new Elephant Party still abided by that old tradition.
These fools were not merely lazy and corrupt, but cowardly and traitorous as well, being opposed to their glorious war of vengeance against Arnor for 'economic reasons' a shallow excuse to mask their incompetence and cowardice.
It was at times like this that he wished he could do as his ancestor, Valaena Gryvetheon had done, and purge the Senate of these fools once more, destroying all the traitors and cowards so that only the strong would remain to lead Valyria to glory. Sadly, the dictatorial powers of the Triumvirate had been laid down upon the last member's death though their rule had seen the offices of the Triarchs strengthened beyond belief.
Perhaps when the war was over, a position as Archon of Braavos might enable Gaemon to rise further to become a Triarch of Valyria? Or mayhaps even an Archon?
He frowned slightly at his ambitious ideas. To be Archon of Valyria had a far different meaning than to be the mere Archon of some faraway colony. An Archon of Valyria was a single person with absolute authority to mold Valyria to his will. The office was above even that of Triarch and the last time it had been used had been in the First Ghiscari War, when the fledgling Freehold had almost been destroyed by the Old Empire of Ghis. Not even the famed Triumvirate, dictatorial as they had been, had dared to declare any one of themselves an Archon, for to be Archon of the Valyrians was to be their autocrat and the people of Valyria accepted no such thing, save in crises of dire need.
Gaemon shook off his thoughts as he approached the palace. The Valyrian colonial palace had been built on the ruins of the Sealord's Palace. Given the war effort and the mere year and a half since the Burning of Braavos, the building was quite inferior compared to the opulence and luxury that he was accustomed to but for now at least, it served his and his peers' purposes well enough.
He dismounted his horse and handed the reins to a stable boy before he headed up to his quarters to bathe and dress for dinner. A few hours later, he left his quarters and staircase. As he approached the dining hall, the guards at the door saluted him.
"Archon."
"At ease. Keep up the good work," he relieved them as he entered the hall.
Dinner was a very enjoyable occasion in Valyrian Braavos, at least for the elite. Fifteen dragonlords rubbed shoulders and sat alongside high-ranking officers of the garrison and the local colonial elite, the survivors of the old Braavosi merchant and banking families, whose collaboration with the new colonial government had seen them allowed to retain some power.
As the Archon, Gaemon took his seat at the head of the table and was soon drawn into a conversation on the topic most on people's minds. The war.
Ah, the war. It had all started in Braavos. Gaemon remembered bringing down the Titan with his dragon and making Braavos submit alongside dozens of his peers and countrymen. Now almost the entirety of the dragon force that had conquered Braavos was dead, including a close friend, Baela, who had perished on Dragonstone in the Drowning.
He had to give it to King Aragost, he was a hard man who made the hard decisions. The Drowning had been a strategic masterstroke that had seen Valyria lose hundreds of ships, tens of thousands of soldiers, almost a hundred dragons, and a Glaurung.
After their invasion of Morlond had failed, the decision had been made to withdraw all Valyrian forces on the continent sans those in the Vale to the Isles of Morfalas where a new plan would be concocted. It had been decided that they would double down on their invasion and occupation of the Vale while keeping the Isles of Morfalas to ensure that the Arnorians could not threaten Valyrian-occupied West Essos.
With the help of a Glaurung, all of the Vale could have easily fallen to their forces and when Myr finally fell, they would have leverage over Arnor to force them to come to terms. Instead all of those plans had been literally washed away with two giant waves that had seen over a million people die.
Aragost was now hated by all Valyrians and only grudgingly respected by his own people for the massacre he had ordered. Yet Gaemon felt that for all it had ensured Valyria's defeat in Westeros, with them having been driven out of the Vale and Westeros entirely in the months after the Drowning, it did little and less to affect the war in Essos, Valyria's true goal.
Pentos, Braavos, Lorath, Lys, and all their hinterlands were occupied as was the Heel of Essos in its entirety. Only the city Myr itself still remained defiant and with Valyria still possessing two Glaurungs, he doubted that would be the case for much longer.
Yet the Valyrian defeats in Westeros had emboldened resistance. Myr still stubbornly refused to give in and now there were riots in Pentos.
"I must say the Myrish are quite foolish thinking that they can stand alone against Valyria for much longer. The Braavosi are far wiser than them," Quenton Quellarys, the commander of the garrison, said to the agreement of almost all present.
"Indeed," Gaemon replied, "The fault is not entirely theirs though. Clearly our brethren besieging Myr are inept if they cannot suppress the city, even with two Glaurungs at their disposal."
"I am sure my lord, that if you were commanding the siege, like you commanded us in the attack on Braavos, Myr would have long since fallen."
Gaemon raised an eyebrow at the flattery but accepted it with a smirk. A servant came forward with some bottles of wine on a trolley for Quenton and Gaemon asked questioningly what it was for.
"Just wait my lord."
Once the wine had been distributed amongst all the diners' cups, Quenton stood and called a toast.
"To Braavos! And to the Freehold of Valyria which has welcomed back its errant daughter! To our esteemed Archon, Lord Gaemon Gryvetheon, who is wise and noble. Under his leadership, may Braavos and Valyria prosper. Together!"
"Together!" the diners all chanted in response before greedily gulping down their wine.
Gaemon was about to drink before he felt through the bond his dragon's alarm at her weakening body and descent into unconsciousness and he noticed that Quenton was conspicuously pretending to drink. Suspicious Gaemon made to confront him but before he could say anything the other diners began choking on their drinks and falling to the ground and squirming in agony.
Alarmed, Gaemon tried to stand up but Quenton stepped forward and before he could react, his throat was slit.
Falling back to his chair, he desperately kept a hand on his throat, trying to keep the blood from gushing out and he watched in horror as Quenton peeled off his face to reveal a dark-haired man with cold merciless eyes. Soon Gaemon knew no more.
Away in her nest, his dragon roared in grief and anger.
All over the city, the people were rising up, attacking the Valyrian soldiers with anything they could get their hands on.
Jaenara winced when she heard the agonized roars of the dragons. She knew the pain of losing your bonded partner just as well.
"What happened? I thought they would have all been incapacitated!" Túrin asked of her as they came out of the colonial palace.
"They should have been, but these are dragons! Who knows what magic runs in their blood? If the dosage was just a little too small, they might be able to fight it off!" Jaenara shouted back, panicking.
If they had 15 maddened dragons on their hands, no way to calm them down, and the Arnorian fleet expected at dawn only, they were going to be in for a bad night.
As if coming out of her worst fears then and there, a few dragons took to the sky and flew straight… for the palace.
"Everyone out of the palace now!" Jaenara shouted to all of their resistance members in desperation.
Several people, both resistance and Valyrian alike, poured out of the palace into the surrounding streets before the dragons turned the palace into a pile of rubble
Jaenara watched as some dragons began flying southeast, likely heading back to Valyria. Just as many however remained in the city, rampaging through the city and burning it a second time.
She strung her bow, a simple wooden longbow, and aimed at an approaching dragon, trying to hit its eye. Her arrow missed and bounced harmlessly off the scales of its head.
"Not good. Wooden bows can't cut it against dragons. There isn't any artillery left in the city is there!?" Jaenara questioned her husband.
"I doubt it, the Valyrians had no need for them."
"Actually my lady, there is."
Jaenara and Túrin turned Allaqen, his glamour fully removed.
"When we infiltrated the city, we found that the Valyrians had not destroyed the anti-dragon artillery as we thought, most were actually shipped back to Darkos and presumably from there to Valyria for the Valyrians to examine them. However, for whatever reason, one shipment was never sent and remains in the warehouses somewhere in the city."
Jaenara stepped forward and grabbed the shoulders of the acolyte assassin, surprising him as he showed rare emotion.
"Find it for us, as soon as possible Allaqen, lives are at stake."
The acolyte's emotionless expression returned but his eyes showed a glimmer of understanding. "Of course my lady."
A while later they were called desperately to a warehouse by one of their resistance members.
"Good work Allaqen, you found them." Jaenara praised as they entered the warehouse.
"Thank you my lord, but we have a problem. None of these are strung and well, none of us have any clue how they work or how to string them."
"Allow me," Túrin said as he stepped forward.
As he examined the windlance, Túrin mumbled slightly to himself before he said aloud, "We need springs. This a torsion ballista, it doesn't just use strings."
Jaenara led the hunt for the springs as Túrin continued examining and repairing the ballista before they assembled all its missing pieces and put it together.
"That's one down, nine and ten more to go?" Jaenara asked in despair.
"If you have good aim, one is all you need. Allaqen, see to it that the rest are assembled, I'll be taking this one and a squadron of archers to the high ground."
"Understood my lord."
Their chosen high ground was in fact the remnants of the colonial palace, which sat on an elevated position compared to the rest of the city.
As more time passed, they were able to deploy more anti-dragon weapons across the city.
"Traditional doctrine favours numbers and massed volleys over accuracy doesn't it?" Jaenara asked Túrin.
"That's right, after all, what are the chances you're going to be accurate with a single weapon? But desperate times call for desperate measures."
"Dragon inbound!" one of the archers shouted and sure enough in front of them a dragon approached, burning as it came.
Túrin took the aim of the windlance from the previous user and aimed it right at the dragon.
The archers began buckling and Jaenara's instincts demanded she move as well.
"Túrin!"
"Wait! Aim at the wings. We can do this!"
"Obey your general's commands!" Jaenara ordered the archers before she drew a water spout from a nearby canal.
As the dragon got closer and closer Jaenara began calling for the order.
"Turin!"
"Just a little longer, it needs to be as close as possible if we stand a chance at bringing it down!~"
The dragon noticed them then and its maw glowed red.
"It's now or never Túrin!"
"Loose!"
In one fluid motion the archers and Túrin let loose their arrows and bolt whilst Jaenara's water spout shielded them as they dodged the small plume of flame that bellowed at them. The dragon found its left wing completely torn full of holes with Túrin's windlance bolt almost severing it from the dragon's body. No longer able to fly it crashed into the rubble of the palace its brethren destroyed.
"Is it still alive?" one of their men asked.
"Let's not stick around to find out, even flightless, that dragon could still kill all of us." Jaenara said as she inspected the windlance which had been practically destroyed by dragonfire.
"That was close," Túrin said as he knelt down next to her.
"Too close for comfort. There was way too much luck involved in that kill, we'd be fools to replicate it."
"Maybe we won't have to."
Túrin"s gaze was far away to the east as the first glimmers of the sun's rays began peeking over the hills into the lagoon.
Jaenara was stunned. Was it already dawn? She had thought it would be forever until the dawn came but it seemed all the action that night had made the time fly by.
In the distance, black sails flowed in the wind. Arnor had come.
It was a testament to the skill of the Arnorians how fast they had dealt with the dragons. After dealing with and trying to train a ragtag resistance for the past few years, the Arnorian regiments elite skill was a sight to see. Like well-oiled cogs in a machine, they worked effortlessly and tirelessly to deal with the dragons.
Where the resistance had struggled with a few riderless dragons, the Arnorian army used them as target practice without their riders to guide them. By noon all of the fifteen dragons had either been driven off or killed, save one. A young and surprisingly docile grey-white female, it had been unable to fight off the poisons like its brethren had and had been forced into a deep sleep.
"Aravorn, it is good to see you," Túrin greeted their nephew and goodson as he came to greet them. He was the commander of the fleet that had relieved Braavos.
"It is good to see you as well Uncle Túrin, Aunt Jaenara. Nimloth would be overjoyed beyond measure to see you well with her own eyes," he replied.
"How is she? And our grandchildren?" Jaenara asked, desperate for a shred of news on her daughter and her children. Communications with glass candles deep in enemy territory was very risky and they had gotten little word on them.
Aravorn's face fell slightly, "I'm not sure myself. I haven't seen any of them in person since before the Battle of Osgiliath. I've spoken with both Nimloth and Arahad considerably over the glass candles since and they seem to be doing well, but it is just not the same. Apparently Ancalimë is growing like a weed and I'm missing her childhood. The three of us might well be strangers to her by the time this war is over."
"Such is war. They are all safe in Annuminas and that is all we can ask for during these dark times," Túrin said, seemingly unaffected. But Jaenara had been wed to him for over a century by now, she knew that he was shaken by the reminder that their granddaughter was so young she would barely recognize them when they returned.
"What are your plans for the dragon?" Jaenara asked. She knew that the needs of the war might require them to do cruel things to it, but if possible she wished to spare the noble creature that pain. Dragons were beautiful and majestic animals that did not deserve to suffer for obeying their rider's commands.
Aravorn turned to her, "I… well,"
"Yes?" Jaenara asked. Aravorn seemed to be picking his words carefully.
"I thought that you might have wanted to claim it, Aunt Jaenara."
Jaenara stopped in her tracks, frozen. She hadn't even considered the idea that she could ride a dragon again.
"Aunt Jaenara?" Aravorn asked.
"I'll think about it."
Later that day, Jaenara was in her rooms with Túrin discussing the matter with him.
"Do you think I should claim it?" she asked.
"I think that's up to you Jaenara. I know you miss Terrax, and you miss riding him. This is a chance for you to get that back. It's up to you, I'll support any decision you make."
Túrin saw it so simply. He couldn't understand that any rider would feel some measure of repulsion at the idea of taking another dragon, and in the back of their mind, they would always be comparing them. It wasn't healthy in the slightest for the dragon-rider bond.
Yet as she thought more about it, Jaenara felt herself longing for the sky once again, and this new dragon could take her there once more. She dreamed up a vision of flying above the clouds once like she did in her youth before a vision of her long-dead brother with her at his mercy forced its way into her mind.
"Fall."
Jaenara fell to the ground in shock and fear.
"Jaenara? Jaenara! Are you alright?" Túrin asked concerned.
"I'm fine," she lied. Why now? After almost fifteen decades? Why was that memory forcing its way to the front of her mind once again?
As she thought more, she realized why. Fear. The last time she had a dragon during a war between Arnor and Valyria, she had been forced into a central role on the frontlines that had almost seen her die and had seen her dragon killed. Against the hundreds of dragons Valyria still had at its disposal, did she dare hope her luck ran true twice?
She had already been dragged into this Third War more than she had wanted to be. She had no desire to fight dragon duels again.
But she did not tell Túrin any of this, and kept silent.
The next day, Jaenara went to see the dragon. The poor thing was chained to the floor, her mouth muzzled to prevent her from breathing fire at her captors.
"When was the last time she was fed?" Jaenara demanded, outraged.
"I believe it was when the resistance poisoned it Your Highness," one of the soldiers answered.
"Right, get me a wagon of meat and the keys to the muzzle. I'll feed her," she ordered.
"Your… Your Highness I must protest! Who knows what the dragon will do to you?"
She whipped her head around and stared at him, amethyst eyes on chestnut brown. "Are you questioning my orders?" she asked, her voice dangerously low.
The soldier cowered beneath her gaze, "No Your Highness."
"Good, now go do as I have ordered."
As she fed the dragon and earned her trust, she began touching its mind and calming her, soothing her as she nudged her snout into her hand. In the back of her mind she felt the bond beginning to form and her excitement, anticipation, and fear grew.
And then the memories flashed into her mind again. The memory of Terrax coming to her after her grandfather died, of her mother throwing herself from that balcony, off Terrax saving her in the temple of Yeen, of all the years she had spent riding him. And then finally, the memory of Aelyx and Arrax killing Terrax and sending her to her almost certain death. "Jaenara. Fall."
"Fall. Fall. Fall. Fall."
The words kept repeating and drumming in her head threatening to drive her mad before she felt the sharp pang of the burgeoning bond snapping in half.
She looked at the grey-white dragon again as it moved its snout away from her hand, its rejection clear though gentle.
"I see. It isn't me," she whispered to herself. The last vestiges of Jaenara Belaerys had died with Terrax in the waters of the Stepstones. Jaenara of the House of Elendil had no right or will to claim a dragon.
As she walked away, she noticed that Aravorn and Túrin had both come to see and she shook her head at them, almost in tears.
"Turn this dragon free. She has seen enough of war," she ordered the soldier from before.
The soldier looked to Aravorn.
"Jaenara… are you sure that's wise? You might not be able to claim the dragon, but Nimloth possibly could," Túrin asked.
Jaenara smiled bitterly, "The dragon was half about to accept me. It would almost definitely accept Nimloth as her rider."
"Then why do you wish to set it free? Do you not know of Nimloth's dreams? She has long wished to ride a dragon like you once did, you would deny her that?" Aravorn asked, puzzled and angered.
Jaenara turned her steely gaze on him, but her nephew did not quaver. "Do not speak to me of Nimloth's dreams. I more than any of you know of them. To my shame I was the one who gave them to her. Yet as much she longs for a dragon of her own, I cannot in good conscience give her a dragon."
"Why not Jaenara? What would be so wrong about that?" Túrin asked.
"Do either of you honestly think that Aragost would let Nimloth return to Annúminas to do nothing if she claims a dragon? How likely would it be that she'd be forced onto the frontlines as I was?"
"My father wouldn't do that!" Aravorn protested, outraged at the suggestion.
"Are you sure about that? We speak of the same man who was ruthless enough to drown a million of his own people under the waves."
Aravorn froze. Jaenara turned to Túrin next.
"All those years ago, you were locked up in that dungeon in Tyrosh waiting to die. Your father condemned you to die, and your brother did nothing."
Túrin winced at the memory.
"Whether his decisions were right or wrong, Aragost has already proven that he is willing and able to sacrifice his family members. And when a man can kill a million to save millions more, what is one life?
But say he doesn't. Say Aragost by some miracle doesn't put Nimloth on the frontlines. What then? The House of Elendil is the most unpopular that it has ever been because of the Drowning of the Isles. Nimloth looks Valyrian enough already, what will the people think if their future queen is a dragonrider? How much longer will our house retain the rule of Arnor?"
"Do as she says, turn the dragon free," Aravorn ordered the soldier.
"But Sire!"
"Do as I say!"
The soldier obeyed and he and his fellows released the dragon, which looked at all of them suspiciously and roared at them before it took to the sky and flew off to freedom.
"That dragon could have helped us win the war," the soldier said as he watched it flew off, away from the war, and away from Arnor and Valyria.
"I speak from experience. One dragon against hundreds is nothing," Jaenara said simply. No one said anything at that.
